Mummy Told Me Not to Tell (26 page)

‘The head must put something in place to manage Reece’s behaviour or else he is on a hiding to nothing. And what about his IEP?’ She was referring to the individual education plan that all special needs children have. ‘Have you seen that yet?’

‘No.’

Ask to see a copy. Because one thing is for certain: the head won’t be excluding Reece permanently very easily. He is a looked-after child, and he must be in school. It’s policy to have all looked-after children in school quickly. Bearing in mind it took over three months to
find Reece this school place, the education department won’t be looking for another in a hurry, which is what Mr Fitzgerald will have been told.’

‘I wondered why Reece was being allowed back into school next term,’ I said. ‘That explains it.’

Wendy nodded. ‘It is possible that in the end we decide that Reece’s needs would best be met in a special school, but that’s for the special needs panel to decide once the educational psychologist has reassessed him, not the head. In the meantime the head needs to invest a bit more in managing Reece’s behaviour instead of demonizing him.’ I couldn’t have put it better myself! ‘When you have a date for the meeting to review his education statement, let me know and I will attend,’ Wendy said. ‘Actually I’ll make contact with the head myself. I need to be included in the loop. He can email his reports direct to me.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘That would be terrific. I’ve been feeling as if I have been fighting a lone battle here.’

‘I take it that Jamey Hogg hasn’t been too proactive in this?’ she said.

Again I was surprised by her directness. ‘Well, no, I keep him informed but he seems very busy with other cases.’

‘Busy with his divorce,’ she said. ‘I’ve left him three telephone messages to call me, and emailed him twice. I haven’t had a reply to any of them. Jamey will need to pull his finger out, and pretty smartly. I know it’s a complicated case but we’re in court for the final hearing in September, and all the reports need to be in by the end of July — which isn’t that far away.’

Reece bounded in from the garden, ready for a drink and a snack. He was in such good form that I felt it reinforced what I was saying about him — not that Wendy needed any convincing. She was excellent, and had hit the nail on the head in her appraisal of the school and what was happening to Reece there. She spent some time talking to Reece and then played a high-spirited game of Snap.

When he returned to play in the garden Wendy continued to discuss the case. She said there was no chance of Reece (or Susie) being returned to their parents’ care, but that the aunt who was looking after his half-sister Lisa was considering offering to look after Reece too. Wendy said she would be visiting the aunt in due course, and that if the aunt did feel she could look after Reece then she would be assessed as to her suitability. I was sad to think that Reece might eventually be leaving us, but as a foster carer I have to accept this, difficult though it is.

Wendy had been with us for nearly two hours by the time she stood to leave. I was very impressed both by the knowledge she had of the case and by her astute and sympathetic understanding of Reece. She went down the garden to say goodbye to him, and then left with the promise to see me again at the statement review meeting.

‘Have a good holiday,’ she said as she left.

‘Thanks. We will.’

I was determined we would have a good holiday. Feeling considerably relieved now that I had an ally in the Guardian, the following week we packed a suitcase, and early on Wednesday morning — very early, at 5.00 a.m. — climbed into the car and headed south. The early start was a huge adventure for Reece, but considerably less so for the girls. Teenagers seem to need more sleep, not less, as they grow older, and the girls were worried the impact the lack of it would have on their beauty.

‘I’ve got dark rings under my eyes,’ Lucy moaned, peering into her compact mirror, which had become a permanent appendage. ‘And eye bags!’

‘Gross,’ Paula said, when Reece wanted us to stop for fried egg and bacon. ‘Not at five o’clock!’

We did stop for breakfast at seven o’clock, when Reece had his fry-up, and the girls had the benefit of the well-lit mirror in the ladies, in order to apply the make-up that they said was necessary to counteract the damage of sleep deprivation. We arrived at our hotel at just gone twelve noon, and it was superb. The two rooms were next to each other, as I had requested. They were more like suites, with a large ‘living room’ area, Sky television, music centre, sofa and armchair, two four-foot single beds and generous en suites.

