‘It’s Casey,’ I corrected. ‘And this is yours, I take it?’ I gestured towards the small blue cabin-bag-sized case, which I presumed the social worker had obtained, and filled, in consultation with mum.
Adam nodded. As did the head, Mr Morris. ‘Indeed it is,’ he said briskly. ‘Now, Adam, I wonder if you’d like to take yourself and your things outside for a moment, yes? Just while I deal with the paperwork with Mrs Watson.’
Adam meekly filed out, flanked by both his teacher and the social worker – his social worker for the short duration of his time in the system. Though nothing in his demeanour betrayed it, I didn’t doubt he was in a state of some distress.
‘I just thought you might have a few questions,’ Mr Morris said. ‘Bit of background and so on. Didn’t want to talk over the lad, obviously.’
I thanked him. ‘So is there anything to tell? Anything you think I should know?’
‘Actually, no, not a lot,’ Mr Morris said. ‘He’s a quiet lad, is Adam. Doesn’t have too many friends, keeps himself to himself. But good as gold when he’s here.’
I picked up on that. Adam didn’t quite seem to fit the mould of a persistent truant. ‘When he’s here?’
‘Always been a bit of a sickly child,’ Mr Morris explained. ‘Has a lot of time off ill with this and that. You know how it goes. Though according to his mother, he’s undergoing some investigations or other …’
‘What kind?’ I asked.
‘To see what’s wrong with him, essentially. Some sort of digestive problem has been mooted – he’s apparently sick a lot. As in sick-sick. So, of course, if he has an episode she likes to keep him at home.’
I nodded. Adam’s weight certainly seemed to bear that out. And some kids – well, they just weren’t terribly robust. So this was apparently one such.
I smiled and thanked him. Nothing there to be concerned about, clearly. A straightforward lad and a straightforward placement – though, me being me, I couldn’t resist doing what’s a part of my very DNA – already thinking about fattening him up. Just a little. Just to put a bit of colour in his cheeks.
‘All set, then?’ I asked him as I joined him and the social worker back out in the school vestibule.
Adam nodded, and as I went to take the case handle from him I was surprised when he slipped his hand into mine instead. Reflexive mainly, I imagined – an adult extended a hand and a child of a certain age would often take it. But this was a lad of 11, which made it quite unusual. It also made me warm to him. He was prepared to put his trust in me, which touched me. ‘So, almost Easter,’ I remarked as we crossed the school car park. ‘Which means it’s like the law that I buy you some chocolate eggs this week, don’t you think?’
It’s a cliché to say a child’s eyes light up, admittedly, but in Adam’s case they really did seem to. Seemed I was going to have a pleasant week after all.
Chapter 2
I woke early, because of birdsong rather than the tyranny of the alarm clock, and for a moment I forgot that I had a houseguest across the landing; I was too preoccupied with the unusual business of no Mike snoring beside me in the bed.
Then it hit me, and I wondered about the little lad I’d taken on. How had he slept? Had he slept, even? It must all seem so strange. We took in all sorts of children from all sorts of backgrounds and, usually, the urgent need for those children to be rescued – and more often than not, rehabilitated – was both the guiding light and the driving force. But Adam was different. He wanted nothing more than to be reunited with his loving mother, and when my phone call to the hospital the previous evening established that he couldn’t (his mum wasn’t apparently well enough to see him, being still so groggy from the anaesthetic) he was understandably anxious and upset.
So I turned to my trusty games box for support, and, to my surprise, as we rummaged through the various board games and puzzles, Adam professed a great keenness to play chess – a game that mostly sat unloved and gathering dust, mostly down to my inability to play it with anything remotely approaching competence.
Which I quickly pointed out. ‘Then I’ll teach you, miss,’ Adam told me, sounding altogether brighter as he carried the battered box to the dining room table.
‘It’s Casey,’ I reminded him – for about the fifth time since we’d got home. ‘And, believe me,’ I added, in my Winston Churchill voice, ‘many have tried, and few have succeeded.’
This pronouncement managed to elicit a giggle from Adam, which pleased me greatly, even if it did reinforce the feeling that Adam saw himself as having been billeted with a funny little mad lady for the duration.
Well, so be it, I thought, as I watched him place all the pieces. Bookish, I decided. Shy yet self-possessed. Not one for a great deal of socialising. And a boy, I decided, who would take any game he was playing very seriously.
I mentally smiled. He’d have no trouble beating me at this one. The intricacies of the game had always baffled me since back in childhood, and I had never really quite got the hang of it. I suspected I knew why, as well. A psychologist might correctly diagnose that I was mostly prevented from learning how to play such games by my inability to want to beat an opponent. Much as I loved the strategy of figuring out moves – and could even see how I could make counter-moves to avoid defeat – I simply couldn’t find it in me to muster the required ruthlessness; it was so much my nature to allow the underdog to win, at all costs.
Happily, in this case, it was me who was the underdog and Adam proved deft in destroying me. Despite his many moments of explaining exactly how he was winning, he had me checkmated in no time at all. ‘I know,’ I said, after he’d beaten me a second time (and I reflected that this was unlike any fostering situation I’d ever known), ‘how about I get my craft box out instead?’
Dressing-gowned-up now, and satisfied that Adam was sleeping soundly, I padded down to the kitchen and picked up the resultant work of art, which we’d left on the kitchen table to dry out. It stuck me anew that it was a bit of an odd choice.
Adam had decided to paint a picture of what I assumed was his mum, laid out in a hospital bed with various wires and tubes attached, and with some kind of machine at her side. He’d even attached a drip to her arm, complete with bag and stand.
It was actually rather good. There was no denying his talent. And in terms of technical details, it was spot on. But still an odd choice, given my suggestion that he paint something specifically to take to his mother – I’d assumed he’d do some flowers, or a landscape, or self-portrait, with the usual accompanying ‘get well soon’ message.
Still, I thought, as I put it down and went to fill the kettle, who was I to suggest what he should or shouldn’t draw? Perhaps he had a future as a technical artist, or perhaps as a designer of some miraculous new scanner. He was certainly a bright enough boy.
Not to mention a hungry one. On that front he’d really surprised me, and while I had no idea what he most liked for breakfast, the evidence of the previous night’s tea seemed to suggest that the answer was probably ‘anything and everything’. He’d sat down to eat – tiny, underweight thing that he was – and proceeded to act like a small human vacuum cleaner, sucking up whatever appeared in front of him. Fish and chips, in this case, with lashings of curry sauce, along with several slices of bread and butter, then biscuits and milk, then some toast and a bar of chocolate while he painted his creation, then a drinking chocolate and yet another biscuit before bed. His family must have some seriously good genes,