A Small Boy's Cry Page 2

  Searching through the rucksack that Evelyn gave me, I try to find a comforter, something familiar that might smell of his mother and console him. Apart from a few ragged items of clothing there’s nothing; no teddy or special blanket. Reaching up to the top shelf of our bookcase, I grab the first teddy I lay my hands on. Lowering my chin to my chest, I deepen my voice and make teddy pretend-talk.

  ‘Hello, Charlie. I’m Harold. Can I come to bed with you?’

  Charlie stops mid-sob, his eyebrows slowly rising with interest. Holding his breath, he stares at ‘Harold’ and nods, clasping the stuffed toy to his chest and wiping his tears on the soft fur. Gently steering him to bed, I half lift, half guide him in. He winces in pain as his head touches the pillow. The tears return as I switch off the main light and plug in a night lamp.

  ‘Night, night, Charlie,’ I whisper, sitting beside his bed and stroking his hair. Eventually his breathing settles and his eyes flutter to a close.

  That night I stage a vigil beside his bed, setting my alarm at two-hourly intervals so that I can keep a regular eye on him. I am surprised to find that he sleeps through it all, and I even manage to get snatches of uninterrupted sleep myself between checks. I guess that he must have been too exhausted from all the drama to fret about his unfamiliar surroundings.

  At 5 a.m. I am confident enough to leave him and chance an hour’s rest in my own bed. It’s Saturday morning and there aren’t any football matches or clubs to get the older children up for, although at just gone six o’clock I get up anyway to make sure Charlie’s not lying awake and fretting. Creeping along the hall, I peer around his bedroom door – he’s curled up on his side in a tight ball, one hand tucked between the pillow and his pink cheek, the other arm resting heavily on teddy. Soft dimples of flesh emerge from the cuffs of his over-small pyjamas, his tiny fingers lightly brushing against his chin. He looks angelic and, I’m relieved to find, quite relaxed.

  I quietly back away and suck a lungful of fresh air from the hall; his room was redolent with the same musky smell I noticed on him last night. Before I reach the stairs there’s a loud wail. Back in his room I find him sitting bolt upright in the bed, staring around in shock. He looks terrified.

  ‘It’s all right, sweetie. You’re in Rosie’s house.’

  I crouch down beside his bed and stroke the back of his head. In daylight I can see that his eyes, though red-rimmed and fearful, are a beautiful blue-grey. He really is a gorgeous child.

  ‘You’re going to be staying with me for a little while. Do you remember me tucking you in last night?’

  He gives a slight nod, hesitantly trusting.

  ‘Where’s Mummy?’ he asks, his voice quavering.

  ‘Mummy isn’t feeling well at the moment but you’ll see her soon, don’t you worry.’

  I expect more tears but he surprises me by throwing the duvet back and shuffling his bottom to the edge of the mattress.

  ‘Me need breakfast.’

  ‘Oh, yes, OK, sweetie, but first you need a bath.’ He really does smell awful.

  As I help him out of his pyjamas I have to suppress a gasp. Charlie’s covered in a series of sores, all the way down his back, arms and legs. I hope I’m wrong but the small red bumps look to me like bed-bug bites. My heart sinks. If any have travelled with him in the creases of his rucksack or on his pyjamas, I’ll be lucky not to have my own infestation soon.

  He continues to plead for food as I lift him into the tub so I hurry things along, giving the hair at the nape of his neck a quick wash, careful not to dislodge the bandage. Not wasting time with soap, I use the shampoo suds to clean the rest of him.

  As I wrap him in a towel, trying not to rub the sores, I hear movement in the corridor. Charlie’s widened eyes tell me he’s noticed, too.

  ‘It’s all right, honey. That’s the other children getting up. We’ll just brush your teeth, and then we’ll go and meet them, shall we?’

  His chest puffs out and his big eyes blink, tears brimming. Reaching into the cupboard for a new, toddler-sized toothbrush I tell him, ‘They’re lovely children. They’ll be very pleased you’re here.’

