My Dad's a Policeman
Read My Dad's a Policeman Online
Authors: Cathy Glass
My Dad’s
a Policeman
Cathy Glass
Contents
My dad’s a policeman and it can land me in trouble. Take last week, for example. A kid on our estate shouted: ‘Your dad ain’t a policeman! You’re a bastard, same as rest of us.’ So I hit him, not hard, but enough to send him crying to his mother, who called the police.
‘Oh, Ryan,’ my mum sighed, exhausted, when she opened the front door two hours later to find the police there. ‘Whatever have you done now?’
At that moment I really regretted hitting that kid. Not because he hadn’t deserved it – no one says things about my dad and gets away with it. But because of the look on Mum’s face. She was so sad I thought she was going to burst into tears, and I knew it was my fault. She didn’t need more trouble from me, not with everything she had to cope with.
‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ I said as she let the two officers into the hall. ‘Some kid got to me with something he said about my dad.’
‘But Ryan you’ve never known your father! Why do you pretend you do and make up things about him?’
I shrugged, looked at the ground and felt pretty small.
‘Say sorry to the police,’ she said. ‘Then tomorrow you can apologise to the boy.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said to the two officers, ‘I promise it won’t happen again.’ But I knew from the glance they exchanged my apology wasn’t going to be enough this time. I’d said sorry to them when I’d been in trouble before and then got into more trouble.
I also knew that if the police told social services that I’d been in trouble again it would be my fault if my brother and I ended up in care.
‘It’s not your fault,’ the social worker said. This was a week later, and she was smiling at me over her Ted Baker half-rimmed glasses. ‘Even without that incident with the boy, or the fire last night, the situation could not have carried on.
‘All the agencies involved in your case feel it’s in your and your brother’s best interests to come into care for a while. It will give your mother a chance to sort herself out. She’s had quite a lot to cope with and this decision will help her.’
I stared at the social worker. She’s called Sarah Duffy, but Mum and me have nicknamed her Duffy for short. I didn’t say anything. I knew if I said what was in my head it would make things even worse.
Her comment about my mum sorting herself out had really bugged me, plus I was cross at the suggestion Mum would do better without my brother and me living with her. You can’t talk to social workers; they listen but they don’t hear. My mum had tried talking to social services and look where it got her!
‘I do understand how you must be feeling, Ryan,’ Duffy continued. She spoke in the same patronising, dead-beat tone. ‘But aged twelve you are a minor and need to be looked after.’
She gave a funny little sniff, which made her glasses twitch, then waited for me to agree. I hoped she found my silence unsettling or even menacing. Social workers love to talk and Duffy could talk for England. I know, I’ve listened to her rabbiting on to Mum.
‘So there’s nothing for you to worry about,’ she said after a while. ‘I’ll take you to your foster home shortly. Then I’ll call round and see your mum and get some of your things. If I’ve got time this evening I’ll bring your things to you. If not, I’ll bring them first thing in the morning.’ Duffy smiled and sniffed again. Then she looked at the folder she had open on the table.
I wondered how old Sarah Duffy was and if she was married with kids of her own. I tried to picture her kissing her old man or even having sex, but my imagination didn’t stretch that far.
‘Your foster carer is called Libby,’ she said, reading from a print-out. ‘I don’t know her myself but I’m sure she’s a very nice lady. It says here that she has looked after lots of boys your age. You’ll have your own room and plenty to eat. If you have any worries you can ask her or phone me. I’ll give you the number to call before we leave.’ She looked at me and waited again.
I had the urge to smack her silly face – not just for what she was doing to me but for what she was doing to my mum. I knew my mum would be gutted when they told her my brother and me had been taken from school into care. My mum often says my brother and me are the only reason she carries on living, and now Duffy was taking us away.
‘Where’s Tommy?’ I asked at last, speaking for the first time since I’d come into her office.
‘Your brother is with another social worker,’ Duffy said. She was smiling, clearly feeling she was getting somewhere and that my talking was real progress. ‘He’s going to a foster home not far away from yours. Once you’re both settled with your foster carers, I’ll arrange for the two of you to see each other – later in the week.’
‘Later in the week!’ I said, shocked. ‘Tommy’s my brother. We have to stay together. I look after him.’
