Little Prisoners (21 page)

Chapter 17

I brooded about that meeting all week. After we’d left it, John had agreed with Mike and I that there was something going on, that there was something we didn’t know, and that he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

Several days passed, however, before he did as he’d promised; but he came good. Instead of phoning to tell me, or emailing, he turned up unexpectedly, just after the school run.

‘Surprise!’ he said cheerfully, as I gawped to see him standing there. ‘Well, come on, let me in then,’ he said. ‘I have news!’

‘Was I expecting you?’ I asked him, trying to flick through a mental filing cabinet, wondering if there was an appointment I’d forgotten about.

‘No, of course you weren’t!’ he said. ‘The clue’s in the word “surprise”, Casey. Now let me in, will you, woman? It’s brass monkeys out here!’

I made him a hot drink and allowed him to thaw for a few minutes before pestering him to put me out of my misery. ‘So what
is
this news?’

He pulled a slim folder from his briefcase. ‘Hold your horses,’ he said. ‘First up, here’s the LAC review minutes. All fine, nothing to worry about. Pretty straightforward stuff.’ He placed them on the kitchen table. ‘You can read them at your leisure. My
real
news, however, is more edifying.’

This was what I’d been waiting for. ‘Go on.’

‘Well, as you can probably imagine all too well, I was still bloody livid when I got back to my office, so I decided to do a bit of detective work right away. Detective work on the school, following my gut instinct – which I trust – about just how “friendly” the school had actually been with the family. I mean, unless we had a case of pretty serious crossed wires, my understanding was that the school, though they clearly never intervened,
did
file a report when social services got involved and discussed plans to put the children into care.’

I nodded. ‘Yes, they did. Anna said so.’

‘Exactly. And they definitely
did
make reference to the kids being unkempt. And they definitely
did
make reference to them stealing out of bins.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I saw it. Which means –’

‘– that the head, Mr Moore, was talking rubbish, agreed?’

‘Well, exactly! God, don’t do this to me, John – spill!’

‘And now I know why.’ He paused, for effect, and sipped his coffee. ‘So, earlier this year, that same school had their
OFSTED inspection. And OFSTED, of course, are the governing body that go in to check that a school is performing to the standards laid down in the National Curriculum, and –’

‘John …’

‘Oops!’ he said, looking suddenly sheepish. ‘Sorry, I keep forgetting you used to work in education. But anyway,’ he leaned forward and whispered theatrically, ‘the results, in this case, were atrocious. The school were told, and in no uncertain terms, it would seem, that they had only so many months to clean up their act before they would officially be put in special measures. OFSTED apparently targeted lots of different areas, but for the purposes of shedding light on what happened at that meeting, the main one of interest is in pastoral care. So my guess – no, more than a guess, I was damned damned certain – was that a finger pointing towards evidence of apathy towards these children was exactly what they didn’t, and don’t, need right now.’

I sat back, feeling a small glow of vindication. It all fell into place now. ‘No, I can see that. They definitely wouldn’t. No wonder they were so keen to try and lay the blame elsewhere.’ I sat forward too, now. ‘
And
in circumstances where it would definitely be minuted. And so on record. Well of all the bloody cheek!’

‘I know. But don’t worry. I’ve phoned the head myself and drawn his attention to the original report. And I’ve also let my personal suspicions be known. He’s not happy about it, obviously, but neither is he stupid. He’s basically admitted that perhaps he wasn’t suitably prepped before the
meeting, and that “perhaps” – oh, how I loved that “perhaps”! – he’d not managed to read all the relevant paperwork first. The upshot is that he has now agreed he’ll look into it and has also agreed – following my, erm, “directive” on the matter – that he’ll prepare us a more accurate written report, which we can obviously attach to these minutes.’

‘Sounds like you went in pretty hard, then.’

‘I sure did.’

‘And I’m really grateful, John. I can’t tell you. Not that I’m not still bloody angry at the pair of them. It’s so unprofessional! Fancy them putting the needs of those kids second – not to mention our reputation – to the saving of their own arses!’

