Authors: Casey Watson
He looked cynical, however. ‘You think Anna’s really going to do anything?’ he said. ‘I won’t be holding my breath, for sure.’
He was right. She probably wouldn’t. She’d already said her hands were tied, hadn’t she? We were helpless and we both knew it. We could only do what we could do.
With my mind so preoccupied I got the kids ready for school on autopilot, and once I’d delivered them there, I went back to my notes. I re-read everything, including all the things I’d said, thinking
balls to your bloody procedures
, as I wrote. It looked so neat, all written up. All so perfect in my tidy handwriting. But no amount of fine calligraphy could disguise the mess the words described.
I took out the reminder of my glum, frustrated mood on my housework, cleaning things, as ever, being the best therapy imaginable, and my mood was lifted further when Kieron phoned. He’d slept over at Lauren’s and had had an interview this morning. But with my mind so fixated on my bloody fostering log book, I’d completely forgotten to fret about how he’d be getting on. Though, in hindsight, that might have been a blessing in disguise. I’d have only fretted about that as well.
‘You’ll never guess, Mum,’ he said excitedly. ‘I got the job!’
Kieron had been doing a lot of thinking just lately. Though he loved his music – he’d enjoyed every moment of his studies in college – he was also sensible enough to realise that until something concrete took off in that direction, he needed to earn money somehow. And as he’d always fancied working in a caring profession (despite, or perhaps because of, all the things he’d seen as a result of us fostering) he’d been applying for jobs in the youth service and local schools. He’d turned out to have a real affinity with problem children, and now it seemed he’d secured the position that he’d really hoped he’d get, as an outreach worker, supporting troubled youngsters. It was for a couple of hours each weeknight, trying to engage kids in sport. Rugby, and of course his beloved football.
‘That’s fantastic!’ I said, feeling the clouds part after my horrid morning. ‘I’m so pleased. You are going to be just brilliant!’
As if on cue, it was just then that the doorbell rang. I said my goodbyes to Kieron and still had the smile stuck on my face as I pocketed my duster and answered the door to Anna.
‘You look happy!’ she greeted me. ‘Take it you had a good week?’
I told her about Kieron’s news, but then I had to burst her bubble. I watched her visibly deflate as I explained what had happened with Olivia, and by the time I’d finished, she looked a little like one of the wet rags I used for cleaning.
‘Oh dear,’ she said.
‘Quite,’ I agreed. ‘He’s obviously been sleeping with her regularly. It couldn’t be worse, could it?’
I watched her as I spoke and her expression made me brace myself.
‘Yes, it could,’ she said sorrowfully. ‘A lot worse.’
Any hopes of my raised spirits continuing were dashed. ‘So,’ I asked Anna, ‘what can possibly be worse?’
She followed me into the kitchen and I made another jug of coffee. I had a feeling I wouldn’t want to know the answer to my question, but it was coming nevertheless.
‘Well, I’m not sure this will affect you directly,’ she said. ‘But because the court case is looming – it’s in a week, now, by the way –’
‘A week?’ I was shocked. Did courts even move so quickly? ‘That seems sudden …’
Anna shook her head. ‘Not really. Not in these circumstances. In cases where we’re keen to prevent further parental contact, the judges invariably try to get things in
black and white as soon as possible. Anyway, we’re prepared now. We have almost all the extra reports we needed, so, bar the solicitor coming to chat to the children about what they want, we’re pretty much good to go at our end.’
I nodded as I sipped my coffee. We’d already been warned about that meeting. And it wasn’t something I was looking forward to. As if these mites could have the first clue what it was they wanted. Well, they probably knew what they wanted, and it wasn’t what they needed. So their voices would be heard but it was pretty much a given that they’d also be ignored, even if it was entirely for their own good.
But that was a bridge we’d have to cross when we got to it. Right now I was more interested in the bad news that was coming – contained within the pages inside the ubiquitous buff-coloured file that Anna was currently wrestling out of her briefcase. Funny, I mused, I used to think case files were so exciting; that they were the gateway to learning all sorts of important things about the kids we cared for. Just lately, though, I’d come to view them differently. They just meant bad news. Every time.
