Authors: Cathy Glass
Chapter Thirteen
I returned to the living room where Danny was still sitting on the floor redesigning his Lego pattern, while the girls sat close by chatting between themselves. They would have played with Danny if he’d wanted them to, but he didn’t. Outwardly self-sufficient and in his own personal bubble, Danny appeared unaffected by going home and then having to return to me and part from his mother, which would have unsettled and upset most children. Although, of course, what Danny was thinking and feeling might well be another matter, unless he really was incredibly resilient, which I doubted.
It was nearly seven o’clock and I needed to start Danny’s bedtime routine. I’d already decided we’d miss his bath on the nights he had contact so that he didn’t become overtired, which could easily develop into a tantrum. Most children become crotchety if overtired, and special needs children like Danny are more prone to this. I was just thinking that maybe we should give his homework a miss too, when he suddenly stood and, leaving the Lego, went down the hall. I thought he was going to the toilet, so I followed him out, ready to go upstairs and begin his bedtime routine. But instead he went to his school bag, picked it up and came towards me with it clutched to his chest. ‘Do you want to do your reading?’ I asked him.
‘Yes, thank you very much,’ he said.
‘Good boy. Come on then.’
I guessed Danny must have sensed it was that time in the evening when he normally did his homework, for he couldn’t tell the time. We returned to the living room and sat side by side on the sofa. The girls said they were going to make themselves a drink and asked Danny if he’d like one, but he shook his head. He carefully opened his bag, took out his reading book, turned to the first page and began reading. But two pages later, when his progress had become agonizingly slow and he struggled to recognize even the simplest of words, it was obvious he was too tired or unsettled by the changes that evening to concentrate, and he lost his patience. His fists tightened around the book as he let out a low, guttural noise of anger.
‘That’s enough reading for this evening,’ I said. ‘You did well. Put your book away.’
There was the usual delay as Danny processed what I’d said, and then he repeated, ‘Put your book away.’ He often repeated or echoed what someone said, as if it helped him process the information.
‘Yes, put your book away,’ I confirmed. ‘We won’t do the flash cards tonight. It’s too late and we’re both tired.’
‘No flash cards?’ he asked.
‘No. Not tonight.’
Another pause and then he did as I asked. Then he passed me his home school book for me to write in. I spoke the words out loud as I wrote them so that he knew what I was writing. The record book was as much for his benefit as it was for his teacher’s and mine. ‘Danny read two pages tonight. He had contact with his mother and settled well on return, but it was too late to do any more homework. We will do some more tomorrow.’ I signed and dated my entry, closed the book and passed it to Danny, who carefully tucked it into his school bag. Then he took his bag down the hall and set it precisely beside his shoes ready for morning.
‘Good boy,’ I said.
On the way upstairs I explained to Danny that he would wash his face and hands and brush his teeth, but because it was late he wouldn’t have a bath. Advising a child in advance of changes in routine causes them less disruption, especially children like Danny who thrive on routine. I also knew from Reva’s notes that she sometimes skipped Danny’s bath if he was tired or was being especially difficult. Danny didn’t say anything but began his bedtime routine as I waited on hand in case I was needed – first outside the toilet, then in his bedroom, and finally in the bathroom, where he began by once again repositioning the step stool in front of the wash basin until he was satisfied it was perfectly square. I helped him run the water to the right temperature and then I perched on the edge of the bath as he slowly and meticulously washed and dried his face, brushed his teeth in the rhythm he’d perfected and then spent some time patting his mouth dry, before hanging his towel on the rail beside ours and adjusting it.
‘That’s perfect,’ I said eventually. We’d been in the bathroom for nearly half an hour.
‘That’s perfect,’ Danny repeated.
‘Time to get into bed,’ I said.
‘Time to get into bed,’ Danny repeated. Then added, ‘Yes, thank you very much.’ I couldn’t help but smile, bless him.
In his bedroom Danny spent a long time checking everything was in its correct place and that his clothes were ready for morning, precisely folded on the foot of his bed as he liked them. Then he adjusted the dimmer switch and went to the slightly parted curtains and adjusted those too, but now he added a new element to his bedtime routine. Pressing his nose against the glass, he said softly, ‘Night, George. I love you so very much.’