I had clarified with the hotel when I had booked that at least one of the rooms would have single beds rather than a double, as it wouldn’t be appropriate for a seven-year-old boy to share a bed with his carer. Lucy and Paula were impressed with their room, particularly the generous mirror allocation in the en suite. The hotel
had once been a grand manor house and enjoyed panoramic views over the surrounding countryside and coast. From our first-floor bedroom windows we could see the bay, and further up a small harbour with half a dozen fishing boats. Reece had spotted seagulls from the car when we had taken the coast road, and now with them circling just outside the hotel window he set up a loud squawk.

‘No, darling,’ I said after a while. ‘You will need to be quiet as we leave the room. There are other guests in the hotel and they may not appreciate your seagull impersonations as much as we do.’

With a final squawk we left the room, collected the girls from next door and went to explore the coastline. Although there was a strong breeze it was relatively warm. We went down the steps at the front of the hotel and along a narrow lane that took us straight on to the beach. Reece was in his element on the beach, as we all were, for there is something about walking barefoot over the sand that brings out the children in us all.

Lucy and Paula, having overcome their initial concerns about wind damage to their hairstyles, helped Reece to collect a variety of shells and different pieces of seaweed. Then we all held hands in a line facing the sea and, with our trouser legs rolled to our knees, jumped over the small cold waves that broke steadily on to the shore. There was a beach café further along that had made its first opening of the season for the Easter holidays. We sat behind the windbreak they had erected and, looking out to sea, enjoyed toasted cheese sandwiches and hot chocolate. When we’d finished I
bought a bucket and spade from the café’s little shop, and we spent a couple of hours making sandcastles, digging moats and watching the whole lot disappear with the incoming tide.

By 4.30 the sun was starting to lose its warmth and I suggested we head back to the hotel to get washed and changed for dinner. I had booked us dinner at the hotel for that evening, as I thought it would be easier than trying to find a restaurant after the long drive, but I now wondered if Reece would be able to sustain the time he would have to sit at the table waiting for the courses to arrive. When we’d passed the dining room as we’d left the hotel I’d noticed it had been laid out quite formally with silver service and a white linen tablecloth and napkins.

As it turned out I needn’t have worried, for when we went down to the dining room at seven o’clock the hotel staff were excellent. Although Reece was the youngest child there, the atmosphere was child friendly and the waitresses went out of their way to talk to him. I had taken the precaution of bringing crayons and a small colouring book to the table, as I did when we ate at restaurants at home. Reece was happy to sit and colour, with Lucy and Paula helping him, and when the courses arrived he was happy to eat. We had homemade vegetable soup, followed by roast chicken with all the trimmings and finally something from the all-too-tempting sweet trolley.

By the time we had finished, tired from the early start, being on the beach and eating ourselves to a standstill, it was nearly nine o’clock. We went up to our rooms
and, leaving Paula and Lucy to watch television in bed, Reece and I said goodnight and went to our bedroom. I helped him with his wash, for he was so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open. When I tucked him in and kissed him goodnight, he let out a final squawk, and one very tired seagull closed his eyes and was asleep in seconds. I had a quick shower, changed into my nightdress and was asleep by ten o’clock.

When I woke with the early-morning light I was on my side, facing Reece’s bed. As my eyes opened I saw that his bed was empty. The adrenaline immediately kicked in and I sat bolt upright. Then I saw with great relief that he was standing in the bay window, looking out, probably watching for seagulls. He didn’t know I was awake, and I relaxed my head back on to the pillow and watched him for a few minutes. His little profile was completely entranced by the view outside. I could hear seagulls in the distance, fishing for their early-morning breakfast. Reece was very still and quiet, enthralled, and seemed to be deep in thought. He wasn’t a child who usually stood and pondered; like many young boys, once awake he was on the move. I watched him for some minutes; then he must have sensed I was awake, for he turned to look at me and grinned.

I was expecting a very large seagull squawk, in reply to those outside, but instead, his face still calm, he said quietly, ‘I like it here. There aren’t any secrets.’

I looked at him carefully. The word ‘secret’ can be loaded with connotations for an abused child and is often very different from the surprises that come with a
birthday present or Christmas. Secrets for an abused child can be a threat from an adult: ‘This is our secret and if you dare tell anyone you will be

‘We don’t have secrets at home either, do we?’ I said.