  Charlie stares at the toothbrush in amazement. Every time I put it in his mouth he pulls away and grabs my hand, twisting and turning the alien object so he can examine it from every angle. When I finally get a good look at his teeth I realise that he’s probably never owned his own toothbrush or even used one before; they’re all chipped and grey, his gums so inflamed that after just a few seconds of brushing his saliva is streaked with blood. When he swills water and spits into the sink I break into song to distract him. ‘The wheels on the bus go round and round …’ He’s already upset. I don’t want the gory contents spinning down the plughole to completely freak him out.

  Charlie frowns, watching me with suspicion. ‘That stick maked blood come,’ he says accusingly, pointing at the toothbrush.

  ‘Never mind, you’re fine,’ I say, steering him briskly away and stowing the toothbrush in a holder of its own. Without knowing Charlie’s full history, I have to bear in mind that he could be incubating a blood-borne infection like hepatitis or even HIV. He follows me out of the bathroom, Harold clutched tightly in his hand.

  ‘Aw, look at him. He’s so cute!’ my daughter Emily exclaims, her brother Jamie already on his knees, pulling faces and trying to elicit a laugh. Phoebe, a nine-year-old girl who has lived with us for eight months, stands behind them, staring at the new arrival with concern. Suspecting she’s worried that he might usurp her position I slip my arm around her, squeezing her shoulder.

  ‘Charlie, here’s Phoebe, and this is Jamie and Emily. I’m sure they’d love to be friends with you, wouldn’t you, guys?’

  ‘Yes, course. You’ll love it here, Charlie,’ Jamie tells him in a soothing tone.

  Emily nods and pats him on the arm. Phoebe copies Emily by nodding but she still looks dubious. Charlie stares at everyone, visibly shrinking away. Instinctively, Emily knows how to put him at ease. She reaches for Harold, balances the soft toy on her head, and sneezes loudly. Harold rolls off and lands in Charlie’s lap. I was worried the sudden noise might startle him but his face breaks into a large grin, and then quickly grows serious again.

  ‘Me need break-f-a-s-t,’ he reminds me, his voice rising with anxiety.

  It’s not unusual for children in care to have food issues. Many come from an environment where regular meals are unheard of and they survive by grazing on what they can find lurking at the back of a cupboard, although when Phoebe first arrived it was the opposite problem: she ate nothing but a few spoonfuls of porridge.

  Charlie’s mother being a drug user, it figures that food would probably appear low on her list of necessary weekly purchases.

  ‘Yes, me too, Mum. What’s for breakfast?’ Jamie asks.

  I should have told Charlie not to worry; Jamie would never allow me to forget a mealtime. My son is going through a growth spurt and food is an obsession second only to cricket.

  ‘Come on, then. Let’s go and make some pancakes.’

  I reach out to Charlie and he stands up, slipping his small hand into mine. Jamie, Emily and Phoebe charge downstairs, the sudden withdrawal of attention pricking Charlie’s interest. When we get downstairs he follows them with his eyes, watching their every move as I whip up the pancake mixture. At the table he wolfs down his food, all the while studying them closely. Whenever they look at him he quickly turns away.

  We spend the whole day at home, giving Charlie time to get used to his immediate surroundings before exposing him to the world outside. Emily and Jamie revel in having a little one to play with again, enthusiastically pulling toys from the cupboard and parading them in front of him. He comes to life and for the most part he seems to enjoy their company, but he’s easily distracted, spinning around at the slightest background noise. I suspect that he’s watching out for danger, which speaks volumes in terms of his past experiences.

  Throughout the day Charlie tumbles casually onto my la
p for regular hugs, pushing himself against my back as if he’ll only achieve the reassurance he craves by tucking himself beneath my skin. I have to acclimatise myself to being pawed all day – Emily and Jamie drape an arm around me occasionally or slouch next to me on the sofa, but I’m redundant as far as earthy demands for close contact go. I’d almost forgotten how exhausting it is to be needed so intensely; by teatime I’m craving the solace of my duvet, counting the hours until I can retreat to my bedroom alone.

  On Sunday morning I set my alarm early again, wanting to be nearby when Charlie wakes up. Yawning, I peer around his bedroom door and suddenly all trace of tiredness evaporates, my eyes widening in terror. He’s gone. Stumbling into his room, I tear back the duvet and rummage around the empty sheet, as if doing so might conjure his reappearance.