‘But no more. It’ll all be down in there’ – he pointed to the folder – ‘in black and white. So that no fingers get pointed towards you and Mike. And quite right. The least I could do.’

‘And as I said, I’m really grateful. Mike too, when I tell him. Though it shouldn’t have been bloody necessary in the first place, should it?’

He shook his head. ‘No, it shouldn’t. But, hey ho. Such is life, eh? Anyway,’ he said, draining his mug. ‘Better get off. See you in a week or so, no doubt.’ He stood up then, and I followed him back out into the hall, reaching past him to open the front door. The postman had been, so I picked up the letters from the mat while I was at it.

‘Ooh,’ I said, spying a bright-red envelope among them. ‘First Christmas card! Anyway, thanks again, John. We really do appreciate your support.’

‘You’re welcome, Casey, you know that. Oh, but just the one thing,’ he added, pointing towards the envelope. ‘It’s 1 December. Please, please don’t let me come back here next week and find this place already trimmed up to the bloody nines! With my workload this month, I might just have to kill you.’

‘John, I can’t think
what
you mean!’ I said, grinning.

So it was that, on 2 December, the run-up to Christmas properly started. I spent the next few days nagging Mike to go into the loft and get the decorations down, and didn’t give him a minute’s peace until he did. And it was all John’s fault, I thought to myself, grinning. In truth, I hadn’t even really thought of the ‘C’ word until he’d seen that card and brought it up on my doorstep. Now it felt almost obligatory to have the place done out like Santa’s grotto before he next came.

But who was I kidding? It would only have been a matter of days anyway, because Christmas is my very favourite time of year. In my eyes there is nothing as glamorous in the world as an overdressed Christmas tree forming the centre piece of a house dripping with tinsel and fairylights. Curmudgeonly John or no (and I knew him well enough now to enjoy winding him up about it), I was always the first on our street to put up my glitzy decorations, both inside the house and outside. Indeed, there’d been years in the past when I’d have the stuff out of the loft almost the minute the last Bonfire Night firework had fizzled out, and would make a start on creating my window dressings. As
the children got older, I had become a little less manic, but then along came the foster kids, and Levi, and, well … let’s just say that I had long since learned to misinterpret the shaking heads of passers-by. I preferred to imagine that what they were thinking as they passed was, ‘There she goes again! And good on her! That woman is just
so
dedicated to Christmas!’

Not that I was entirely democratic about the decorations. Though I always promised the children they could help to trim the tree, I was a one-man band when it came to the rest of the house, a job I traditionally liked to have done and truly dusted before the schools broke up and everything got so hectic.

It was funny what a turnaround I’d experienced in that regard. When I worked in schools myself, like everyone else, I used to love the school holidays. But now, I guess, like millions of other parents across the country, it felt like the schools always seemed to be on holiday! It would certainly feel like a pretty long three weeks this year.

Though this wasn’t just selfishness on my part. Just lately – well, increasingly over the last few weeks, if I was honest – the children’s behaviour, particularly in regard to their ADHD, seemed to becoming more evident. And in the midst of that, it was becoming increasingly hard to maintain a calm home environment. Olivia, in particular, was becoming trying. Having the school draw attention to some of her over-excited behaviour seemed to make me notice it with greater frequency. And she really did remind me of an over-excited little bird when her medication levels
dipped, as she’d run around and then jump up, perching on the backs of chairs, crouching, and then leaping onto anyone who passed by. She was affectionate with it, but she’d still scare everyone half to death, and I knew it really needed addressing.

But when she wasn’t hyper, she often seemed to be miles away, and I knew she was still being regularly ambushed by feelings of homesickness – particularly for her granddad. And for the rest of her family. And perhaps the reality of that permanent separation was sinking in. Necessary, I knew, but so sad.

But of the two of them, it was Ashton who concerned me the most. He was definitely becoming more aggressive. Since the incident at the party – perhaps something had come to a head? – he had become more irritable, and seemed to like taking it out on his little sister, pushing her around and pulling her hair till she cried. And no matter how much I tried to talk to him about it, he seemed to have this default setting called ‘angry and defiant’, which was showing no signs of going away.

