The Cast-Off Kids (20 page)

‘Why didn’t you tell me all this before?’ asked Des, looking shocked.

‘Because I thought we could get it under control, but I was wrong. Now I realise we can’t go on like this,’ I said. ‘He’s getting bigger, stronger and more
threatening every day. I worry that he’ll set the house on fire next, and I have to keep counting the knives. Mike’s locked all his tools away, but we can never be sure. The other
children are all scared stiff of him, and it’s just not fair to expect them to go on taking this kind of punishment.’

‘What have you tried so far?’

‘Oh, Des! All the usual strategies. The things that work with everyone else, but they don’t work with Gilroy. In fact, they seem to make him even worse. Or perhaps it’s because
he’s getting worse anyway. He’s lost interest in all the things he used to enjoy, like football. He was mad on football, but now he just doesn’t care.’

Des came to a decision. ‘I think we need to have him assessed straight away. I’ll make an urgent request. Do you think you can cope for another day or two?’

It all happened very quickly. The next day was a Saturday. A psychologist and a paediatric mental health worker came to assess him separately at our house, so that they could
observe how he was with the other children. They interviewed us and sat with him as well, trying to talk with him. Somehow they persuaded him to do various game-type tests, so he didn’t
realise he was being assessed, but I’m sure he knew what was going on. He started to act up. Everything was f****** this or f****** that. He told the psychologist she was fat and needed to
lose weight. He accused the mental health worker of being ‘a f****** paedophile’.

That evening, Des phoned us. ‘The experts agree on their diagnosis,’ he said.

‘What’s that?’

‘They say Gilroy is schizophrenic.’

‘Really?’ I was shocked. ‘But I thought it was only older teenagers . . .’

‘Usually, yes. But Gilroy is an unusual case.’

‘I knew something was badly wrong, but I never thought of schizophrenia.’

‘And that’s not all,’ added Des. ‘But I’ll tell you more about that on Monday.’ He paused. ‘Do you think you can manage him until then?’

‘We’ll do our best. But what’s happening on Monday?’

‘We’re having a meeting about Gilroy’s future placement. His needs are too great for a foster home, even your home, Trisha. You and Mike have been marvellous with him,
especially taking him on holiday with you all.’

‘He wasn’t much trouble at all on holiday. He really enjoyed it.’

‘Well I’m glad he did. But I might as well tell you now – I’m afraid the experts fear that he is becoming psychotic and he needs to be in a secure unit where he can have
treatment. It will be best for him and it will be best for your other children too.’

‘Yes,’ I sighed. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Don’t tell Gilroy himself yet, but we will try to find him an immediate placement and take him away on Monday afternoon if we can. Not a word to anyone except Mike, until I confirm
it after the meeting.’

‘I didn’t know children could become schizophrenic so young,’ I said to Mike, after the children were all in bed.

‘Well, he’s eight now.’

‘Yes, just a child. A boy who should be carefree and curious, mischievous and kind to animals – that’s what most eight-year-olds are. Look at Paul. He’s no angel, just a
typical, boisterous, lovable boy. Poor Gilroy. I don’t think anybody could call him lovable right now. But he is, underneath.’

‘And we love him,’ agreed Mike. ‘So did Des say what they are going to do? Will he have to take medication or something?’

I told him what Des had told me: that in the experts’ opinion, Gilroy wasn’t well enough or safe enough to be in a foster home, and that they were having a meeting on Monday about
where they should place him. By Monday evening, he might no longer be part of our foster-family.

I thought about Gilroy a lot over the next forty-eight hours. Had we failed him in some way? Could we have done anything to prevent this happening? I kept looking at the clock on Monday, while
the children were at school. I felt mean that I’d driven Gilroy there with the rest of them, without his having any idea that his future was in the balance. I watched him kicking at their
ankles as they went into the school yard, while they tried in vain to protect themselves. I knew it had to be, but I did feel profoundly sad about him and about his future.

I wondered whether his mother knew yet. Surely she must have been told as well, or were they going to wait until after the meeting? After all the chaos and upset she’d caused, she was
forbidden to come to our house or to contact us in any way, and vice versa. She could only see Gilroy under supervision at the family centre, and I couldn’t remember the last time that had
happened. At least a year ago, I thought.

