Breaking the Silence (18 page)

But it was the talent show that was Jenson’s major preoccupation, and by Thursday afternoon you really would have thought he had ants in his pants, he was hopping round so much with impatience. As promised, Mike had found him a very fine hat. Encrusted with black glitter, which seemed to get everywhere in the caravan, it was the perfect trilby shape, à la Michael Jackson. He had perfected his routine – which he was doing to
Billie Jean
– right down to the very last thrust. And it was very good. I was almost as excited as he was.

‘Nooo, Casey!’ he said, when I suggested I might accompany him to his rehearsal. ‘You can’t show me up. Mums and dads don’t come!’ He turned to Georgie. ‘You can come,’ he said. ‘But you and Mike can’t, Casey. You’ll have to stay in the clubhouse and wait to see it till tomorrow.’

So that was us told. And, of course, we wouldn’t dream of ‘showing him up’. I was even tickled to be bracketed in the mums and dads category, and pleased that we’d been able to quietly put him in a position where he had to temper our enthusiasm for being there. To tell mums and dads they couldn’t come, you had to first be in a position where they were desperate to see you perform, after all. Which for some kids – Jenson among them, I didn’t doubt – wasn’t a feeling they had the luxury of often.

And I was pleased when Georgie nodded his agreement to Jenson’s plan. And as the Hippo’s Den was a room off the club house, and could be entered only via it, I didn’t have to stress, as long as we found ourselves seats close to the main entrance, about him getting agitated and wandering off unnoticed.

Or so we thought. With two coffees and a chance of a bit of peace and quiet, in a now relatively child-free club house, we were so busy enjoying some us time that the time seemed to fly by. My main concern, given the large number of kids seeming to be involved, was that Jenson would be crushingly disappointed if he didn’t win.

Mike disagreed. ‘You know, I think he’ll be fine with it,’ he said. ‘I don’t think he’ll care where he’s placed in the competition, just as long as he gets his moment in the spotlight and a big cheer for doing it. He just needs the adulation, that kid.’

Even so, I couldn’t help cross my fingers that he would storm the place, that he would be the best and that he would get that coveted first prize. I was still locked into my typical stage-school mummy thinking (picturing Jenson taking the winning bow, to massed cheers of approval) when I was disturbed from my thoughts by a young girl, tugging at my sleeve. This was a girl I recognised called Ruby, who’d palled up with Jenson and was staying in the caravan opposite ours.

‘Casey,’ she was saying. ‘You have to come quick. It’s Georgie. He’s stuck on the roof and he might die!’ She was obviously quite distressed.

‘The
roof
?’ I answered, as shocked as she was frightened. ‘What roof? How on earth did he get up onto a roof?’

Mike got up, as confused as I was about how Georgie could have slipped past us. But it seemed he hadn’t. We’d been wrong about there only being one exit to the Hippo’s Den. There was also a fire door at the back which, though ordinarily closed, obviously, someone had decided, due to the heat generated by such a big crowd of excited performers, to open up, to let a bit of air in.

And what had happened, as Ruby explained as we followed her in and out of the fire door, was that Jenson had apparently decided – for reasons that seemed entirely in keeping with the little scamp – to climb onto the roof of the shower block, just adjacent to the building, and do an impromptu extra performance to the small crowd of kids below.

Not that he was up there right now. No, that was Georgie. He looked absolutely terrified, and was groaning as well as rocking, while just below him, standing on the small wall that was adjacent to the block, teetered Jenson, obviously trying to coax him down.

‘Jenson, what’s going on?’ I wanted to know, while Mike started to climb up to the roof, using the route that he’d presumably used, via the wall and one of the toilet cubicle windows.

‘Oh Casey, I’m so sorry!’ Jenson said immediately. ‘It’s my entire fault he went up there. I just wanted to climb up and do my dance for everyone, and he just followed me. I didn’t tell him to. I just turned round and there he was!’

‘To do your dance?’ I spluttered. ‘To do your dance up on a roof? Jenson, are you stark staring mad?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘I’m really
really
sorry. I jus’ didn’t think. I – I just never thought he’d follow me. Why would he
do
that?’

‘Sweetheart,’ I said, exasperated. ‘That is not the point at all! This isn’t just about Georgie – it’s about you! You might have fallen and hurt yourself too! What were you thinking?’

‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled. ‘I just … I just …’

‘Wanted to show off,’ I said, fixing my gaze on him and frowning. ‘Which could very nearly,’ I added, watching with relief as Mike had hold of Georgie, ‘have ended up with a nasty accident, couldn’t it?’

To which Jenson had the good grace to blush.

Mike had by now got hold of Georgie and carefully helped him down to me. And as I took his arm I was at least grateful, given the small crowd around us, that Georgie seemed so stunned now that he didn’t even seem to think of freaking out.