‘I know, pet,’ she said, dead patronising, ‘but my manager and I feel the needs of you and your brother would be best met if you had different placements. Tommy is young enough to make a fresh start.’ Read: you’re a bad influence on him.
‘Fresh start!’ I said, my voice rising. ‘What are you talking about? Tommy’s my little brother. He doesn’t need a fresh start!’ I was starting to feel all hot and bothered, like I did when that kid said my dad wasn’t a policeman, or when the maths teacher told me to shut up and sit down and I hit him. I felt the heat creep up my spine and it made me twitchy. I knew I had to calm down; otherwise I was going to do something I would regret. And that would make things a lot, lot worse.
‘I can’t go without my brother,’ I said, taking a deep breath, and trying to be as calm as I could be. I heard my voice shake slightly – from anger or fear? ‘I promised my mum I’d look after Tommy,’ I added. ‘I can’t let her down again.’
‘You’re not letting your mum down, Ryan,’ Duffy said, fixing me with her patronising, half-rimmed Ted Baker gaze. ‘Try not to worry. It’s for the best. Your brother will be well looked after, I promise you.’
‘What, like you promised my mum that if she worked with you and tried to stop drinking you’d keep our family together?’ I could feel the heat rising and settling in the back of my head. My feet began to drum beneath the table.
‘I did my best, Ryan,’ Duffy said, a little too easily, like maybe she hadn’t. ‘But, as you know, your mum didn’t keep to the rehab programme. We gave her a year to stop drinking but nothing changed, did it? If you hadn’t woken last night and smelt smoke coming from your mum’s bedroom you could have all died. I understand your mum fell asleep with a cigarette—’
‘I’m not going anywhere without my brother,’ I said tightly, interrupting. I could feel my teeth clench as panic rose. ‘If you have to take us away from my mum, then please keep us together.’
Duffy was quiet for a moment and when she spoke she was slightly subdued. ‘I’m sorry, Ryan, the decision has been made.’
‘My brother needs me,’ I blurted. ‘He’s only five. You must place us together, please, or I’ll tell my dad.’
I saw the faintest hint of a smile flicker across her face at my last comment, about my dad. I tried to calm the rage flaring inside me and had she not said anything more I might have managed it. I might have been OK and calmed down.
But the silly moo thought either I was dim and didn’t understand what she was saying, or that I needed a reality check. Duffy continued: ‘Ryan, pet, you’re not in contact with your father, and as far as I’m aware you never have been. Although I can of course appreciate why a boy of your age would like to believe he is. ’
For a moment I felt strangely calm, as though someone had just pulled out my fuse. When I spoke, my voice had lost its tremble and sounded calm too, almost too calm – controlled. ‘My dad’s a policeman,’ I said, meeting her gaze, ‘and when he finds out you’ve taken my brother and me into care he’s going to get you, big time!’
She was smiling again, and shaking her head sadly. Then she added something that was her biggest mistake: ‘Ryan, your dad isn’t a policeman. You just like to think he is and—’
That was it. She didn’t get any further. The heat exploded in my brain, and a loud ringing noise filled my head. I’m not actually sure what happened next. I was suddenly on my feet, leaning over the table, and my hand landed smartly on her cheek. I heard the slap as it hit her cool, soft skin. I saw her Ted Baker glasses fly across the room, heard her scream, then the door burst open and security came in.
Not long ago if you hit a social worker you got put in lock-up, but times have changed and are more laid back now. So an hour later, instead of being taken to a secure unit for juveniles, I was taken to Duffy’s car, on the way to the foster carer, Libby. Poor Libby! Poor Duffy!
I could tell Duffy was uneasy about being alone in the car with me, and who could blame her? I’d hit her once and she didn’t know if I would do it again. As she drove she kept glancing at me in the rear-view mirror and asking if I was OK. I told her I was, and even gave her a little smile.
Now I was calm I was genuinely sorry I’d hit her. I’m always sorry after I’ve lost my temper. I also knew if Mum found out I’d hit Duffy I’d be in for it big time. From what I’d overheard at social services they’d tried to find another social worker to take me to Libby’s, but they were short-staffed. So because Duffy was our ‘case worker’, the job fell to her. I guess she drew the short straw, as Mum would say.