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘I like it there too.’

I had a feeling, that sixth sense that comes from years of fostering and seeing children start to try to disclose, that Reece was trying to find the strength, the words, to tell me something; possibly he felt empowered by being right out of the catchment area of life with his mother.

‘Have you got secrets that you don’t like?’ I asked gently, staying where I was, propped on the pillow and not wanting to disturb the rapport.

He gave a small nod.

‘Can you tell me about them? Sometimes it helps to tell people you trust.’ He didn’t say anything but turned again to look through the window.

I slowly got out of bed and, slipping on my dressing gown, went to join him at the window. We both looked at the view. It was truly magnificent, and the morning sun, which was rising over the sea, made the water shimmer like highly polished glass.

‘I like it with you,’ he said. ‘You don’t have secrets.’

‘No, that’s right. We have nice surprises like this holiday. This was a nice surprise, wasn’t it, but no bad secrets.’ He was quiet again, watching the seagulls circling above. I felt he was so close to saying something. I could feel the tension; his trying to tell was almost palpable. So I took a chance. ‘Reece, the secrets you don’t like, are they from when you were living at home?’

‘Don’t know,’ he said quick as a flash, and I knew the moment had gone.

‘OK, no problem. I just wondered,’ I said. ‘Reece, if you ever remember and want to talk, I’m good at listening.’

‘I know,’ he said. Then with a loud squawk he headed for the bathroom to get dressed.

We made the most of our one full day at the coast, for we had to return the following day by 5.15 for Friday’s contact. I used the car so that we could explore more of the coastline and surrounding area. In three separate stops we took in a small museum with dinosaur fossils, which Reece needed some convincing were real; the ruin of a medieval castle; and a ride on a steam train, which was part of an on-going restoration project to reinstate a local service made obsolete fifty years before. At a little after six o’clock I found a pub in a beautiful picture-postcard village with a family room, and we ordered our evening meal. The girls had a game of pool after we’d eaten while Reece played with another lad of a similar age who was on holiday with his family. We left at eight o’clock and, after nearly an hour’s drive back to the hotel, we were all in bed and asleep by ten o’clock. Although it was a pity we couldn’t have stayed a few more days, I felt we had made the most of the time, and had also showed Reece what a holiday was.

The following morning, after a magnificent cooked breakfast, we took in a walk on the beach, said goodbye to the seagulls and began the journey home. It being a Friday, the traffic was already building up in the afternoon
as we left the A14 and joined the M6. Once on the motorway we stopped for the toilet at a service station, where I also bought sandwiches and packets of juice for Reece and the girls. They ate as I drove, and we arrived home at 4.30. The girls unpacked the car while I sat with a mug of tea and recovered from the drive. Reece had disappeared straight up to his bedroom, pleased to be surrounded by his possessions once again.

When Sabrina arrived to collect Reece for contact, I called up to him to come downstairs and put on his coat and shoes. I called him a second and then a third time, before he finally appeared.

Coming slowly down, he said: ‘I don’t want to go.’

It was the first time Reece had said he didn’t want to go to contact. While a child would never be forced to see their parents, contact was something that was encouraged at this stage in a placement. If there were good reasons why a child did not want to go, then contact could be stopped, but only after discussion with the social worker, who would have to apply to the court to have the judge’s order changed.

‘You want to go to see your mum and dad, don’t you?’ I asked him.

‘No,’ he said firmly.

‘Why not, Reece?’ I glanced at Sabrina, who was waiting in the hall.

‘Don’t know,’ he said.

I knew that ‘Don’t know’ wasn’t going to satisfy the judge, let alone Tracey, Scott and his social worker. ‘Reece,’ I said, bending forward to make eye contact, ‘if you really don’t want to go, you don’t have to. But I will
need a reason to tell your social worker. Why don’t you want to go?’

‘Don’t know,’ he said again. Then, perhaps realizing the wider implications of not going, i.e. having to find a reason and possibly even tell a secret, he changed his mind: ‘OK, I’ll go.’