The Cast-Off Kids (24 page)

For the first time, I saw a hint of a smile on this boy’s wan face.

Over the next few days, Kevin rarely looked anything but frightened, scared by there being so many people in our house, the sounds, smells, textures and colours of our daily
lives, the different routines, the challenge of everything. I could see that he didn’t like anything new, yet everything was new. For that reason, although I realised it was wrong, I
didn’t start him at his new school that first week.

I didn’t know a lot about autism, so at the weekend, when Mike was home, I dashed down to the library and borrowed a book about it, and all the different related syndromes. It was quite an
eye-opener, and I recognised several of the signs in Kevin. I began to look at him in a different light, like a research project. But to me, first and foremost, he was always a boy who needed our
help and our love, even if he didn’t know how to return it.

One of the things I found out on that first day was that he didn’t like more than one thing on a plate at a time, and while everyone else had all their meal on one plate, he had his on
three or four, so I sat him at the end of the table, to have enough space to spread his plates around him. His favourite foods were beans, toast (but not together), plain bread, ginger biscuits,
bananas and bacon. He also tolerated simple breakfast cereal, but nothing mixed. The others thought it strange at first, but soon got used to it. Just like the unusual way he did some things,
always in a particular order.

Whenever there were more than two or three people in a room (with the exception of meal-times) he ran off to hide. To start with, I thought this was very strange. He seemed like quite an
intelligent lad, to have learnt so much about aeroplanes, and yet his favourite hiding place was to furl himself into the full-length curtains in the lounge. As long as he couldn’t see
anybody else, he seemed to think they couldn’t see him. Sometimes he would stay there for ages. Other times he would curl up on the floor behind an armchair, or even squeeze himself into a
cupboard.

Although our house wasn’t the best place for him in many ways, he gradually began to settle. What helped a lot was his obsession with aeroplanes. Mike would bring home brochures, books and
magazines from work and the two of them would tuck themselves away in the sitting room to look through them all and discuss the finer features of this or that wing mechanism or undercarriage,
comparing engine sizes and other numbers that went way above my head. In fact, Kevin turned out to be a whizz at numbers. It was amazing the mental calculations he could do.

‘How do you do that, Kevin?’ I asked him once.

‘I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘I just see the patterns in my head.’

But for all his sophisticated thinking and advanced knowledge, Kevin was hopeless at putting his clothes away or finding the key to his locker at school. The number of new keys we had to pay for
. . . In the end, they had to get the lock removed from one of the lockers so that he could always open it.

I didn’t realise at first, until I saw the tell-tale sign of blood on his white school shirt, that he was self-harming. When I phoned and spoke to his social worker about it, she obviously
already knew.

‘Oh, he used to do that at his mum’s as well,’ she said. ‘I expect it might stop once he is feeling more settled and used to everything.’

‘But I’ve been reading up about autism,’ I said. ‘And sometimes an autistic child will never settle among a lot of people, in a busy house, with all the noise and
movement that disturbs him so much.’

‘I’ll come round tomorrow after school and have a chat with him. Say about five? Will that be all right?’

So that’s what she did. I had told Kevin before he went to bed, when he got up, when he got back from school and just before she came, so her visit didn’t take him by surprise. I had
already discovered he hated changes, and surprises scared him witless.

‘Do you think your talk with Kevin was helpful?’ I asked her afterwards as we sat down at the kitchen table.

‘Yes, I hope so,’ she said. ‘He says he likes you and Mike. He especially likes it that Mike knows a lot about aeroplanes too, and even designs parts for them. That has made a
big difference in helping him to settle here. But he’s still very anxious. I think he always will be, Trisha. Wherever he goes and whatever he does. It’s all part of his autism. He did
say that he is sometimes scared because he doesn’t understand when you are cross with him.’

‘But I haven’t been cross with him.’

‘Well, I think he probably finds facial expressions and different tones of voice confusing, like many autistic children.’

‘Oh yes. I read that in the book I borrowed from the library. I will try to keep my face straighter for him . . . if I can! I’m afraid I’m one of those people whose arms and
face are all over the shop. My voice too, I expect. I’ll try harder.’