Des had said he would ring me after the meeting, and I knew that wouldn’t be till at least lunchtime. The afternoon dragged on, the children came home on the school bus and the usual happy
chaos took over, albeit with evident tension among the children, who were always wary of Gilroy.

It wasn’t until half past five, when I assumed it was too late to hear anything, that the phone rang. I rushed out to the hall to pick it up.

As soon as I recognised Des’s voice, I was apprehensive. ‘Has anything been decided?’ I asked him.

‘Yes. That’s why it took all day. It was a unanimous decision this morning, but it took all day to find the right placement within reach for his mother to visit.’

‘Well, she hasn’t seen him for months!’ I pointed out.

‘I know, but we all agreed that we must encourage her to visit him there, as part of his therapy. It’s a good place – a well-respected home, about thirty miles away,’
said Des. ‘It’s too late this evening, so I’ll come and pick him up first thing tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, I think we should break it to him together, so that he doesn’t
just blame you and Mike. Would it be all right if I come over in about half an hour?’

Des duly came and I brought Gilroy into the sitting room, while the others played in the playroom. Edie and Frank had kindly come over to sit with them, which was a treat for all the children,
who adored our lovely neighbours.

So Des, Mike and I sat with Gilroy and calmly explained to him together what was going to happen and that it was because we all wanted to help him.

‘I don’t want any help!’ He yelled at us. ‘You’re all f****** b*******!’

It wasn’t an easy evening, with him swearing and kicking off all over the house. We had to separate him from the others and put a mattress in the babies’ room, which was empty now. I
sat like a sentry outside the door until he finally fell asleep. I don’t know what I would have done if he’d attacked me with the matches or a blade, but I managed to handle his efforts
to get past me, and I had the bruises to prove it.

Later I found out that when Gilroy went into the home, they put him on some very heavy medication. He was just eight, and they dosed him up with this very strong drug that apparently turned him
into a zombie. He moved around very slowly, slurred his speech and lost all his energy. I suppose they thought that would help, but it sounded very drastic to me. I was so sad to think of him, or
any child, in that state.

It was only after Gilroy left that I realised how frightened all the children had been of him, and now, at last, they were able to relax. It was a huge release of tension and anxiety for us too
– we could all feel safe again. Yet I had a lingering sense of guilt that we hadn’t been able to sort him out. He’d been with us for a long time, and I did miss the funny boy he
was when he first joined our family.

‘C
an you take a teenager?’ asked the social worker on the phone. ‘She’s fifteen and needs a temporary placement till she
turns sixteen.’

‘Yes, OK,’ I sighed, wondering what I was taking on. I should have stopped and thought about it at least. We’d never had a teenager before. The eldest of our current children
were ten-year-old AJ, nine-year-olds Ronnie and Sheena, plus Daisy who was a mature eight. I had no experience of teenagers at all.

I prepared what had been our box room, full of junk, to be a single room for this teenager. I didn’t even know her name yet. I had twenty-four hours’ notice, so Mike and the four
older ones helped me to empty the room, then find and move some bits of furniture. Mike took the rubbish down to the tip, then bought a bed base and headboard at the second-hand shop, a new
mattress and some tins of paint, and brought them all back in the van. We spent the evening painting the room and just had time to air it the next morning.

The social worker brought round this sullen-faced girl with a Cilla Black hairdo and cheap but trendy clothes that didn’t leave a lot to the imagination. She twirled a lock of her hair and
barely gave us a glance as they came in.

‘This is Tracey,’ said the social worker. ‘She’s on a temporary care order till her sixteenth birthday.’

‘Hi Tracey,’ I said in my usual cheery voice. She turned her head in a condescending way and ran her gaze down my long and wayward ginger curls, and my Laura Ashley skirt.

‘The hippy look is out now,’ she muttered, with evident disapproval.

‘Not with me!’ I laughed. ‘Come on through to the kitchen. I’ll put the kettle on.’

Mike had taken all the kids to the cinema, so it was unusually quiet.