That being the case, and the shower block having been a comparatively low building, and with Jenson being – for once – so completely apologetic and contrite, once I’d reassured a traumatised campsite rep (who’d been in the toilet when it had happened), I decided I would take my mother’s least-said-soonest-mended attitude, and say nothing further about the incident. Jenson had had a fright, and that had been enough to teach him a lesson. And he had also apologised, which spoke volumes about his progress.

Though I should have probably felt more disapproving than I actually did about the swelling band of fans he’d got as a result of it.

‘Yo, Jenson,’ said one, as we headed back to the club house later, ‘you da boss!’

Jenson was already half way through his joyous air punch before he thought better of it.

Every foster kid is special, and we have cherished memories of every one of them that will stay with us, but that Friday-night talent show – starring our mini Michael Jackson – is definitely high up in my personal top ten.

Jenson wasn’t ours, but I don’t think either of us could have been more proud-parent excited, when, having given a faultless performance, he bounded back to sit with us to await the verdict from the pretty young compère.

‘And in third place …’ she called out. Not Jenson. He screwed his eyes up. ‘And in second place …’ Not Jenson. He clamped his hands over his eyes.

‘And in first place …’ I don’t think any of us breathed at that point, including Georgie. ‘It’s our very own Tarzan …’ We shrieked so loud at that point that she had to shout his name over us.

The cheer that went up then really couldn’t have been more gratifying, and the applause was as sincere as it was deafening. And boy, did it go on. It continued right through him leaping up to go and collect his prize, right through his moonwalk across the stage to be presented with it, and right through his return, triumphant and beaming, bearing his certificate and ten-pound voucher to spend in the shop.

It was still ringing in my ears as he sat down beside us and then thought better of it, stood up again and threw his arms around us for a group hug. And Georgie let him. I was a complete blubbering wreck.

I had half-expected to return home from holiday to an email or message from Marie Bateman or John, telling me that there’d been progress on the situation with Karen. But there was nothing, and as the days passed I became increasingly concerned, as John had promised me everything would be sorted by the start of the new term. And, more importantly, this was what Jenson had expected too. So it wasn’t surprising that he was beginning to get itchy feet. He’d not physically seen his mum and sister for some weeks now.

‘What’s she playing at, Casey?’ he asked me one day. ‘I told her about my stifficate and that I’d bought her a photo frame out of my voucher money, an’ she swore it would only be a few days before I’d be moving back home.’

At least the telephone contacts had continued twice weekly and, as far as I knew, had been going really well. But I so felt for him. Since we’d come back, and he’d been so full of pride, every day had chipped away at him a little more. We’d all felt a bit flat – you always tended to after a good holiday – but for Jenson it really was a dispiriting whump back to earth. Handily, however, I had called Marie for an update, and knew that the new child-protection hearing would be any day now. Perhaps then we
would
have news – positive news, fingers crossed – as it seemed Karen had decided to give ‘love of my life’ Gary the heave-ho. But with her clearly so fickle in matters of the heart, I didn’t dare tempt fate by offering Jenson any false hope.

‘I’m sure it’s all happening behind the scenes, sweetie,’ I assured him. ‘These things all have to be done properly.’

‘But
what
things have to be done?’ he bleated. ‘What do they have to do? Mum’s said she’s sorry an’ she won’t do it again. So what do they have to do?’

Put like that, I was hard pressed for an answer.

And I understood his impatience. I’d have been the same myself. So I tried to keep him busy with lots of activities, of which swimming, now he’d mastered the basics of doggy paddle, seemed the most important of the lot. It would be so good, I reasoned, to send him home having acquired a new skill that he could feel proud of. And I made a mental note to remind Marie about the issues around him learning. If Karen was going to have the support of a regular social worker, one of the things they could begin to tackle was the tension in the relationship between Jenson and his mother. It was probably too optimistic to hope that she might begin to take him swimming herself, but him doing so might at least open up a line of communication – get her to try and face her fears as well.

In the meantime, I wanted to capitalise on Mike’s work down in Wales by taking him as frequently as possible. And he was keen – so much so that when the following Saturday came round, and I mentioned that I was going to the pool with Riley and the little ones, he even chose to join us over football.

‘But tell Kieron I’m sorry, an’ it’s only for one week,’ he instructed Mike. ‘It’s just that now that I don’t need my armbands I have to keep practising till I can do a full length. Then next term in school I can get my first stifficate.’ He thought for a moment before adding, with a grin, ‘An’ tell him I’m getting my legs stronger an’ all for footy, so it’s all good. I’ll be even
better
.’

Jenson was even happier when I told him that the plan was that we’d all be going to a café for hot dogs and ice creams afterwards.

