Saving Danny (27 page)

‘Goodbye, Danny. We’ve had a nice day,’ Mum said.

‘See you again soon,’ Dad added.

Once they’d gone Danny came out and I told him he’d done well, which he had.

‘That’s good,’ he said, pleased.

I must admit it hadn’t been the most relaxing day for me, as I’d been on alert for any sign that Danny’s behaviour could deteriorate, but it had passed pleasantly and next time they came it would be a little easier still, until hopefully Danny would eventually be able to join in and enjoy my parents’ visits as much as we did.

Continuing with my policy of broadening Danny’s horizons through new experiences, the following Sunday I took him in the car to a park that had a café. He’d never eaten out socially with his parents and I thought this was a good place to start, as it was child-friendly and didn’t have tablecloths or delicate flower centrepieces, which can lead to disaster for any parent. I explained to him beforehand where we were going, but when we got to the door of the café he stopped dead and couldn’t go in. I took him to one side to stand in front of the bow window where we could see in below the café-style net curtains. I pointed out the tables and chairs and explained how the adults and children sitting at them were having something to eat and drink, which they were enjoying, and then when they’d finished they would leave and go home. None of which would be obvious to Danny. Goodness knows what those inside thought, seeing two faces peering in at them. But Danny was still reluctant to go in.

‘We’ll go inside and try it,’ I said positively. ‘If it’s too noisy or hot we can come out and try again another time.’ For I didn’t want Danny thinking that if he refused to try something once that was the end of it.

He let me take his hand and we went in, up to the self-service counter. I took a tray and asked him what he would like to drink, and then read out the options from the menu on the wall. But he shook his head and began rocking anxiously on his heels.

‘Don’t worry. Would you like a hot drink or a cold drink?’

‘Hot,’ he said. Then, ‘Chocolate.’

‘Excellent.’ He always liked that drink at home with me. I gave our order to the assistant behind the counter. Then Danny pointed to a slice of pre-wrapped Battenberg cake.

‘That’s good,’ he said.

I smiled. I knew why he’d been drawn to that particular cake. Battenberg sponge has a distinctive pink-and-yellow chequered pattern. I placed the cake on the tray, took a plate and a knife and ordered a cappuccino for myself. Having paid, I carried the tray to a table. Danny looked anxiously around as we sat. It was quite noisy from the hum of voices and I wondered if he would cope, but the Battenberg diverted his attention. Very meticulously he peeled off the Cellophane wrapper and set it carefully to one side. Then, taking the knife, he began dissecting the cake, first into the different-coloured squares, and then he cut those squares into quarters. Finally he created a new pattern of yellow and pink sponge pieces before he began eating them. By the time he got around to drinking his hot chocolate it was cold, but he still enjoyed it. Danny seemed to prefer cold to hot, in food as well as drink. As we left I praised him; he’d coped well with another new experience. I said we’d come again another day if he’d like to.

‘That’s good,’ he said.

What wasn’t so good was our visit to Yew Lodge Clinic for Danny’s medical. I’d taken children to similar clinics before, so I knew more or less what to expect and I explained to Danny what would happen. But when we arrived he refused to go in, perhaps remembering a previous visit with his mother, I don’t know. I reassured him that there was nothing to worry about and I would be with him. Then I added that he needed to be quick as George would be waiting for his walk, and this swung it.

Fortunately we didn’t have to wait long to see the paediatrician, Dr Holly Green. She was a lovely lady and couldn’t have been more reassuring and patient with Danny, but he needed persuading and cajoling at every stage: to stand on the scales and be weighed – I had to stand on them first; to be measured – he didn’t like the feel of the bar on his head, and I had to be measured first; and when she took a stethoscope from her desk drawer, despite explaining to Danny what it was for and letting him play with it first, he refused to undo his shirt.

‘Just undo a few buttons then,’ she said. Danny shook his head.

‘Choose two buttons to undo,’ I said. ‘Which two do you want?’ He looked down and pointed. ‘Good. Can you undo them or do you want my help?’

He undid them.

As Dr Green placed the end of the stethoscope on Danny’s chest it must have felt cold, for he shrieked and hid under the couch. I persuaded him out by reminding him that George was waiting for a walk, and then told him to choose a place in the room to stand or sit where the doctor could listen to his chest. He chose the doctor’s chair and sat in it long enough for her to listen to his heart and lungs.

‘Good boy,’ I said.

‘Well done, Danny,’ she said.

Dr Green returned the stethoscope to her desk drawer and took out an otoscope, showed it to Danny and explained that she was going to look in his ears. It took three attempts, but she was able to see enough of both ears to pronounce them clear. It had taken over half an hour to carry out these simple checks. The doctor now sat at her desk and I sat in the chair next to the desk as she asked me some questions about Danny’s diet, his general health and if he slept well. Danny stood beside me flapping his arms and making a low humming noise. Dr Green hadn’t met Danny before, but she knew from his notes he had special needs. She concluded by saying he was healthy, although he was at the lower end of normal on the charts for height and weight, which I already knew. I asked her to send a copy of her report to the social services and to Danny’s parents as well as myself, which was normal practice.

Danny’s appointment to see the dentist was two days later, and it turned out to be the same dentist he’d seen with his mother. Both remembered their previous encounter, as did the nurse, and it hadn’t been a good experience. Danny took one look at the dentist – ‘Call me Tim’ – and hid under the chair. Tim – young, fresh-faced and I guessed not long qualified – visibly paled and then asked who I was. I explained I was Danny’s foster carer and that the social services had asked for Danny to have a dental check-up, as he was overdue for one. Tim clearly didn’t know how to progress, so I said I’d found in the past with other children I’d fostered who hadn’t liked coming to the dentist that if they could sit on an ordinary chair rather than lie on the dentist’s chair it often helped. He nodded enthusiastically, clearly eager to try anything, and the nurse drew up the spare chair the parent usually sat on and placed it within reach of the instruments. I sat on the edge of the dentist’s chair. Danny was still underneath.

