Riley snorted. ‘So this is since Mum became Scottish, then, is it?’
I laughed too. Whenever Kieron did a ‘Mum’ impersonation, for some reason he always made me sound just like Miss Jean Brodie, adopting this bizarre, high-pitched, Scottish twang. ‘Hey, you two, don’t mock, okay?’ I retorted through my giggles. ‘I have to do that. It’s called guidelines, and I have to follow them. It’s not the same as with your own kids.’
We were all falling about laughing, but this, in fact, was true. Where I’d come down like a ton of bricks with my own two when they were little – that was what parenting was all about, wasn’t it? – it was different with children who had profound behaviour issues, and who were way past the point where being marched round to apologise to someone would be of any benefit at all. Indeed, for some kids it would be counter-productive. These kids needed a whole different approach if they were to make progress. And a structured one, of the kind we’d been trained to deliver. The children would indeed earn points for good behaviour, and once they’d earned them they could then spend them on privileges. It was all about modifying their behaviour to make it acceptable, and in such a way that they could see the benefit in this. If they did as they were asked they would enjoy a nicer life. It really was as simple a lesson to learn as that. And when delivered within an environment that was warm and supportive, the programme was so far proving to be a great success.
And that was what it sounded like this little boy needed, I mused, as, before going to bed that night, I popped in to open Spencer’s bedroom window and fluff up the pillows on the bed I had already made up. Love and boundaries. We could certainly give him that while we had him. Though I’d obviously have to watch out for that comedy Scottish accent.
* * *
For all my excitement, I was still nervous when I woke up on Monday morning. Didn’t matter how much I looked forward to getting these foster kids, there was always that anxiety about the first meeting with them because you never knew what to expect. The child could absolutely hate you from the start, or you’d click; you’d make a connection at that point or you wouldn’t. Not that I worried unduly. Spencer was our fifth child now, so the one thing I did know was that I didn’t find it difficult to put feelings aside. As a foster carer your job was to put differences aside, to care for the children you took on regardless of how they were towards you, and get on with the job at hand. Luckily, so far, though it had been rocky in places, I’d formed a strong attachment with the previous children we’d looked after. I hoped today was to be no exception.
Mike was also a little bit nervous. I could tell. He’d taken the morning off so we could meet Spencer together, and my plan was to be that after a quick slice of toast we’d give the house a once-over before our visitors arrived. But he was having none of it. ‘For goodness sake, Case!’ he snapped. ‘The whole house is bloody spotless. Can you put down the Mr Sheen and just chill till they get here? Polishing the grain off the bloody banisters won’t make them get here any sooner.’
I knew better than to argue at such a sensitive time, so I reluctantly put my duster away. And they were on the doorstep not half an hour later anyway. It was what I’d come to expect as the usual posse. I ushered them all into the dining room for the meeting, and John Fulshaw, our link worker, made the introductions. There was Glenn Gallagher, Spencer’s social worker, and his temporary carer, Annie, and last but not least there was Spencer himself, half hidden by his carer and looking terrified.
‘Hello sweetie,’ I said to him, proffering my widest smile. ‘Goodness, you’re a big boy for eight.’ Despite his nervousness, I could immediately see that this went down well – being called ‘big’, in my experience, always did with boys of his age. He looked sweet, too. A poppet. Not at all what I’d imagined, with a silky mop of toffee-coloured hair and eyes that went with it. Amber and melting, heavily lashed and wide. But as well as being cute he also looked fit. A solid lad, who looked a little bit older than his years. Well nourished and, at least superficially, well cared for.
‘Hi, Mrs Watson,’ he answered shyly.
‘Oh, call me Casey,’ I told him. I pointed. ‘And this is Mike, okay?’ I could see as they shook hands that Mike’s first impression was the same as mine. That, like me, he had warmed to this sweet little boy. And he was polite too, carefully pulling a chair out for his carer, Annie, and waiting to be asked before sitting down himself. And when I poured tea and coffee and offered him milk and biscuits, he immediately asked her permission. ‘Would that be okay?’ he asked. A good sign.
‘Of course, love,’ she said. ‘And then after you’ve had them, perhaps Mike could take you on a tour of the house, eh?’
So far, I thought, so not at all what I’d expected. Where on earth was this evil, feral child we’d been expecting? In fact, the start of the meeting went so well and so chattily that it began to seem surreal that this child was in care. There was lots of laughter too, as Glenn went through a few of Spencer’s likes and dislikes, even joshing with him: ‘Oh, and by the way, Spencer particularly loves sprouts. Don’t you, mate?’ Spencer wrinkled up his nose in disgust.
‘So,’ said John, finally. ‘How about that tour, then? Okay, Mike?’
‘Absolutely,’ Mike agreed, rising from the table. ‘C’mon, lad,’ he said to Spencer. ‘Let me show you and Glenn around.’
But perhaps I should have sensed something. Because it was only a matter of seconds before the atmosphere changed completely, Annie turning in her seat to speak to John directly. ‘Now then,’ she said, looking agitated. ‘You do know that I need to know today, don’t you?’ It took me a second to work out what she was talking about. But it soon became clear. ‘That was the deal, you remember? If they don’t want him –’ she had the grace to glance in my direction as she said this – ‘then you do understand I’m not prepared to wait for you to find someone else, don’t you?’
I was shocked. And so, I think, was John. We all knew Spencer’s placement with Annie was only temporary, but she seemed almost aggressive about demanding to be shot of him. ‘Annie, you know today’s only an introductory meeting,’ John said levelly. ‘And I certainly never promised you an answer today. Casey and Mike have only agreed to consider it.’
Annie heaved a decidedly heavy sigh. ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ she said, addressing me now, ‘I know I shouldn’t be pushing, but I really can’t cope with kids like this any more. Years ago, then fine. But these days I’m on my own, and sadly …’ She finished then, punctuating her words with a resigned shrug.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘I don’t want to seem presumptuous, but, well, he seems okay to me. I mean he’s obviously on his best behaviour, but the real child always …’
‘Oh, don’t let his “little angel” act fool you!’ she answered, her tone sharp. ‘This kid, believe me, is one of a kind. He’s like no kid I have ever met before in my life. No, honestly,’ she added, obviously seeing my sceptical expression, ‘I can’t begin to try and describe what I mean, but there’s definitely something not right about him, trust me.’
This brought me slightly up short. I’d had as much said to me before. About Justin, the first boy we’d ever fostered. And we’d done well to heed the warning. Though everything worked out in the end, we’d certainly been through the mill with him. But if that was the case with Spencer, so be it. Annie didn’t know it, of course, but her words made no difference. I’d decided to take him the minute I saw him. And I was 99 per cent sure Mike felt the same. Even so, it was good – and I braced myself mentally – to have some insight that was not at first apparent.
The others came back then, and we rounded off the meeting by gathering a little more logistical info. We were told Spencer’s likes and dislikes, and that he attended a special school that was geared to children who had difficulties in the ‘mainstream’. I knew what this meant, from the years I’d spent in education myself. It was flowery language to describe an institution for the sort of kids who’d been kicked out of regular