I had no real idea why this was. Did their medication need changing or was this simply the real deal? Was it actually indicative that the children were now so settled that they no longer felt they had to be on ‘best’ behaviour? As any parent knows, the most sorted kids generally have an emotionally healthy system; they know how to behave and generally do behave in company, and save their worst behaviours for the place where they feel most secure, which, in most ‘normal’ families, is home and mother. If
that was so, then perhaps I should embrace it as a positive. But I wasn’t sure. I just hoped Dr Shackleton would come through and we could start to get to the root of who these children really were and, more importantly, what they could become. I also recalled that Justin, who’d come to us just before Christmas three years ago, found the whole thing a terrible strain. Coming from a home where he was not only lacking food and care, but also love – his mother didn’t have an ounce of love for him inside her – Christmas, I thought, looking back with the benefit of hindsight, just underlined that tragic fact tenfold.

But these kids had each other, and also perceived themselves as loved (even if it was the sort of love that should see some of the adults concerned behind bars), so I felt certain, and determined, that their Christmas at our house would be a wonderful time for them all.

Within a fortnight, and with the end of the winter term fast approaching, I’d pretty much done everything bar the tree itself. And on the Friday I’d spent much of the day tackling the living room – the room which I always left decorating till last, as it was the focal point of the whole house. I was so engrossed that I was almost late picking up the kids from school, deciding at the last minute that I’d switch off all the house lights, plunging the place into darkness – well, by the time we came home from school, it
would
be dark – so that I could usher them all in and do the big ‘reveal’, switching all the fairy lights on, and creating magic.

Accordingly, I had them troop in, still in their coats, and
made them stand in the doorway while I went to the socket that powered my biggest multi-plug adaptor.

‘Ta-da!’ I said, as the room was suddenly alive with coloured twinkles. Even without the tree, it still looked pretty gorgeous.

Olivia spoke first. ‘It’s really pretty,’ she said, sounding not so much excited as bewildered. ‘It’s really lovely. What’s it for?’

‘Because soon it will be Christmas, sweetie, and I really like to make it look pretty for Christmas. And over there’ – I pointed to the space I’d prepared in the corner – ‘is where we’re going to put the Christmas tree.’

At the mention of the tree, Olivia did at least seem to register the coming occasion.

‘D’you want to help me with that after tea?’ I asked Ashton. ‘Did you used to help Mummy with her tree?’

‘Yeah, an’ it was better than your tree,’ said Ashton, shocking me. He stuck out his lower lip and glared at me. What I’d said had clearly hit a nerve.

Feeling deflated now, I almost said, ‘How would you know? You haven’t seen
my
tree yet!’, but managed to bite it back just in time. This would be the first Christmas these kids had spent anywhere but home. Their emotions about it would be complex.

‘Oh, don’t be such a meany pants,’ Olivia interrupted on my behalf. ‘It’ll be lovely. Can I help as well, Casey?’

‘You can
both
help,’ I told them. ‘That’s what I want. For you both to help me. Right after tea, yes? Now come on. Sausage and mash and mushy peas coming up.’

About which they seemed
much
more excited. As with beaches, I reflected, so with Christmas. It was as if they couldn’t quite see the point.

As it turned out, Olivia did help me decorate the tree – Ashton mostly sat on the sidelines, looking scornful – but it was a half-hearted effort. So much so that it occurred to me that far from worrying about them getting too over-excited, I’d struggle to get them excited at all. And it was a theme that was set to continue.

As the days ticked by, I began planning my present-buying sorties, and was concerned I didn’t know what to get them both. I tried asking them what they’d like, but neither of them seemed to have a clue. They just didn’t seem to understand the concept. They understood getting birthday presents, clearly – we’d seen that with them, at least – but when I tried to put myself into the shoes of the wretched young girl who was their mother, I wondered if it was simply a case of, if you couldn’t do it properly, why do it at all? So much easier to forget the whole business.