Casey Watson - Little Prisoners

Harsh words and apologies began flying around the table then, but, even with one ear on the recriminations and accusations, my other was on the sound of the two little mites in my living room. I could hear them chuckling, presumably at the cartoon they were watching, oblivious of the fact that their future – their stark, uncertain future – was being discussed in the very next room. It seemed clear to me, then. If we didn’t keep them, who else would? And when it then came to light – John was nothing if not dogged – that social services had, in fact, been searching for some where to place them for a whole year, I realised the enormity of the damage they’d probably already suffered; no wonder the two of them seemed so feral.

I knew then that we had to keep them – for as long as was needed. They needed a home and some security; a civilising influence. Why couldn’t we be the ones to give them that? I caught Mike’s eye then, and I could tell, to my relief, that he felt the same. These poor ‘neglected’ tots could at least count on us, I thought.

Though I might have thought differently if I’d known what was coming.

‘We come bearing gifts!’

It was a week or so later, and my mum and dad had arrived to see the children. Fostering was always going to be a whole-family occupation, but with the two we had currently (and with the knowledge that they might be with us for a while yet) I felt it doubly important that we get all our close relatives on board. They were happy to get involved – they always had been, from the outset – but I also felt the children could really benefit psychologically from being in the thick of a big, loving, ‘normal’ sort of family, their own childhoods, so far, having been so barren in that respect.

‘Oh, Mum, you shouldn’t have,’ I said, grinning at the sight of Dad trailing behind her, carrying a big carrier bag from our local toy superstore.

‘It’s our pleasure,’ she said. ‘Really, love. We thought we could all do some painting. Give you an hour’s break, perhaps,’ she added, kissing me.

Olivia, by this time, had come out of the living room to see who’d arrived, and was jumping up and down with glee and asking to be picked up. She was really so much like a toddler, I reflected. ‘Nan an’ granpa here!’ she shrieked delightedly, while Ashton, now in the doorway, smiled shyly.

We all trooped into the kitchen and I set about making a pot of tea for them while the kids pulled them over to the table. Ashton seemed to take to Mum straight away, and pulled a chair up close beside her almost as soon as she sat down. ‘Now then, young man,’ she said, as Dad placed the bag in front of them. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got for you both, shall we?’

Olivia, meanwhile, having now persuaded Dad to pick her up, was busy stroking his hair and kissing his cheek. I kept an eye on her. Privately, I was becoming a little concerned about Olivia, my fostering antennae already twitching. Much as I was pleased to see her – to see both of them – being affectionate with the family (the opposite, sadly, is often true of damaged kids), I had noticed she tended to behave differently around the men. She was so little, yet there was still this definite sense of flirtation; she wouldn’t be aware of it – how could she, she was six! – but it was there. It was tangible, and slightly unsettling.

And today was no different. ‘Gwandad,’ she was asking him. ‘Can I sit on your knee? Casey got bony knees so I don’t like going on her lap. But can I sit on yours to do the painting?’

Dad laughed, as he settled her instead onto a chair. ‘Much easier to paint on your own chair,’ he suggested. I smiled to myself. And much less chance of him getting paint all down his trousers. ‘Come on,’ he said, as Mum began opening up the pots they’d bought. ‘What shall we paint? How about a picture of your nice bedroom?’

But Olivia was having none of it. She pestered and pestered, till Dad eventually conceded and let her sit on his lap after all. And before long, the noise level had fallen to a hush, as both children immersed themselves in the task at hand.

Leaving them to it, I turned around to find some biscuits for everyone and pour out Mum and Dad’s mugs of tea. But within moments, I heard my dad speaking sternly. ‘No, Olivia,’ he was saying. ‘You mustn’t do that. If you don’t keep still,’ he went on, ‘then you’ll have to get down.’

‘But I was only wiggling for you, Gwandad,’ she said, her expression completely guileless. ‘Don’t you like it when liccle girls wiggle for you?’

Dad looked every bit as horrified as I felt. I rushed across and plucked Olivia from his knees. I could see that he was completely at a loss for words. And with good reason. ‘Come on, sweetheart,’ I said to a bewildered Olivia. ‘Come and sit here by your brother. Granddad’s going to have his cup of tea now and it’ll be hot.’ She pursed her lips now, clearly miffed to have been relocated next to Ashton, then folded her arms on the table and placed her chin on them. ‘I miss my gwandad,’ she said, pouting. ‘When can I see him?’

‘I don’t know, sweetie,’ I said. ‘But I will try to find out. I know. How about you paint a pretty picture, just for him? Then Anna could take it to him for you.’

This didn’t mollify her. She pulled a face. ‘Gwandad hates Anna. She stoled us from him, an’ we’re not to tell her nuffink!’ She was becoming quite animated, and I knew she had my parents’ full attention. She certainly had mine. She lifted her arms now, waggling them to emphasise how exasperated she was by this. ‘Speshly my special Gwandad cuddles. It’s not right! My poor gwandad don’t have no more liccle girls to wiggle for him. An’ he’ll be lonely!’

Her curious form of words was as arresting as ever, but it was the words themselves that shocked most. I could sense how uncomfortable Mum and Dad were becoming, as the import of what she’d said hit home. ‘It’s okay, love,’ I soothed, stroking her hair. ‘It’s okay. I’m sure your granddad knows how much you love and miss him. Tell you what, why don’t we leave the painting for a bit, and you and Ashton go and play in the garden with Bob, while Nan and Granddad and me have our drinks?

Thankfully, this idea seemed to appeal to Olivia. She jumped down off the chair and grabbed her brother by the hand. ‘C’mon Ash,’ she said. ‘Let’s go play ball with Bob.’ The two of them then trotted off.

Dad shook his head as he watched them go. ‘Dear me, Casey, love. That was just all so wrong. What the bloody hell was she going on about? Special granddad cuddles?’ He was silent for a moment. We all knew exactly what she’d been going on about. Not the extent or the detail, perhaps, but certainly the implication, and I could see it made my father’s flesh creep.

And my mother’s, too.

‘I wonder what’s happened to her?’ she said, as I passed her the mug of tea. ‘What she’s seen …’

‘Way too much, by the sound of it, way, way too much,’ Dad finished.

‘It’s just horrible,’ Mum said. ‘I mean, it’s the most natural thing in the world to give little ones cuddles. But when you don’t know what they’ve been through … had done to them …’ she shuddered. ‘Well, it just makes it all so awkward, doesn’t it? I mean, it shouldn’t do, should it? But it does.’

What it most did for me, though, was answer my unspoken question. This granddad, if Olivia’s innocent comments were based in fact, would appear to have been up to no good. I tried to think if a granddad had been mentioned in any of the reports we’d been given, but I had no recollection of it. I resolved to take another good look later. And to continue to keep a close eye on Olivia. Ashton, too. Just how grim a can of worms had her words inadvertently begun to reveal?