A lump immediately rose to my throat. How much his mother would have liked to hear those words instead of being ignored when she left. How easily he’d said them to George. Danny clearly did have feelings; it was the expression of those feelings he struggled with. I doubted this was from any conscious refusal to show them but part of his condition – he didn’t know how to express himself. And it wasn’t chance that it was an animal he’d told, for an animal wouldn’t show or demand any emotion in return, as people – especially his mother – would, which Danny wouldn’t be able to handle.
He came away from the window, climbed into bed and, drawing soft-toy George in beside him, pulled the duvet over his head.
‘Goodnight, love,’ I said.
There was no reply.
‘Night, Danny. See you in the morning.’
I came out and closed his door behind me, the brief window into his emotions closed too.
‘Did you see his mother’s car?’ Adrian said, coming out of his bedroom and clearly impressed.
‘Reva’s car? No, I didn’t.’
‘It’s a BMW convertible! My dream car!’
I smiled. ‘You’d better start saving your pocket money then. You’ve got two years before you’re old enough to learn to drive.’
‘Very funny,’ he said. ‘They cost a packet. I’ll need a big raise in my allowance.’
‘Or a very good job,’ I said. ‘That’s how Reva afforded her car. Have you finished your homework yet?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good boy.’ I stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. At fifteen, Adrian was six inches taller than me, although of course he’d always be my little boy.
Downstairs the girls, having completed their homework, were in the living room watching a soap on television before going to bed. I went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea – just as Toscha shot in through the cat flap with an indignant look on her face. If she could have spoken I am sure she would have said, ‘What’s that hutch doing in my garden?’
‘That’s George,’ I said. ‘You’ll meet him properly tomorrow when Danny takes him out for a walk.’
She wasn’t impressed, so I gave her a cat-treat biscuit and stroked her to make up for having to share her territory. Danny hadn’t shown much interest in Toscha, and Toscha had largely ignored him. I think some of Danny’s loud noises and sudden movements frightened her, for she was usually quite a sociable cat.
Later that night, when all the children were in bed, I sat in the living room thinking about Reva, and Danny, and his father who seemed to be largely absent from his life. Lucy had never known her father, and while Adrian and Paula saw their father every month they weren’t as close to him as they had been when he’d lived with us, which was a pity. Deep in thought, I started as a noise came from the kitchen. It wasn’t the cat flap closing – Toscha was asleep by the radiator. I was sure I’d locked and bolted the back door; as a female and the only adult in the house I was conscientious about security. As I listened I heard the noise again. It was at moments like this I wished I had a big strong man in the house, but Adrian, as big as he was, was my son, and I still protected him.
Summoning my courage I went into the kitchen and looked around. All was quiet. Nothing appeared to have fallen or been moved, and the back door was shut and bolted and the windows closed. Everything was as I’d left it, so what had made that noise? I began towards the back door to look outside. As I did so, the noise sounded again, and with relief I recognized it – George was thumping the floor of his cage. If a rabbit senses danger its instinct is to thump its hind legs, and George’s legs were big and gave a powerful thump. I thought I’d better check he was all right. Very occasionally a fox came into the garden. I raised the blind on the rear window, so the light from the kitchen fell onto the hutch, and I went out. The night was cold but the air still, and there was no sound of a predator fleeing. Perhaps George was just reacting to his new surroundings. I raised the plastic sheet and looked in. George looked back. ‘Are you OK?’ I asked him.
His nose twitched.
He seemed fine, so I lowered the sheet and returned indoors. I hoped his thumping wouldn’t wake Danny or Adrian, whose bedrooms were at the rear of the house. If it did I’d have to consider moving the hutch, although I was reluctant to do that as it was in a similar position to where it had been at Danny’s house, and would mean another change for Danny to accommodate.
The following morning when I woke Danny for school I said, ‘Last night I heard George thumping. Did he wake you?’
Danny looked down as he struggled to find the right words to answer, and eventually replied, ‘George thumping goodnight.’
‘I see,’ I said, pleased by the clarity of his reply. ‘George was saying goodnight to you?’
Danny nodded.
‘Did he wake you?’