  My rational head tells me not to panic – all the exterior doors are locked so he can’t have gone far. But then the news story of the incident where a toddler climbed into a washing machine during a game of hide and seek, closing the door on himself, flashes into my mind. A search party found the two-year-old suffocated.

  With a montage of disastrous scenarios unspooling before my eyes I shriek out his name, tearing back downstairs to check the washing machine, tumble dryer, even the fridge.

  ‘What’s going on, Mum?’ Emily, Jamie and Phoebe charge bleary-eyed into the kitchen. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Squinting, I notice another pair of bare feet behind Phoebe’s. I let out a long breath.

  ‘Charlie, where were you, honey?’

  I kneel in front of him and stroke his long hair back from his forehead, unconsciously performing a quick health check.

  Charlie points innocently at Phoebe, whose smile is rapidly evaporating.

  ‘He was in my room. We were only playing,’ she says, simultaneously defensive and hurt.

  ‘You mustn’t play together in the bedrooms, you know that.’

  Phoebe looks suddenly crestfallen and I realise that, still recovering from the shock of seeing his bed empty, my tone must have been sharp. Until recently, Phoebe had no idea how to play with other children. It’s lovely that she’s chosen to share her toys with Charlie of her own accord.

  ‘It’s all right, honey. I’m sorry, it’s my fault. I should have reminded you of the rules. I think it’s very kind of you to be so welcoming to Charlie. How about we bring some of your toys down to show him?’

  ‘Yay!’ Phoebe cheers, and runs back to her room.

  Charlie claps his hands and scrambles onto the sofa, all trace of yesterday’s shyness gone. The resilience of children never fails to surprise me.

  ‘Me be good boy,’ he announces, bouncing up and down on the cushions in spite of his injured head.

  I’m about to tell him that the sofa is for sitting on when Phoebe arrives back in the living room, armed with piles of toys. Charlie’s eyes light up and he throws himself down on the sofa on his tummy, then rolls to the floor.

  ‘Be careful of your head, Charlie,’ I say, cringing, but his kamikaze antics don’t seem to have caused him any pain.

  Emily and Jamie, well past playing with toys at their age, join in eagerly now they have a young housemate to entertain. I go off to the kitchen to prepare breakfast, the sound of their loud laughter bringing a smile to my face.

  Sometimes, when we welcome a child into our family, relationships are thrown out of kilter. It can take a while to establish a new fulcrum, but with younger ones it’s much easier to rearrange ourselves around them, perhaps because it feels more natural for older ones to make way for the new.

  With breakfast on the table, the three older children take their places; Jamie, unsurprisingly, the first to sit down.

  ‘Come on, Charlie. Breakfast time,’ I say.

  Knowing how desperate Charlie was to eat yesterday, I can hardly believe that he rejects the invitation with barely a glance, continuing to play with Phoebe’s toys.

  ‘Come on, honey.’ I slip my hands under his arms and try to lift him to his feet, but he arches his back then suddenly plays dead, taking advantage of my surprise by wriggling free. I lunge for him a couple of times but he dodges me, screeching in triumph. I suppose I should feel encouraged, knowing that he would only strop if feeling safe and secure. Part of me feels pleased. The rest of me is weary.

  ‘Guess what I’ve got over here,’ Jamie says, his tone enticing.

  Charlie’s head shoots around, so I go and take my place at the table, leaving my son to work the magic therapy that seems to come so easily to children.

  ‘I think Charlie’s going to like this, Mum,’ Jamie says, lowering his voice theatrically.

  It’s one of his strengths, the art of persuasion. I’m convinced that my son has the makings of a future MP. The beginning of a smile touches Charlie’s lips and he crawls slowly to the table, kneeling up when he reaches Jamie’s chair.

  ‘Me see?’

  Jamie shakes his head. ‘Sit up first, then I’ll show you.’ I could have hugged him.

  Charlie performs a convoluted roll onto his tummy then rises on all fours, drawing the whole process out as long as he can. Standing, he plants such a small part of his bottom on the chair that he has to grip hold of the edge of the table for balance. He looks at me, a glint of defiance still lurking in his eyes. I lean back in my chair and stretch, heading off a battle of wills by looking casual and faking a yawn.

  ‘Me see now?’

  ‘OK,’ Jamie announces, strumming a drum beat on the table. ‘Are you ready? Ta-da!’ he shouts, producing a banana.

