Casey Watson - A Boy Without Hope

‘Thanks, Mike,’ John said. ‘I have to say I’m really looking forward to it. It’s going to be very different – not to mention very challenging, I don’t doubt – but I’m not going to miss working the ridiculous hours I do. And neither will ’er indoors, as I’m sure you can imagine. Well …’ He smiled. ‘You two, of all people, know all about that, don’t you?’

Didn’t we just. And we’d never minded. It was the nature of what we did. But to do it without John? Calm, capable, unflappable, always-at-the-end-of-the-phone, supportive, lovely John? I simply couldn’t imagine it.

‘I’m really, really pleased for you,’ I told him, and, despite my shock, I meant it. It was because he had always been all of those things that he needed, and deserved, to have a break from it. We all knew the saying that on your death bed you never wish you’d spent more time at the office. But how many of us forget it till it’s all too late? This was absolutely his time to remember and act on it. And there was no doubt about it. He should.

‘Thanks, Casey,’ he said. ‘I knew you would understand. I was worried about a general foster-carer exodus – I still am – but I knew I could rely on you two. Change is always hard, but I’m sure you’ll get on brilliantly with Christine Bolton once you get to know her, and –’

‘Christine? So it’s a woman taking over from you?’ I asked him. ‘The name doesn’t ring a bell. Should it?’

‘No,’ John said, ‘she’s not from round here. She’s relocating too. She’s currently based in Liverpool. Doing pretty much the same job as me. And the reason it’s all fallen into place the way it has is that she wants to move fairly quickly for family reasons, too. I don’t know all the details, but I believe her partner needs to return here. Another elderly parent situation.’

‘Twas ever thus …’ mused Mike.

But I had fixed on something else. ‘Once we get to know her?’ I asked John, whom I knew better than perhaps he realised. ‘Why “once you get to know her”? Come on. What aren’t you telling us?’

He looked slightly uncomfortable. ‘I shouldn’t have put it like that. She’s really nice. And very professional.’

‘But?’ I was like a dog with a bone now.

‘There aren’t any buts,’ he said. ‘Honestly, Casey. I’ve already met up with her a couple of times, and we’re obviously liaising closely re the handover and everything. Seriously . Don’t look like that. She’s fine. I just meant – well, you know how it is – different people have different ways of doing things, don’t they? That’s all I meant. That everyone will have to adjust to everyone’s different … um … peccadillos. That goes with the territory when you’re part of a multidisciplinary team, and –’

‘Blinding me with science now – I get it. Come on, spill, John Fulshaw. Is she an overbearing battle-axe? If so, we need to know.’ I pushed up the sleeves of my top. ‘Forewarned is forearmed, and I need some ammo.’

John burst out laughing. ‘Oh, God,’ he said, winking at Mike once he’d recovered his composure. ‘I am so going to miss this one! I’m going to miss all of you,’ he added, more seriously. ‘D’you know, I was thinking on the way here – it’s been so many years, hasn’t it? So many children. And your two all grown up – and both now with their own kids. Your grand kids. How is that even possible? And Tyler sixteen now. How did that happen?’

Tyler had come to us as an eleven-year-old, with a terrible, tragic background: a dead heroin-addict mother, a father who didn’t want him, and, after all sorts of heart-breaking emotional abuse, he’d ended up going for his step-mother with a kitchen knife. I still remembered the day I’d gone to fetch him from the local police station, immediately afterwards. Hard not to, given that, during that first memorable meeting, he’d spat at a police officer, kicked a chair around the interview room, called his stepmother a witch, called another officer a ‘dick brain’ and, for good measure – he was obviously keen to make a good impression – told his social worker to fuck off. Though I didn’t know it as that then – I’d been tickled by him more than anything – what I’d actually felt had been love at first sight.

‘He’s going to miss you,’ I told John.

‘I’m going to miss him too – a lot. All of you. And’ – he chuckled again – ‘ how many house moves has it been now? It really does feel like the end of an era, doesn’t it?’

‘Oh, God,’ I said, reaching for the kitchen roll. ‘Don’t set me off.’

But, of course, he already had.

***

Change. Change is good. Change is necessary even. And, as a resilient foster carer, one might imagine it was something I coped with brilliantly. And, in the main, for most of the time, one would have imagined right, because I did. Especially given that on the surface, our household never had a routine, not in the conventional sense.

But, deep inside, I knew I shared some of the traits of my Asperger’s son. Yes, I could cope with chaos easily, but only as long as certain things were set in stone. It wasn’t necessarily visible, because my real routine simply hummed away in the background. The forefront of my life could be as messed up as it liked, as long as some things never changed; as long as what really mattered was set in stone.

Now one of those things, those reassuring rocks, had begun to crumble, and I wasn’t sure this change was going to be one that I could easily cope with. Wasn’t sure, given everything, if I even wanted to try.

Plus John still hadn’t answered my question.

Because time was short, and he had a lot to tie up before leaving us, we had two days to reflect on John’s bombshell. Which wasn’t really that much of a bombshell – why on earth wouldn’t he get promoted? – but since I’d obviously had my head stuffed deep into the sand, it still took a fair bit of getting used to.

Mostly I chuntered on, uncharacteristically negative, unable to do the one thing Mike deemed to be the only thing – to stop wondering what John’s replacement was like and simply wait and see. But we both knew there was actually a bit more to it than that, because it wasn’t just a case of whether we bonded with her or didn’t – it was also the timing, coming along at precisely the point when I was seriously considering a change in direction myself. Was this the catalyst that would make me jump one way or the other? It certainly felt like fate had arranged it that way.

I was also nervous, those words ‘very professional’ running round and round my brain. I had visions of a sharp-suited, shoulder-padded dynamo – the sort of vision of a high-flying, glass-ceiling-smashing career woman that many of us can so easily call to mind. Which was ridiculous. She might equally be gentle and mumsy. Being professional isn’t about the clothes you choose to wear, particularly when you’re in the line of work we were, dealing with messy domestic dramas and troubled, angry children, sometimes in the small hours, having tumbled blearily out of bed. John had certainly done his share of that and it was odds-on that this Christine Bolton would have too.

But, having worked myself up, I still felt a bit intimidated, so much so that on the day itself I had ants in my pants. Big soldier ants, with big pincers, trying to chew me up. Which was probably why I was so irritable.

‘Come on,’ I snapped at Tyler, who was wading through his cereal on slo-mo. ‘You’re going to be late if you don’t hurry up.’ I pointed at the kitchen clock. ‘Look at the time! The bus’ll be here in two minutes, and you don’t even have your shoes on. Arrgh!’