‘OK?’ Duffy asked again, glancing in the rear-view mirror, as we stopped at traffic lights.
I nodded. ‘Yeah.’
‘Libby only lives four miles away,’ Duffy said, ‘but in this rush-hour traffic it’ll take us a good half hour. Are you hungry? I could stop at a McDonald’s and get you something to eat.’
Duffy was trying so hard to be nice that I began to cringe. It was embarrassing. ‘No, I’m all right,’ I said. ‘Thanks anyway.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yeah.’
While Duffy focussed on the road ahead, I gazed through the side window. It was nearly dark and the pavements were busy with workers going home, many of them with mobiles pressed to their ears. It was then I realised I hadn’t got my phone with me. We’re not allowed them in school and social had grabbed me from school that afternoon without warning.
‘When you go to Mum’s tonight will you get my phone, please?’ I asked Duffy politely.
‘I should think so,’ Duffy said. ‘Does your mum know where it is?’
‘It’s on my bed. Can you ask her to make sure it’s got credit so I can phone her?’
There was short silence before Duffy said, ‘We’ll see,’ without making eye contact in the mirror. I knew she wouldn’t. Collect my phone maybe, but not tell my mum to top it up.
There’s a kid in my class who’s in care and he’s only allowed to phone his mum on Saturdays from the foster carer’s landline. When they took his mobile away, they told him phoning was part of the ‘contact arrangements’. It needed to be supervised and monitored, so the poor kid only speaks to his mum once a week, with the foster carer listening.
But I was calm about Duffy’s ‘we’ll see’ and just said ‘Thanks’. The reason I could be so calm was I’d already decided – even before I got in the car – that I wouldn’t be staying at Libby’s. As soon as Duffy left, I’d be out of Libby’s and go back to Mum’s. That was my plan so there was no need for me to feel upset or angry. Then I’d find out from Mum where they’d taken Tommy and rescue him.
I stared out of the window and made a mental note of the route we were following and which buses I’d need to take. It wasn’t difficult. Mum can’t drive so my brother and I have travelled all the buses in the area at some time. The more difficult bit would be getting on the bus without paying because I hadn’t any money on me.
* * *
The clock on Duffy’s dashboard showed 6.10 p.m. as we stopped outside a house in Stratford Road. It was a terraced house with a very big bush in a small front garden. All the lights were on but the curtains were closed, so you couldn’t see inside.
‘Libby’s a lovely lady,’ Duffy said again, stopping the engine. ‘She’s got a young boy of her own, and another foster child your age. He’s been there over a year, so he’s well settled. I expect you’ll soon be mates. I’ll see you in and sort out the paperwork. Then if there’s time tonight I’ll go to your mum’s for your clothes.’ Duffy was talking very quickly and repeating herself, and I had the feeling she was nervous. God knows why. It wasn’t her who was being dumped at a stranger’s without a phone and with no money.
She was still talking as we got out of the car and walked up the short front path. I heard her voice rabbiting on in the background like a trapped fly buzzing against a window trying to get out.
I was more interested in the front door. It was solid wood with no glass panels and I wondered if it was locked at night, and if so where the key was kept. With the house being terraced, the front door would be my easiest escape route. If I went out the back I’d have to climb over fences and run across back gardens to the end of the row of houses. I didn’t fancy that in the dark because there might be dogs or fishponds I could stumble into.
Duffy threw me what was supposed to be a reassuring smile and then pressed the doorbell. Immediately the door swung open, as though the owner had been watching out for us.
‘Hello! Come in!’ a big black woman said, welcoming us. And I mean big and black. I’m small for my age and I guess because of all the worry about Mum, and what’s called lack of nutritious food, I look a bit pale – ‘pasty’, my English teacher said. Libby was the opposite. It was just as well we wouldn’t be leaving the house together, I thought; I’d look a right prat. Not that I’m anti-black – some of my best mates are black – but if social services had tried to find a worse match for a foster mum for me they couldn’t have done a better job.