He shook his head and again searched for the right words. ‘Mummy hear George. Danny sleep. George thumps. It’s OK.’
I smiled. ‘Thank you for telling me. I won’t worry now.’
It was the best conversation I’d had with Danny, and it wasn’t a coincidence that it was about his beloved George.
At breakfast I asked Adrian if he’d been woken by George’s thumping and he said he hadn’t, so George’s hutch stayed where it was. Despite waking Danny ten minutes earlier to allow time for him to tend to George, he was so meticulous and precise that the process took longer than I’d anticipated, and we arrived in the school playground just as the whistle was blowing for the start of school. Yvonne was already waiting and I apologized, saying we’d have to start getting up earlier to incorporate George’s routine into ours.
‘So how is George?’ Yvonne asked Danny.
Danny didn’t reply.
‘He’s fine,’ I said. ‘Settling in.’ Then, trying to encourage Danny into the conversation, I said to him, ‘You’re going to give George a walk in the garden after school, aren’t you?’
Danny looked away.
The other children were lining up ready to go into school, so I said goodbye to him and reminded him that I’d meet him at the end of school. He remained silent.
‘Bye,’ Yvonne said.
‘Bye. Have a good day,’ I said to them both.
‘We will,’ Yvonne replied cheerfully.
Danny slipped his hand into Yvonne’s as they walked away. Again I could see how hurtful his gesture would have been to his mother when he’d been unable to even say goodbye to her, but Danny wouldn’t be aware of this.
That morning Terri telephoned for an update on Danny, and as I told her I concentrated on all the positives. She said she needed to visit us, so we made an appointment for Monday at 4.30 p.m. Terri also said she would be arranging Danny’s first review soon and was anticipating holding it at my house. Children in care have regular reviews, where their parents, social worker, foster carer, the foster carer’s support social worker, their teacher and any other adults closely connected with the child meet together to ensure that everything is being done to help the child. The care plan (drawn up by the social worker) is also updated. The reviews are chaired by an independent reviewing officer (IRO), who minutes the meeting. Very young children don’t usually attend their reviews, but older children can do. There was no reason why Danny’s review shouldn’t be held in my house, and Terri said she would send out the invitations once she had set a date and time. We said goodbye and hung up. Fifteen minutes later Jill telephoned to see how the week had gone and I gave her a similar update to the one I’d given Terri, although I included my concerns about Reva’s drinking. As my support social worker she could offer advice on how to approach the matter.
‘You must tell Terri on Monday in case there is a problem,’ Jill said.
‘All right, I will.’
‘Any plans for the weekend?’ Jill then asked. She wasn’t just being polite; it was part of her job to know what I had planned for Danny.
‘Danny has contact all day Saturday,’ I said. ‘And I’ve invited my parents to dinner on Sunday. I thought we’d keep the weekend reasonably quiet to allow Danny the chance to settle in. I’ll take him out next Sunday when he’s feeling more at home.’
‘It’ll be nice for Danny to meet your parents.’
‘Yes, and they’re looking forward to meeting him.’
My parents had always been supportive of my fostering and treated the child or children we were looking after as another grandchild while they were with us.
That afternoon, as I busied myself with housework and then paperwork, I occasionally heard George thumping in his cage and I went out to check on him. He always seemed all right and came up to the wire mesh to greet me, but I was concerned he was spending too much time cooped up in his cage. When we’d had a rabbit we’d bought an enclosed run, which had sat on the lawn. On a fine day he’d been in it for most of the day, nibbling the grass and with room to exercise. I’d given the run and the hutch away when our rabbit had died, but now I was wondering if I should mention buying one to Reva. Or would she see it as a criticism? Half an hour later, when I heard George thump again, I decided to let him out for some exercise. I slipped on my coat, tucked a carrot into my pocket and went outside. As soon as I opened the hutch door he jumped out, pleased to be free, and with a few long bunny hops had crossed the patio and was on the grass. He raced up and down the lawn and then around the tree, really appreciating his freedom. At one point I glanced up and saw my neighbour, Sue, watching from her upstairs window. She smiled and waved, and I waved back. I heard the cat flap open and Toscha appeared, probably having seen George from the living-room window.