And we had a fine time, as you tend to when you know the result of your labours would be a trio of tired and happy children. After a fun hour and a half in the pool, I left the car in the pool car park and we all had a stroll into town for lunch.

It was one of those cafés where they had an area sectioned off for children, so after getting Jenson and Levi settled at a table with colouring books and pencils I eventually sat down with Riley and Jackson, who had fallen fast asleep in his buggy. It was only then I noticed I had a missed call on my mobile.

‘Oh shit!’ I said to Riley. ‘John Fulshaw’s been trying to reach me. I wonder what he wants on a Saturday.’ And I
did
wonder. John would only call at the weekend if it was something that required either his or my attention.

‘Phone him back then,’ Riley said, obviously seeing the concerned look on my face. ‘The boys are otherwise occupied. I’ll keep an eye on things. Go on.’

I took myself and my phone out into the street and pressed ring back. Would this be news about Jenson, or Georgie, or both?

‘Oh hi, Casey,’ he said, answering almost immediately. ‘Thanks for getting back to me so quickly. I thought I’d better ring you as soon as I found out.’

‘Found out what?’ I asked.

‘Found out about the outcome of Karen’s hearing. I couldn’t call last night because it all finished so late. Plus I was out …’

‘And the upshot?’

‘Is that the kids are going back to her. She’s been charged with wilful neglect, but they’ve agreed they can be returned to her, on condition that she accepts support from social services.’

So it was pretty much as anticipated. A formal rap on the knuckles, though she’d apparently argued her case pretty strongly, saying that in her opinion her daughter had been perfectly responsible and, aside from that ill-judged party, had cared for Jenson perfectly well.

But, in the light of so many recent and well-publicised incidents involving unsupervised children, the court had been firm. And I was glad of it. Compared to most of the families I had come into contact with professionally, hers wasn’t that bad, but if what had happened could help in any way to repair the hidden fractures in their relationship, that had to be a good thing for all concerned.

‘So when’s it to happen?’ I asked John.

‘Pretty much ASAP,’ he answered. ‘Sunday was suggested –’

‘
Tomorrow
?’ It almost felt like a physical sensation.

‘But I said no. I had a moment of complete inspiration. I figured Georgie into the equation and remembered what I’d been told about him. And my instinct was that it wouldn’t give you enough time to prepare him for the upheaval. So I said Monday. No sooner. Did I do good, miss?’

I tried to laugh, but at the same time I felt sadness wash over me. Forget Georgie – it wasn’t enough time to prepare
me
! I tried hard to swallow the lump in my throat so I could answer, and John must have sensed I wasn’t dealing with it very well.

‘It’s okay, Casey,’ he said into the silence. ‘I know it’s a shock. It always is when it’s a case like this, isn’t it? Though, thinking about it, also a bit different from your usual kids, I suppose. Arrived suddenly, gone equally suddenly. Which is unfortunately – or fortunately – something that happens from time to time. They turn up out of the blue, barely have a chance to unpack and then they’re off again before you can say – oh, I don’t know … “behaviour modification programme”.’

That did raise a laugh. John had a gift for that, sometimes. But only a small laugh. ‘God,’ I said. ‘I am really going to miss him. Something I never thought I’d be saying a few weeks ago.’

‘I know. It must be hard. Jenson’s really settled in now, hasn’t he? Look, I’ll get off now and give you the chance to absorb all this and let everyone know. I know it’s Sunday tomorrow but I’ve asked Marie to give you a call in the morning about everything. Ten okay? And could you give me a quick bell so I’m up to speed with the arrangements?’

I said yes, that was fine and that I would, and then goodbye, and then, still slightly stunned at the suddenness of everything, I fished around in the bottom of my bag for my fake cigarette. It was at times like this I was grateful I always carried it around with me, otherwise I’m sure I’d have gone straight to the nearest shop to buy some of the real ones. However intense the moment, I really didn’t want that.
Get over yourself, Casey
, I told myself.
This is the way it works. They come, they go again.
Shouldn’t I be getting used to it by now?

I could see Riley looking out for me from her table so I went back inside and told her the news. We both looked over at Jenson as I did so, at the natural and familiar way he now played with Levi, and I felt so sad that he had lost his little sister. He was such a good big brother; so gentle and attentive. And if I was seeing him through a filter of sentimentality, then so be it. It was thinking this that I realised that it wasn’t just that you never got used to a child going – there was an extra layer of feeling here. Shock, perhaps, because I never expected to feel like this? Plus was I compensating now for how poorly I understood him at the beginning? I didn’t know. It was
always
tough when a child had to leave, but I honestly had thought that I hadn’t been so attached to Jenson. After all it had only been weeks, rather than many months, that he’d been with us. Yet here I was, feeling bereft. Wrong again.

