Casey Watson - A Boy Without Hope

This is a work of non-fiction based on the author’s experiences. In order to protect privacy, names, identifying characteristics, dialogue and details have been changed or reconstructed.

HarperElement

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First published by HarperElement 2018

FIRST EDITION

© Casey Watson 2018

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

Cover image © Jim Powell/Alamy Stock Photo (posed by model)

Cover layout © HarperCollins Publishers 2018

Casey Watson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780008298555

Ebook Edition © November 2018 ISBN: 9780008298593

Version 2018-09-19

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

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About the Publisher

This book is dedicated to the army of passionate foster carers out there, each doing their bit to ensure that our children are kept as safe as possible in such a changing and often scary world. As technology is reinvented and becomes ever more complicated for those of us who were not brought up amid such advances, we can only try to keep up, in the hope that we continue to learn alongside our young people.

I remain endlessly grateful to my team at HarperCollins for their continuing support, and I’m especially excited to see the return of my editor, the very lovely Vicky Eribo, and look forward to sharing my new stories with her. As always, nothing would be possible without my wonderful agent, Andrew Lownie, the very best agent in the world in my opinion, and my grateful thanks also to the lovely Lynne, my friend and mentor forever.

Some things are set in stone. That’s as true for me as for anyone. Those little anchor points of life that provide stability and reassurance. The perfect way to make coffee. Tyler’s special breakfast porridge. The fact that Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without at least a dozen strings of fairy lights. Mike’s bear hugs. My many cleaning routines.

Birthdays, too, of course. Not to mention all the associated parties. Particularly those of my grandkids, in which my role was unchanging: chief entertainment officer, chief caterer and, invariably, chief bouncer as well.

I held two hot, sticky hands in mine – those of my two darling granddaughters, whom I was about to lead, suitably subdued, back into the dining room.

‘Now, girls,’ I said in my strictest grandmother voice, ‘are you sure you can go back into the party without arguing?’

Marley Mae, my daughter Riley’s youngest, opened her mouth in indignation. She was never one to shy away from giving the world the benefit of her opinion, but clearly thought better of it having caught my expression. So instead she sighed heavily, as if having been forced to concede a great military defeat.

‘Well?’ I asked.

‘Yes, Nan,’ she said finally, reaching around to wrap her cousin in a bear hug and mumbling the requisite ‘sorry’ as she did so.

My son Kieron’s daughter Dee Dee, now three, was a year younger than her bossier cousin, and though they loved one another, they were both very competitive, so managed to find an argument in just about anything. Today’s anything was a pink balloon, which both had laid claim to, and, in the ensuing scuffle, it was a miracle it hadn’t already popped. Perhaps better that it had, to stop them squabbling over it. As it was, I had tethered it to the bannisters instead, telling them that if they couldn’t share nicely then neither of them could have it. ‘And I don’t want to hear any more about it,’ I told them sternly. ‘This is Jackson’s birthday party. Which means it’s his special day. So no more of this arguing. You both got that?’

They both duly nodded, keen to rejoin the party. So I opened the door and ushered them back into the dining room, where a game of musical bumps had just started.

‘You should have left both of them on the naughty step, Mum,’ Riley said as I rejoined her in the kitchen area. ‘Marley Mae gets four minutes at home when she carries on like that. She needs to learn to share better.’

‘Oh, she will,’ I told my daughter. ‘School will sort her out in no time. It’s only because she has two older brothers who give into her all the time because they want a quiet life.’

‘Maybe,’ she said, though she sounded unconvinced. ‘I wish she could go full-time. She’s more than ready. And so am I! September seems a very long way away still.’

‘Problems?’ Kieron asked, as he passed me his empty coffee mug. ‘Well, they all look as if they’re having fun. I can’t believe Jackson is ten already. Can you?’

Kieron has Asperger’s, which is a mild form of autism, and one of his special talents is asking questions, making statements and issuing instructions all at once. It’s been the same since he was little; as if he makes these mental lists of every passing thought, before opening his mouth.

‘No problems we can’t handle,’ I told him. ‘And yes, they are having fun. And, yes, time flies – I can’t believe Jackson is ten already either. And yes, I’ll make more coffee. Anything else?’ I added, laughing at his confused expression.

‘Oh, yes,’ he said, handing me my mobile, which I hadn’t spotted. ‘Here you go. John Fulshaw’s on the phone.’

‘Oh Kieron, honestly ,’ I said, snatching it from him. ‘You could have started with that, couldn’t you? Sorry, John,’ I added, as I put the phone to my ear. ‘As you probably noticed, you’ve caught me mid-party. Hang on, let me find somewhere quieter to talk.’

I wove a path through a dining room full of small people, and some unfamiliar adults, into the conservatory, en route to the back garden – the one place, because of a heavy April shower earlier, we had opted to make out of bounds. I’d happily agreed to Riley’s suggestion that we hold Jackson’s party at our house – it was a good bit bigger, so it made sense – but I’d forgotten just how many friends the average ten-year-old simply must invite to their parties. These days, a whole form’s worth, plus a couple of extras, seemed to be the norm. Throw in a couple of cousins, and friends from various clubs and activities, plus half their parents (did they not have anything better to do?), and there didn’t seem an inch of our downstairs that wasn’t occupied by a human, and the house seemed to be creaking under the strain of it all.