  Expecting Charlie’s face to fall with disappointment I prepare to grab him before he slips off his seat, but I’m surprised to find that his eyes widen in amazement.

  ‘S’dat?’ he asks, pointing.

  ‘It’s a banana, of course. That’s so obvious,’ Phoebe says, tutting and rolling her eyes.

  Jamie peels the fruit, looking at me.

  ‘Can he have some, Mum?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Charlie sticks his finger into the fruit and it breaks in half. He picks it up and turns it over several times in his hands, looking at it with the same interest that he showed in the toothbrush. Emily, realising the significance, cocks her head on her shoulder, her eyes brimming with tears.

  ‘Ah, bless him, Mum,’ she says quietly, looking towards me. ‘I don’t think he’s ever seen a banana before.’

  Since Charlie had been removed from home suddenly, contact with his mother is arranged at the earliest opportunity. Tracy Smith was offered a session at 9 a.m. but she declined, pronouncing early mornings ‘difficult’. And so at a few minutes before 11 a.m. on Monday morning I walk into the contact centre with Charlie pottering along behind, so close that the soles of my feet brush his little legs with every stride. Knowing how much reassurance Charlie craves, I desperately hope that the meeting will go well.

  The receptionist smiles a welcome and tells me that Tracy is waiting for us in the Oak suite, one of the contact rooms. I tense as we pass through a large waiting area; liaising with birth parents can be tricky. Emotions, understandably, run high and sometimes foster carers bear the brunt of it.

  We pass a thin woman in her early thirties sitting on a dark-blue sofa. My attention is drawn to her because she’s wearing flip-flops, even though it’s November. She stares blankly at the wall ahead and I can’t help but notice that her eyes are glazed over with the vacant look of a toddler watching television on a loop.

  Scanning the wall opposite, I can’t work out what she’s so transfixed by. It’s bare, barring a few scratches in the paintwork and other, more dubious-looking splotches. It looks like someone has been preparing to redecorate. Apart from traces of old Blu-tack, there’s no sign of the posters that usually feature in contact centres – ‘Are You Claiming All You’re Entitled to?’ or ‘Domestic Violence Is a Crime, Report It.’

  As we near the Oak suite, Charlie runs two or three feet ahead, enticed by the sight of unfamiliar toys. I find myself abse
nt-mindedly imagining the posters that might feature in less impoverished areas, perhaps ‘Trouble Finding Suitable Stables? Have You Considered Pony Sharing?’ or ‘Inheritance Tax a Burden? Call Us for Independent Financial Advice’. It’s only when I catch up with Charlie and see that no one else is in the playroom that I stop mid-step, some inbuilt facial-recognition program finally kicking into gear. Charlie’s already mounting a rather sickly looking rocking horse and so I leave him where he is, walking backwards from the room so that I can still keep my eye on him but check out the woman on the sofa. There’s definitely a family resemblance.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I call out, hovering midway between the playroom and the waiting area. ‘Are you Charlie’s mother?’

  There’s a prolonged pause before she turns around, as if she’s a news reporter communicating via a temperamental satellite link. Eventually she nods and stands, unsmiling, staring as she walks towards me with the same unswerving attention that she gave the blank wall. She carefully negotiates every step and as she approaches I realise why she looks like she’s being operated by remote control; she smells strongly of alcohol and cigarettes. Her pale blonde hair is greasy and so is her face, like she’s coated in some sort of filmy substance. She’s wearing a short denim skirt and her thin legs, not surprisingly considering the weather, are mottled by the cold.

  My hand flickers at my side as she nears, as I wonder whether to offer a handshake. Tracy resolves my indecision by walking past me, straight into the playroom.

  ‘There you are, Charlie. Wha’d’ya go walking right past me for?’

  Charlie swings around to the door, slipping off the horse and landing awkwardly on his bottom. He whimpers and cradles his head but it’s me he looks to for reassurance, even though his mother is standing closer to him. Already we share an unspoken understanding. After such a short time I am his ‘safe base’, his source of protection and comfort; yet another serious cause for concern. I smile with a sympathetic glance but don’t do anything more; experience has taught me that nothing winds mothers up more ferociously than taking over and playing mum in their presence.