If I felt sorry for myself, I should perhaps have given more thought to how Georgie would cope with the news. When I sat down and told the pair of them, at teatime that same afternoon, the poor lad looked completely confused. I knew he was upset, but I hadn’t figured on just how difficult he’d find it to process it. We had no freak-outs; he was just so, well, troubled. While Jenson, naturally, was overjoyed to be seeing his mum again, Georgie spent the rest of the weekend wringing his hands together, walking around the house, head bent, with a painful expression on his face, muttering, ‘Jenson going home. Jenson going away.’ He also kept going upstairs without warning and spending minutes at a time just staring at Jenson’s photograph on the bathroom door. And every time one of us approached him, he would just look at us in confusion. ‘
This
is where Jenson stays,’ he kept repeating. ‘That’s his picture.’

I could have cried to see the state he was in, and, try as we might, we simply couldn’t make him understand. By late Saturday night, when he couldn’t settle down to sleep, I did wonder if I should ask for him to be put into respite for a couple of days to save him the anguish of the actual parting.

But when I phoned my Georgie lifeline, Sylvia, she asked me not to do this. ‘This is real life, Casey,’ she explained, with her usual wisdom. ‘We never wanted Georgie to be institutionalised. I know he was living in one, so it might seem contradictory, but we always knew it wouldn’t help him when the time came for him to leave us, so we tried to expose him to reality as much as we could. He needs to experience loss just as much as any other kid. I know you want to protect him from it, but it’s inevitable, isn’t it?’

She was right, of course, and, reassured now, I decided to stick with it. We’d just have to deal with the aftermath when it came about. Georgie
did
need to learn how to grow up as normally as possible – after all, he wouldn’t be going back into a children’s home when he left us. He’d be living with a normal foster family. Perhaps it was me who needed to man up – and let him take a few knocks along the way.

Marie phoned at ten on Sunday morning, as promised, and told me she would be driving Karen over to our house to pick Jenson up the next day.

‘At around 11 a.m., if that’s okay with you, so we can have them home by midday. Carley’s foster parents are taking her home after lunch.’

I then phoned Riley and Kieron to invite them for Sunday lunch at our place so that the kids could spend a final day with Jenson. And it was a good plan: the afternoon was happy and uncomplicated, and the kids even bought Jenson leaving presents, bless them. From Riley and David there was another game for his beloved DS console, and from Kieron and Lauren a football shirt with his name emblazoned across the back.

He couldn’t have been more excited. ‘This is epic!’ he exclaimed, with his usual understatement, before dashing upstairs to his bedroom and returning in full football regalia, complete with the floor-destroying studded boots.

But I didn’t want to spoil the mood by carping on about it; my floors could cope with a few more scratches, I decided. Which was not the sort of thought I had that often, to be sure.

‘Thanks, Kieron,’ Jenson said shyly, once he’d finished hugging everyone. ‘An’ I was thinking. I don’t live that far away, you know. So if it’s okay with you I want to play in your junior team for real. You know, like
every
week. Properly, you’re the best manager ever, an’ I’ll score loads of goals for us, I promise.’

I made another mental note to pass on this information to Karen’s social worker. This was exactly the sort of parental commitment social services would be keen to promote. Kieron was busy wiping his eyes – the big softie. ‘Course you can, mate,’ he said, clearing the frog in his throat. ‘You’re already our lucky mascot. And if you keep it up you could become be our number one striker, as well!’

Even in the midst of this, Georgie seemed to be settling. Not wishing him to feel left out, Riley had bought him some
Doctor Who
figures, and he was engrossed within minutes of her giving them to him – setting a scene on the coffee table and speaking for each of his figures in turn, and even interacting in ways we had barely seen so far, chasing the little ones around the table with the silver Dalek figure and saying ‘Exterminate’ in his best scary voice.

We couldn’t put off the inevitable, however, and, before I knew it, Monday morning was upon us. Jenson was quiet at breakfast, and when I went upstairs a bit later to help him finish packing, it was to find him staring out of his bedroom window. He turned as he heard me come in and I noticed he’d been crying.

‘Saying goodbye’s sad, isn’t it, love?’ I said, as I went and sat down on his bed. I patted the space beside me and he came and sat down himself, snuggling closer as I put my arm around him.

‘It’s like it’s not real,’ he said. ‘It’s like I’ve been here all this time and it feels like for ever. An’ I’m going to miss it. I’m going to miss all of you.’

‘We’ll all miss you too, baby,’ I said, struggling with my own composure now. ‘More than anything. We’ve loved having you here. It’s been
epic
.’

I sensed his smile. ‘Casey, would you explain to Mum about me swimming? I want to keep going so bad, but not if it gets her all upset.’