‘Are you still at school, Tracey?’

‘Not likely,’ she said with a scornful glance. ‘I left as soon as I was fifteen. I’m an apprentice hairdresser now.’

Just then, Mike and the children came back and into the kitchen.

‘Who’s she?’ asked Alfie, pointing at Tracey.

‘It’s rude to point, little feller,’ Ronnie told him off.

‘This is Tracey,’ I said. ‘She’s learning to be a hairdresser.’

‘Is Tracey coming to live here?’ asked Sheena.

‘Yes.’

‘Is she going to sleep in our room?’ I could see that Sheena was eager to have an older girl in the house, to learn about hair, make-up and fashions. She was taking a close interest
in Tracey’s bangles.

‘No, she’s having the little room to herself.’

Tracey settled in well enough, though she only really communicated with Sheena, who seemed to idolise her, and was always following her around. If Tracey sat on the patio,
Sheena came to join her. If Tracey flounced off up to her bedroom, Sheena followed her there, though Tracey often didn’t let her in. Then I’d have a tearful nine-year-old
would-be-teenager following me around for the rest of the day.

‘Why does Tracey close her door?’ asked Sheena. ‘Nobody else does.’

‘Because she’s nearly grown up and she needs some time to herself,’ I explained. ‘I expect you might feel the same when you’re fifteen.’

Our teenager’s social worker was a real harridan; a strict woman who stood no nonsense. But she was also caring and understood that Tracey had issues, whatever they were. We never did find
out her background story – what had happened to her through her childhood and why she came into care with us. Nobody told us anything. But Tracey and her social worker generally got on all
right, and the woman seemed to have a good influence on her, and gave us wise advice too when we asked for it.

Tracey used to spend ages in the bathroom each morning, getting ready for her day at the hairdresser’s. There was always a queue of children wanting to get at their toothbrushes for a
quick teeth-clean before going off to school. They would all be shouting, ‘Come on, Tracey’, and ‘Hurry up’ and ‘What are you doing in there?’ But nothing
flustered Tracey. She would come out when she was ready and not before.

Rather than have a confrontation with her about it, we relocated some of the children’s wash-things, so that they were in the downstairs cloakroom on school mornings.

Some days, she was a pleasant, willing member of the household and even quite helpful with drying the dishes or just playing with the children, if she was in the mood. But she could be very
difficult too. Rebellious, surly, self-obsessed . . . a typical teenager as I look at it now, but then it was difficult to know how best to deal with her. I suppose all parents of teenagers say the
same.

Of course she had her own life, outside the house and her job. She had a group of friends who used to go out together on Friday nights. Sometimes they would go dancing, or to a party or the
cinema.

One Friday night there was a fair in town, so they all went off to the fairground, done up to the nines, thick with make-up and short on dress-fabric. But it wasn’t quite indecent, so we
let it pass. After all, she was only three or four months away from her sixteenth birthday, when she would be out on her own, outside of the care system, with no one to tell her what to do or not
to do. I couldn’t imagine how she would cope with all the bills and anxieties of everyday life on her own, but that was the way it was. Perhaps she would let us help her find a suitable place
and set herself up, when the time came.

She popped her head round the kitchen door. ‘I’m going now. Byee.’

‘Have a good time,’ said Mike.

‘And be back by ten o’clock,’ we said to her as she left.

‘OK, ten o’clock.’

Well, ten o’clock came and went, then ten fifteen. We didn’t want her walking back on her own from the bus stop that late at night so Mike drove to the stop to meet the last bus.

I heard him turn into the drive so I went to the door, but no Tracey. ‘Not on the bus?’ I asked him.

‘No.’ He came into the hall.

I was just about to close the front door behind him, when I heard a strange noise. I turned on the outside light and there, spread-eagled on top of the rockery, with her knickers around her
ankles, was Tracey . . . with a man.

I immediately shut the door, and stood with my back to it. I must have turned pale, which is hard for me as I don’t have much colour at the best of times.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Mike. ‘Have you seen a ghost?’

‘No. It’s worse than that. It’s Tracey.’ And then I saw the funny side of it and dissolved into a fit of the giggles.