‘Hello! I’m Libby,’ she said, grinning. ‘You must be Ryan.’ I thought but didn’t say, Well, yes, there’s only me and Duffy, so who else could I be? ‘Come in and make yourself at home,’ Libby said. ‘So pleased to meet you, Ryan.’ She was a bright, bubbly woman with wide, smiley eyes. In different circumstances I might have liked her but not now. Now I was concentrating on the exit route.
She showed us down the hall and into the front room, where the television was on with a young kid sat in front of it. ‘This is my son, Brendon,’ Libby said proudly. ‘Brendon, this is Ryan. Say hello.’
The kid was clearly watching television and didn’t want to be interrupted by the likes of me. Without turning he obeyed his mother and grunted a reluctant ‘Hi’.
‘Hi,’ I said and hovered.
‘Sit down,’ Libby said, kindly.
I did as she said. The sofa was very soft and made of leather. It was a lot nicer than the one at home, which is old and stained, with a spring poking through. The room was nice, too. The wallpaper wasn’t torn, and clean carpet matched the sofa and curtains. We just had lino on the floor at home. The telly was a big plasma widescreen, and there was a Sky box on the shelf beneath. Her kid looked happy, clean and well–fed. Just for a moment, for a second before I caught myself, I felt angry with Mum for not making our house like this, instead of drinking herself senseless every night.
‘Callum is up in his room,’ Libby said, smiling at me.
‘Callum is Libby’s other foster child,’ Duffy explained, making herself comfortable in the matching leather armchair.
While they talked, and then filled in forms, I watched television. It was
The Simpsons
and I was OK with that. Every so often Duffy or Libby said something to me and I nodded. I guess it was stuff they had to tell me, like Duffy telling the school my new address, contact arrangements and something called a ‘care plan’. It was only when they got near the end that my ears pricked up.
‘Pocket money,’ Duffy was saying. ‘At Ryan’s age his allowance is £8.50 a week.’
‘Yes, I’ll make sure he has it,’ Libby confirmed.
I looked at them. Not that I’m greedy – but with no phone and no money, £8.50 was going to be very useful. ‘£8.50?’ I asked, wondering if I’d misheard. ‘I’ve never had an allowance before.’
Duffy smiled, pleased that at last I was showing some interest. ‘You see, Ryan,’ she said, swapping a meaningful glance with Libby, ‘being in care isn’t so bad after all.’
I couldn’t say what I was thinking because it would have got me into trouble again. I was thinking that she could shove her money and take me back home.
* * *
Duffy left shortly afterwards, saying she would see me later that evening or tomorrow. Libby saw her out and then came back into the room.
‘Dinner’s ready,’ she said.
Her kid was up and out of there.
‘Tell Callum dinner’s ready,’ she called after him.
‘Callum! Dinner’s ready!’ the kid bellowed from the bottom of the stairs.
‘I didn’t mean like that,’ she said. Then she smiled kindly at me again. ‘Let’s eat, Ryan, and then I’ll show you your room. I expect you’re hungry – boys of your age usually are. I’ve done a chicken casserole. It’s not spicy.’ She smiled again.
I was hungry – in fact I was starving, and my stomach was growling. But the thought of sitting and eating with her and her family while my mum was alone at home, and poor Tommy was God knows where, was more than I could bear. I suddenly felt very hot and knew I had to be alone.
‘I’m not hungry,’ I lied. ‘Just tired. Can I have a lie-down?’
‘Of course you can, love,’ she said, patting me kindly on the shoulder. ‘You’ve had quite a stressful day. I’ll show you to your room. Perhaps you’ll feel like something to eat later?’ I thought, again, that in a different place and time I could actually like this woman.
I followed her out of the front room and up the stairs. A kid was coming down.
‘This is Callum,’ Libby said as we passed. ‘Callum, this is Ryan.’
He looked at me and nodded. I nodded back. He was taller than me and chunkier. He was wearing a Nike hoodie and tracky bottoms just like the ones I’d wanted for Christmas but my mum hadn’t managed to save up for.
‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ Libby called after Callum.
At the top of the stairs I followed her across the landing and she opened the door at the end. ‘Make yourself at home,’ she said. ‘Hopefully your social worker will come with your things later. If not I have some spare that’ll fit. Come down as soon as you feel ready.’ She smiled again and went out, closing the door behind her.
Me, wear someone else’s clothes? I don’t think so!