‘I asked him about the self-harming, and he says that it’s not so much here, because he can get away from you all and hide if he wants to, but at school he can’t, so when he
gets anxious in the classroom, he gets to bursting point, he says, and has to cut his arm with his compass to relieve his tension.’

‘Oh, I see. Do you think I should maybe talk to someone at school about it?’

‘Yes, as long as they don’t let on to him that you told them. I wouldn’t like there to be any backlash for you. You’re both doing such a good job with him.’

‘Thank you. He’s a good kid, but we’re still feeling our way with him.’

‘Well, you’re doing more than most people would, reading up on autism, talking with him about his favourite subject. Kevin wouldn’t say so, but I think he’s fallen on his
feet here, with both of you.’

I did feel relieved to hear that he felt it was OK being here with us. I arranged a meeting with his form-tutor at the secondary school and told her some of the things about autism that affected
Kevin. I explained confidentially about the self-harming too, although, since that chat with his social worker, he seemed to have less blood on his shirt than previously, so I felt it might at
least be under control.

‘That’s good,’ said the young male teacher. ‘He’s a bright boy, gifted in both maths and technology, so he’s doing well academically. He doesn’t seem to
have made any particular friends, but from what you say that may be the way he likes it.’

‘Phew,’ I said to Mike that evening. ‘It was a good meeting with his form-tutor and I think that at last we are getting somewhere with Kevin.’

I should have known I was talking too soon. All the kids were at school, and a support worker had come for the day to play with Lulu, feed her and take her out to the park. So,
after my usual visit to the sex-film children’s house, where progress was very slow indeed, but just about perceptible, I came home again to start my spring cleaning. I always did the
kids’ bedrooms first, while they were out. I started with Kevin’s room, as I had barely been in there since he arrived. He had put up a big sign on the door that said ‘Keep
Out!’, so I usually did, but not on this day.

I had the shock of my life when I opened the door and the awful smell assaulted me. I knew straight away that it could be only one thing. A quick search took me to the place at the back of his
wardrobe where he had hidden a pile of plastic carrier bags. I didn’t even have to look inside them. I estimated there must be at least three weeks’ worth of pooh in those bags –
just the length of time he had been with us. I removed and disposed of them, then threw open his windows to air his room thoroughly.

I didn’t know whether to have a talk with Kevin about it or not. I had never heard of anything like this before and I realised it was a delicate subject to discuss with a thirteen-year-old
autistic boy who had only been with us such a short time. I ought to have had a child psychologist to talk to about it, but Social Services didn’t run to that.

So, in the end, what I decided was to wait till all the children went to bed. Kevin was on his own in Tracey’s old room at the end of the corridor, so I went and knocked on his door, then
opened it before he’d had a chance to tell me not to come in. He looked surprised, sitting up in bed and reading through a new aeroplane magazine Mike had brought home for him that day.

I sat on the edge of his bed. ‘I just came for a little chat, Kevin,’ I began. ‘I was cleaning out your room today, so I got rid of those old bags in the bottom of your
wardrobe,’ I said.

He never normally made eye-contact, so I was amazed that he did at that moment. He looked right into my eyes, as if searching my soul. It was a strange experience. After a long pause he shrugged
and said ‘OK,’ then went back to reading his magazine.

I had intended to say more, but I wimped out. And anyway I rather got the feeling, in that long gaze, that it wouldn’t happen again. I hoped I was right.

E
arly one morning I went downstairs as usual to stoke up our kitchen range. The next job was always to get the milk in. With so many children, we
always had a lot of milk, so there was always a crate to carry in. This particular morning, I unbolted the front door, but as soon as I started to open it, I could feel there was something heavy
against it.

I leant all my weight on the inside of the door, but I couldn’t push it closed, so I gingerly opened it a little more. As I did so, what I thought must be a sack of something fell half
onto the front doormat. But it wasn’t a sack . . . it was a body – a male body, I guessed from the shortness of his dishevelled hair, his head on the mat and his feet on the tiled floor
of our porch, with its front open to the elements.