‘Come on, Danny,’ I said. ‘Sit on the chair and we’ll have our teeth looked at together.’

There was silence from under the couch and then he was intrigued enough to look out.

‘Come on, quick,’ I said, patting the chair. ‘Or we’ll miss our turn, and Tim will have to see another person. We don’t want that, do we?’ I find that suggesting something is sought-after and shouldn’t be missed is another useful piece of child psychology.

Danny slowly emerged from under the couch and I noticed there was a little impish grin in his eyes, making me think that some of his resistance might be a game to him, and not all trauma. He sat on the chair. ‘Good boy,’ I said. ‘Now I’m going to open my mouth wide so the dentist can look at my teeth.’ I opened my mouth so it formed a large O.

Watching someone open their mouth wide as I was doing is like watching someone yawn – you can’t help but follow – and children are very susceptible to suggestion. Danny opened his mouth for as long as it took Tim to place the mouth mirror inside, and then he snapped it closed again.

‘Ouch,’ Tim said.

‘Nice big wide open mouth,’ I said, opening my mouth again. Danny followed suit. And as long as I kept my mouth open, so did he. Thankfully the examination didn’t last too long.

‘His teeth are excellent,’ Tim pronounced.

‘That’s good,’ I said.

‘That’s good,’ Danny repeated.

‘Well done,’ the nurse said.

I wasn’t surprised Danny’s teeth were in good condition; he loved brushing them and did so thoroughly as part of his morning and evening routine. The nurse gave Danny a sticker and told him he’d done well. Then Tim said he thought I should have one too, so we left proudly sporting a sticker each showing a picture of a large molar with a smiling face and the heading:
Member of the No Cavity Club.
Danny wore his for two weeks until it lost its stickiness, when he placed it safely in a drawer in his bedroom. I took mine off that evening.

At the beginning of April Danny began speech therapy, once a week for half an hour, at school. He could have gone to the clinic, but it was decided it would be less disruptive for him to stay at school where he felt safe, and to see the speech therapist during morning break. There was no immediate improvement in Danny’s speech, but I hadn’t expected there to be. I knew it would be a long process, but at least it had started. Jill, as usual, telephoned me each week for an update, but I hadn’t heard from Terri since the review. Neither had Jill. This wasn’t unusual, as there are peaks and troughs of activity in fostering. There is often a lot going on when a child first arrives, and then it tends to settle down until a decision is made on whether the child can return home or needs to be found a new permanent home, either with a relative, via adoption or through a long-term foster placement. In Danny’s case, however, I knew there was a time limit before the social services applied to the courts for an Interim Care Order. It wasn’t fair on Danny to leave him in limbo indefinitely. Although he didn’t say much, he would certainly be feeling the uncertainty of not knowing when or if he could return home, as well as the rejection of not being able to live with his parents. I sometimes try to put myself in the position of a foster child, and I really don’t know how they cope with all the changes and uncertainty. They are true heroes, each and every one of them.

The routine of contact continued unchanged into April, and Reva maintained her distance and reserve with me. She was always polite but guarded. She didn’t invite me into her house when I took Danny for contact, and didn’t accept my invitation to come into my home when she returned him. She never volunteered any feedback after contact, and if I asked her if it had gone well she always said, ‘Yes, fine.’

While I was widening Danny’s experiences I was also broadening my own, specifically in the school playground while waiting for Danny at the end of school. He’d made his mother stand on a spot well away from the other parents, possibly trying to replicate his own feelings of isolation. But this was never going to suit me. I like company, so I’d been gradually inching my way across the playground towards where the other mothers waited. Danny appeared not to notice my migration until one afternoon I began actually talking to another mother, whose son was in Danny’s class and also had special needs and found it difficult to make friends. Danny didn’t say anything immediately, but as we left the playground he said, ‘You talked to Simon’s mummy. Why?’

‘Because she is a nice lady and she wanted to talk to me and be friends. I think Simon would like to be friends with you too.’

Danny didn’t reply, but I could see he was thinking hard. Then two days later Yvonne came out of school with Danny on one side of her and Simon on the other. They were all smiling.

‘The boys have something to tell you,’ Yvonne said as the three of them approached us.

‘Yes,’ Simon said, grinning broadly. ‘Danny is my best friend.’

And without hesitation Danny said, ‘Simon is my best friend.’

It was one of those moments that stays with a parent or carer, and I knew that Simon’s mother, like me, would remember it longer than the boys did. Clearly it would take time for them to build on this to make a lasting friendship, but it was a good start and I was very hopeful. Spring had arrived, the days were lengthening and the skies were more blue than grey. Although Danny was hard work, I felt he was making progress and that his parents would see this. I was therefore completely unprepared for what happened next.

Chapter Twenty-Three

History Repeating Itself?

It was Thursday and I was in the kitchen clearing up after dinner while I waited for Danny to be returned home from contact. Paula, Lucy and Adrian were in their rooms finishing their homework. When the doorbell rang just after six o’clock I assumed it would be Reva with Danny, but as I opened the door I saw a tall, smartly dressed man standing beside Danny.

‘Reva’s ill,’ he said in a rich, cultured voice. ‘She asked me to bring Danny to you.’

‘Thank you, and you are?’

‘Reva’s husband, Richard.’

‘Oh,’ I said, mildly surprised. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ I didn’t add ‘at last’. ‘I hope Reva is better soon. Come in.’

‘I won’t, thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ve only just returned from work.’