‘Yes, of course,’ I said. I stood and picked up his plate. ‘Max, would you like a second helping too?’
‘Yes, please,’ he said, and passed me his plate. Paula and I were still finishing ours.
I carried the plates to the kitchen, dished up seconds and also cut up some more bread, which I placed in the basket.
‘Thank you,’ Max said as I set his plate in front of him. He took some more bread, as did Adrian, and we all continued eating.
Paula is a bit of a slow eater and was still working on her first helping as both the boys came to the end of their second. Adrian sat back with a sigh of contentment and, patting his stomach, said, ‘I’m stuffed.’
‘Full,’ I corrected.
Max was looking at me expectantly. ‘Is there any more?’ he asked.
‘There is a little. But leave some room for the ice cream you wanted.’
‘I’ve always got room for ice cream,’ he said, with a small smile. It was a passing reference to him being overweight, but I didn’t comment. I checked with Paula that she didn’t want any more and then with mixed feelings spooned the last of the casserole onto Max’s plate.
‘Thank you,’ he said. He began eating with the same urgency as he had the first serving, although I couldn’t see how he could still be hungry.
Feeding one’s family is laden with emotion unconnected with the food itself. As well as providing sustenance, cooking is a labour of love, and while I was pleased Max was enjoying the meal I’d made, I wondered how much of a disservice I was doing him by allowing him a third helping and all that bread, given his obesity. Wouldn’t it have been kinder – and better for his long-term health – to refuse him a third helping and limit the amount of bread he’d eaten? But as this was his first meal with us I didn’t think it appropriate to do so now, as it would have drawn attention to his need to diet. Similarly, when Max finished his main course and asked if it was time for the ice cream now, I said yes and dished it up. Two scoops for each child, but I didn’t offer second helpings.
By the time we’d finished eating it was after seven o’clock and time for Paula’s bed. I usually took the children up to bed in age-ascending order, so Paula, the youngest, would go first, then Max and Adrian. I explained to Max it was Paula’s bedtime and asked him what he usually did at home in the evening before bed. I try to follow the routine the child has been used to at home as much as possible to minimize the disruption. Max said he read his book and it was in his school bag.
‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘Adrian enjoys reading too. Perhaps you’d both like to sit in the living room and read while I take Paula up?’
Both boys fetched their school bags from the hall, sat side by side on the sofa and took out their reading books.
‘What are you reading?’ Adrian asked Max, interested.
‘James and the Giant Peach,’ Max said, showing him the front cover of the children’s classic. It was quite advanced for the average six-year-old; Adrian, older, had read it earlier in the year.
‘Are you enjoying the book?’ I asked Max.
‘Yes. I like Roald Dahl.’
‘So do I,’ Adrian said, turning to him enthusiastically. ‘James’s aunts, Spiker and Sponge, were horrible to him,’ he added, referring to James and the Giant Peach. ‘I’m glad he got away from them.’
Max agreed.
‘Have you read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?’ Adrian asked.
‘Not yet, but I’ve read George’s Marvellous Medicine, and The Twits.’
‘The Twits is so funny,’ Adrian laughed. And so they began a discussion about Roald Dahl books.
They paused to say goodnight to Paula and we left them sitting on the sofa, discussing books and with the still-warm evening air drifting in through the open patio doors. I was pleased Max liked reading. I try to interest all the children I foster in books – with varying degrees of success – but Max was one of the few children who’d arrived with a passion for them. It was only later I discovered that there was another, more disturbing reason for him wanting to escape into books.
Chapter Five
While I was upstairs helping Paula get ready for bed I left her in the bathroom brushing her teeth for a few minutes and went into my bedroom to find some more pyjamas for Max. I took all the large sizes of pyjamas from the ottoman, holding them up as I went to see if they would fit him. Usually I’m quite good at judging a child’s size, but in Max’s case I had absolutely no idea. The ones that had 8–9 years old on the label seemed too long in the leg but not wide enough around the middle. The next size up, 10–11, seemed ridiculously big for a six-year-old, and 12–13 was gigantic. I couldn’t decide, so I carried them all into Max’s room for him to try on at bedtime, and removed the pair I’d previously put out.
Paula, having finished in the bathroom, was ready for a bedtime story and I went with her to her bedroom, where she chose a book from her bookshelf before climbing into bed with a yawn. I lay beside her, my arm around her shoulders and my head propped on the headboard as I read the story she’d chosen. When I’d finished she snuggled down beside me, ready for our usual cuddle and chat – part of her bedtime routine – before she went to sleep. Unsurprisingly, tonight she wanted to talk about Max.
‘How long will Max stay with us?’ she asked, kissing my cheek.
‘I don’t know yet, love. Until his mother is well enough to look after him again.’
‘Does he miss his mummy?’
‘I should think so, but he’ll see her tomorrow at the hospital.’
‘He’s not crying like some children do.’
‘No, he’s been very brave, but I expect he’s thinking lots about her and his family.’
‘I’d cry if I couldn’t live with you,’ Paula said, snuggling closer.
‘But that’s not going to happen, is it?’ I reminded her. ‘If I had to go into hospital, Nana and Grandpa would come and look after you and Adrian. You know that.’ Since my husband had left, comments and questions like this came up from time to time – from Paula and Adrian. Understandably they both felt a degree of insecurity with just one parent at home, and I always reassured them as best I could.
‘Do you think Max eats too much?’ Paula now asked with the candidness of a young child.
‘Possibly.’
‘He’s very big, isn’t he? I don’t mean tall like big boys – his body is very round.’
‘I know, but you wouldn’t ever say that to him, would you?’ I hoped that Adrian at his age had developed the necessary self-regulatory skills to stop him saying hurtful truths, but at Paula’s age children are still highly impulsive and simply say what comes into their head without considering the consequences. Paula shook her head.