‘I’m dreading hearing this,’ I quipped, trying to speak lightly as she opened it. Her weak answering smile at me spoke volumes.
‘So what we did,’ she explained, ‘was a full trace on the whole family. As per the court’s request. We went back years, right into the dim and distant archives. Back to when files and notes were handwritten, in duplicate, and we had things like secretaries, who would store them all away for
us.’ She grinned ruefully as she said this – a bit of levity before the grim bit? Perhaps so, as the next bit truly
was
grim, though not as shocking to me as Anna might have expected. On the contrary, it began to put everything in place.
The main finding Anna wanted to share with me concerned Ashton, and the decade-old suggestion that he might have been the product of an incestuous relationship, between his mother, Karen, and her father, the famous ‘Gwandad’. She’d become pregnant while in her last term at school, and as she had major learning difficulties, the school alerted social services, who’d made it their business to follow things up. It was during one such visit that the social worker was intercepted by a neighbour who told her there was talk around the estate about the girl being made pregnant by her own dad. Karen’s parents, however, had managed to convince the social worker that this was just malicious gossip, and even produced a young ‘boyfriend’ who owned up to the deed.
As a consequence, this line of investigation was dropped, but, thankfully, the conversation had been recorded by the social worker, which meant that though the paperwork had
been buried in the archives, it would now be used as further evidence of things with this family not being ‘right’.
For me, of course, it only served to confirm my worst fears about longstanding sexual abuse. Olivia’s comment came to mind:
‘Casey, do you sleep with your daddy?’
It may not be proven, but it seemed likely that her mother did.
Or
had
, at any rate. Sadness washed over me. These poor children. So damaged, so young. And irreparably? That their sexual behaviour wasn’t just copy-cat stuff was the worst of it. It was almost as if they had an animalistic need. I still felt it unlikely that they got any pleasure from it, but it was as if they were frustrated when they couldn’t get their sex ‘fix’. Could this actually be true? Could such young kids have true sexual urges? It seemed hardly comprehensible, yet it seemed I was witnessing it – day after sordid bloody day. I must – I really must – read up on this sort of thing, I thought. It was so frustrating not knowing what I was dealing with.
I must have been miles away, because Anna cleared her throat. ‘D’you see?’ she was saying. ‘That Ashton might be …’
‘Yes, yes I do,’ I said. ‘Sorry. And I’m not surprised either. I knew there was something. And that would fit. And I don’t doubt there’s lots more besides.’
I would have that thought of mine grimly confirmed not much more than a week later, but for now Anna had something else on her mind.
‘What we thought might be best,’ she explained, ‘once the solicitor’s made his visit, would be for you to take them
away on a little holiday or something. Just get them away from it all; take their minds off what’s happening, play it down … you obviously appreciate they all need to know that the court case is going on?’
I nodded. ‘That’ll be happening anyway, I would have thought. If a man in a suit turns up and starts asking them lots of questions, I suspect “playing it down” won’t really be an option, don’t you?’
If Anna noticed the sarcasm in my voice, she didn’t register it. I jumped up and grabbed my calendar from its hook on the kitchen wall. ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘that will work. It’s both Olivia and Ashton’s birthdays next week – she’ll be seven and he’ll be ten – so I could tell them it’s a birthday treat for them.’
‘Brilliant,’ she said. ‘Perfect. And we’ll obviously sort the finances. I can rush through some allowances so you can get them appropriate clothing, and to go towards paying for the accommodation and so on. So will that work? Is that okay?’
I told her that it would be. ‘And the solicitor? Any idea when he wants to come and see the children?’
‘Oh, yes!’ she said. ‘Of course. Hang on. I’ve got a couple of dates and times somewhere … here we are. How does after school tomorrow suit – around four?’
There’s probably no time that’s a good time to have to sit down with a stranger and try and convince him to do something he’s never going to do. I could only hope that the visit wouldn’t traumatise the children so much that it plunged
their behaviours – all bar the sex stuff, so improving – back into the dark days of before.