Was this a tramp? His whole body was curled into a foetal position, with a thick, hooded coat over the top of him. As this body started to move, I realised it was a boy – a teenager by the
look of him.

I suppose I should have pushed him out and closed the door, but that didn’t occur to me. I leant down and touched his shoulder. ‘Are you all right? You must be cold, lying there in
this weather. Come on, sweetheart, you’d better come into the warm.’

He gradually uncurled and raised himself up, pulling the coat round his shivering body. As he did so, I stepped past him to pick up the milk crate. That was when I saw one of the bottles was
nearly empty, so he must have helped himself to a pint of milk.

‘Well, at least you’ve got some nourishment inside you,’ I said as I turned to take in the crate.

‘Let me carry that for you,’ said the gruff voice from inside the coat, reaching his arms out to take it from me. Because it was still dark, I didn’t get a chance to see his
face until we both got inside the well-lit hallway. Here was a thin, very pale young lad with sandy hair and hollow cheeks.

‘Come and sit by the range where it’s warm,’ I said, leading him through to the kitchen. He put down the milk crate and I set out a chair in front of the Aga, opening the
bottom oven to warm his legs.

‘Thanks,’ he said as he drew his chair closer to the range.

I put away the milk bottles and switched the kettle on, then sat with him for a few minutes.

‘I’ve got to go up and see to the rest of the family shortly,’ I told him. ‘I’m a foster-mum, with seven children here at the moment.’

‘Yes, I know. That’s why I came.’

‘We haven’t met, have we?’

‘No, but I’ve heard about you. People say you’re the best foster-mum . . . and I’ve lived in so many awful children’s homes and a few foster-homes too, and had to
run away each time.’

‘Oh, how awful. But I still don’t understand . . . Were you sleeping in our porch all night?’ I watched his pale face and his darting eyes.

‘Yes, well, I was trying to, but I kept dropping off, then waking up again, shivering with the cold. All I want is a place to stay where people don’t hurt me or go on at me because I
can’t do things.’

‘Is that why you’ve run away from places?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. Nobody has ever cared whether I stayed or went. Sometimes it was getting dangerous, other times they were just shouting at me all the time.’ He gave a deep yawn.
‘I’m so tired,’ he said. ‘But I had to wait till you found me. You were my last chance.’

‘Right, I expect you’re hungry, so I’m going to make you a quick fry-up and then off to bed with you my lad. You need a good sleep in a warm bed. I’ll still be here when
you wake up, and we can talk more then.’

He wolfed down everything on his plate and then I took him upstairs to the room where we kept the cots. Our youngest, Lulu, was nearly three and in a bed now, sharing Mandy’s room, so the
cots room was empty, apart from a fold-up single bed.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked him as we went up the stairs.

‘Luke.’

‘And how old are you, Luke?’

‘Fifteen.’

‘Where should you have been last night? Will they be worried about you? They might report you missing.’

‘Nowhere. I’ve got nobody at all. I’ve been on the streets for a few weeks, sleeping rough, under a bridge, or sometimes in a shelter.’ He yawned again and I noticed his
eyes were closing.

I showed him the bathroom and toilet, found him a spare toothbrush, then quickly got some sheets out to make up his bed. When he came back down the landing, I called him into the room and closed
the curtains. ‘Sleep well,’ I said, as he shed his big coat and took off his shabby trainers. ‘Come downstairs and find me when you wake up again. Then I’ll cook you a
proper meal.’

He climbed, fully clothed, between the sheets and was asleep in moments.

It was more than an hour later before I told Mike.

‘WHAT?’ he said in astonishment. ‘You let in a homeless man, sleeping in our porch? You fed him and put him to bed upstairs in our house, among our children, not to mention all
our belongings? Are you mad?’

‘I didn’t think of it like that. He’s just a boy who needs a home, some feeding up and a lot of love. He came here because he had nowhere else to go, and somebody told him we
would care.’

‘Oh, right.’ Mike calmed down, as I knew he would. ‘That’s different.’ I knew he would have done exactly the same thing if he had been the one to find him.
We’re both suckers for any waifs and strays that need us.