Casey Watson - A Boy Without Hope

Being the bright teenager that he was, Tyler had obviously seen this coming. He looked straight past me at Mike, who was leaning against the kitchen counter, reading the paper while waiting for the kettle to boil. He’d had some changes of his own, in his job managing a warehouse, having reached a height lofty enough to delegate some of his duties, one being the relentless ridiculously early starts. For a couple of days a week now, he was still at home at breakfast time.

Which was presumably why they always seemed to be in cahoots these days. ‘See, Dad,’ Tyler said, ‘I told you she’d be like this, didn’t I? It’s alright though,’ he added, reaching for the offending trainers. ‘My shoulders are broad. Calm down, Mum,’ he said, smiling at me as he leaned down to put them on. ‘The woman will be just fine, everything is sparkly clean, and she won’t fail to be impressed that you’ve got the bone china out.’

I swiped him with the tea towel. ‘Bone china? As if!’ I huffed. ‘She’s lucky she’s not drinking cheap coffee out of a mug, and for your information, young man, I am calm. Now hurry up and get yourself sorted rather than nit-picking at me.’

I saw the exchange of raised eyebrows between my husband and foster son and was at least able to manage a bit of a grin myself. They were right, of course. Considering how many years I’d been fostering and the amount of social workers I had met, it made no sense that I was getting so strung up about meeting Christine Bolton. After all, she was simply an agency link worker, like John was, or, at least, used to be, and hadn’t he said that she’d moved over from Liverpool? Yes, he had. So she probably wouldn’t have that clipped, cut-glass accent that usually made me feel so nervous. It was ridiculous of me to get myself in such a state. So why was I?

‘Don’t worry, Casey,’ Mike said after Tyler had at last set off for his bus. ‘Remember what I said? If you decide it’s time to hang up your fostering apron, then so be it. That’s completely fine . After all, it’s you who has all the day-to-day stuff to contend with. If you’ve had enough, you’ve had enough and I’ll support you whatever you decide.’

We had talked long into the night after John’s news about this and I think it was the first time I had ever voiced the notion and actually meant it. I’d even drifted off to sleep thinking that I’d phone my sister, Donna, and ask her if she could guarantee me a few shifts at her tea rooms, Truly Scrumptious. One thing I really lacked these days, especially with my own kids long flown, was the ridiculously simple pleasure of daily adult company. Perhaps it was time to put that right.

I stared into my posh china cup, which I hated. Truth was, I didn’t know what to do. On the one hand, I loved my job. I loved most of the children that entered our lives, and felt privileged to be able to play a small part in helping them towards a better future. On the other hand, I recognised that I often felt tired and disillusioned with all the red tape.

Because fostering had changed over the years. That was a fact. Financial cuts meant that social workers these days often barely knew the kids they were responsible for. They might have as many as twenty children on their caseloads and just didn’t have the time to build a meaningful relationship with them, so the all-important trust just didn’t seem to be there. Statutory visits, meant to take place at least every six weeks, often got cancelled at the last minute, which compounded it. As a consequence, relationships, period, just weren’t the same any more. It deeply bothered me that it seemed to be all about counting the pennies out, and less about the actual children.

‘I’m still not sure, love,’ I told Mike. ‘I think it might depend on how settled I feel when we meet this new woman. I mean, we’ve been so lucky to have had John for so many years, and that he felt the same as we do. I’m just hoping she’s of a similar mindset, that’s all.’

‘And if she isn’t?’ Mike asked

‘Well, we’ll just have to see,’ I said. And I meant it. ‘I know I’m impulsive. I know I sometimes act first and think later. But I really will put a lot of thought into it before deciding.’

‘Well, that’ll be a first,’ he said. ‘But you know what? I don’t think you’ll need to. This is one of those times where I think your instinct will – and should – lead the way. Hey,’ he added, reaching for the matches so he could light the scented candle I’d dug out. ‘Maybe she’ll be a tea drinker! Then you won’t have to think at all, will you?’

Which comment made it all but impossible for me not to explode into nervous laughter, when, ten minutes later, our new visitor responded to my usual opening gambit of ‘Drink? Tea or coffee?’ with ‘Oh, tea for me, please – every time.’

I might have done, too, had John not beaten me to it, along with a jaunty ‘Forgot to tell you, Casey – Christine hails from the dark side.’

Though in truth, a tea drinker was exactly what she looked like. Which, bizarrely, given my prejudices, was something of a comfort. Yes, she was dressed in a sharp skirt and jacket suit, and there was no denying that she looked ready for business, with her fair hair perfectly blowdried and her big leather laptop case, and the label – Ms C. Bolton – on a folder she’d pulled out, but there was at least something approachable about her that I hadn’t anticipated, enhanced by her soft Liverpudlian accent, and her readiness to accept a chocolate chip cookie, which she dunked in her tea while John went through his spiel. You couldn’t mistrust a dunker, could you?

Having never been through a change-over of fostering link worker before, I had no idea how these things usually went. Though I didn’t doubt there would be a protocol – there was a protocol for everything . But it turned out there wasn’t – not in my house, at any rate. Such official handing over of responsibilities as needed to happen had already happened. And would continue to do so, John explained, over the next couple of weeks, during which time Christine would shadow him in his various duties.

And this was one such – no more than an unofficial ‘meet and greet’, really. One where I had the bizarre notion that the poor woman was having to repeat herself endlessly, in a series of thinly veiled ‘pitches’ to John’s stable of carers, as if she was on The Apprentice or something, having to go from house to house, laying out her credentials over endless cups of tea. I wondered how far along the line we were. She certainly seemed to have memorised her script.

‘John speaks very highly of you both,’ she said as she daintily sipped her tea. ‘So I’m very much looking forward to us working together. I’m also hoping that both of you might be something of a crutch for me, while I’m finding my way around the way things work here. All those boring procedures and so on.’

I laughed politely. ‘Likewise,’ I told her. ‘But I’m sure John’s also told you I’m a bit of a scatterbrain, so I doubt I’d be much use as a crutch. In fact, if I’m honest,’ I rattled on, ‘I’m usually the one who’s battling against procedure’ – I grinned at John – ‘more often than the other way around.’

John spluttered slightly. ‘That’s not true at all, Christine,’ he said. ‘Yes, Casey does sail a little close to the wind at times, as I’m sure she’ll be the first to admit. But as I explained on the way here’ – he grinned back at me – ‘that’s only because she cares. She’s fiercely protective of the children she looks after for us, and will fight tooth and nail to be their advocate if she feels there’s any injustice. But that’s one of her great strengths. Am I right, Mike?’