But in the event, it was short if not sweet. The solicitor was a pleasant-looking man, who looked to be in around his mid-50s, and with a manner that suggested – much to my relief – that he had lots of experience of dealing with kids. However, though he was professional and detached, I could see he was finding the whole business as unpalatable as I was.
It was his role to provide a report to the presiding judge that would set out ‘the needs and wishes’ of all the children, and as they sat, as directed, side by side on the sofa, still in their school uniforms, he explained that it was his job to tell the judge exactly what they both wanted.
‘So,’ he said gently, directing his attention at Ashton, ‘you know that the social workers think perhaps Mummy can’t really look after you properly right now, don’t you?’ He waited, and Ashton nodded glumly. ‘Well, you have a right to tell people how you feel about that. So, let’s say, shall we, that it
couldn’t
be Mummy. Then who, in the whole world, would you most like to look after you?’
‘Gwandad!’ came Olivia’s immediate reply.
Ashton ignored her. ‘We need to go
home
,’ he said firmly. His expression was stony, but his eyes nevertheless shone with unshed tears. ‘My mummy needs me because if I’m not there she won’t take her depression tablets, and if she doesn’t take them she’ll get ill and then might die.’
I looked on – my job was only to sit out of the way and observe – as the man noted everything on a sheet of A4. I
could see Ashton’s eyes on the growing piece of writing, and could have wept at the hope in his eyes. ‘She might die,’ he repeated gravely. ‘She probly will, mister. If I’m not there to see to her. You have to tell the man that we need to get back now.’ He looked earnestly at the solicitor, who acknowledged him with a nod. ‘An’ tell him,’ he finally finished. ‘We’ve learned our lesson.’
If that was terrible to listen to, even worse was Olivia, so distressed when asked again if there was anyone else she might like to live with that she could hardly get any words out at all. She just burst into tears and tried to fling her arms around the man and cuddle him, sobbing, ‘I need me gwandad! I need him! Please let me go back!’
She carried on then, through gulping sobs, almost all of what she was mumbling unintelligible, and it broke my heart to watch how Ashton could see this was happening, and that the solicitor wasn’t writing down anything that his little sister was now saying. I could tell from his expression how agitated it made him.
The solicitor glanced at me, blushing, and gently prised Olivia from him. ‘Do you want to go and sit over there with Casey?’ he asked her gently. He looked up at me now, and I beckoned Olivia across. She crawled onto my lap, then, her tiny body trembling.
This seemed to galvanise Ashton. ‘Mister,’ he said, rising from his place on the sofa and crossing the couple of feet to where there the solicitor sat. ‘What she was saying is that when the bad mens come and burn Mummy in her bed, she will die –’ He raised his little fist now,
and shook it. ‘And we won’t be there to stop it! Tell him
that
!’
I could have wept.
It was a bit of a mad scramble getting everything for our impromptu trip organized, and a stressful one, too, because I hated doing anything last minute, particularly holidays. Having a child with Asperger’s meant change was stressful, period, because Kieron hated it. So, as a family, we took these things slowly. But we were lucky. When Mike told his boss he needed to take a few days leave from work – and also why – he stepped in with a really kind offer. He had a three-bed static caravan in a holiday park down in Wales. Would we like to borrow it, he wondered? As I’d been trawling the internet endlessly, and finding nothing quite right for either us (or our budget), Mike almost bit the poor man’s hand off.
But my mood was sombre as I started to make lists of what we needed – these poor, poor children; what would ultimately become of them? I also couldn’t get my head round Ashton’s probable parentage. What were the implications of
that
? Not only psychologically, but genetically, too? As cans of worms went, this one was as dark and slimy as they came.
But, as ever, Riley was on hand to cheer me up. She agreed that Kieron could go and stay at hers, which put my mind at rest immediately. Yes, he was 20 now, but he was still very much my baby, and I knew I wouldn’t relax unless I knew things were calm for him at home, especially as he
had a new job to contend with as well. Riley also let me drag her and Levi around town shopping, to get everything from new swimming things to buckets and spades. It really mattered to me that this time away with the children was special. It was only to be for a few days, but in the midst of so much uncertainty, it felt important to concentrate on simple pleasures, and give them the sort of childhood holiday they had probably never had.