Moving Fostering Memoirs 2-Book Collection. Casey Watson

yet today she seemed no different to any other eight-year-old. That was the puzzling thing about Phoebe; there seemed to be no clear pattern to her behaviour and no discernible triggers. It was almost as if she had the power to switch to autistic mode when the mood suited.

      Phoebe skipped past him and slipped her shoes on. Jamie frowned as he followed her into the garden, shaking his head.

      Jamie’s bewilderment was almost comical but did nothing to lift my mood as I reached for the telephone and dialled Desmond’s mobile. Waiting for the call to connect I drew a deep breath, wondering how he would react when I told him that the placement wasn’t working out. Giving up on a child went against the grain and I felt awful about it but I had to consider the needs of Emily and Jamie, as well as Phoebe’s own welfare.

      I sighed with relief when the call switched to a recorded message, allowing me a short reprieve before I disgraced myself. In guilty, lowered tones I left my message: ‘Hi, Des, we need to talk. Could you call me?’ Giving up on a placement was generally frowned on by social workers and I had never done it before.

      After making a cup of coffee I sat at the dining table, watching my phone as if it was an unexploded bomb. A warm breeze floated through a gap in the patio doors, the clear blue sky promising a nice day ahead. Staring into the garden, I knew I should make some plans to take the children somewhere, but part of me was reluctant to venture out for fear of alarming the locals again.

      Anyway, Jamie seemed to be enjoying himself. He sped along the garden path with characteristic boundless energy, apparently unscathed by what he had witnessed the previous day. A slight movement from behind him caught my attention. Nestled between trellis borders on our decking area at the bottom of the garden, Phoebe sat on the patio swing, her forlorn figure framed by the purple wisteria that had wound itself around the frame. My guilt resurfaced with a vengeance as I watched her rocking gently back and forth, one thin leg dangling, the other tucked beneath her slight body. If only I could help her without risking the sanity of my own children, I thought.

      My mind began to drift. I remembered young Alfie again; a boy who had spent much of the first three years of his life locked up in his filthy bedroom while his addict mother earned her drug money by selling her body, just a few feet from his own door. Initially withdrawn, he spent weeks lashing out, spitting and kicking whenever we approached him.

      I remember with clarity one particular day, early on in the placement back in 2005. Alfie’s temper had declined into meltdown over some perceived injustice and he sank his teeth into my neck, his jaws clamping me in an agonising bite. In that moment I was convinced there was nothing I could do to help him and was about ready to make the ‘I can’t cope’ call dreaded by foster carers up and down the country. It was only a strong reluctance to give up on him that kept me going. If I’m honest, I had no idea if what I was doing for Alfie was right, but somehow, simple caring had made a difference. He had seemed fractured when he came to us, broken and depressed. When he moved on nine months later it was as a robust, energetic little boy and I was immensely glad I had seen it through.

      Emily and Jamie often talked of him, remembering the time he spent with us fondly. Memories of Alfie gave me strength. I had entered into fostering in the hope of providing a safe haven from the harshness of the world; it felt terrible to think that in this case I might be adding to rather than easing a child’s suffering. Maybe there was a way of getting through this? I silently wondered.

      The phone rang, interrupting my thoughts. It was Phoebe’s social worker.

      ‘Did you get my email, Lenke?’

      ‘Yes, this does seem a bit disturbing behaviour, yes.’ She sounded harassed, impatient. ‘I have to make the statutory visit within the next week anyway. We could discuss it then, yes?’

      ‘It doesn’t seem disturbing, it is disturbing – do you think we should start the ball rolling with CAMHS now?’ While I appreciated that Phoebe’s main problems stemmed from her autism, I thought it might help to seek some professional advice from the Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services, particularly as she might soon be moving on from me. They could support her through the move and would also be able to discern whether counselling would be of any benefit to her and her parents. From experience I knew it could take several weeks to get an appointment arranged.

      ‘No, I see no need for that at all. Phoebe is a great mimicker, yes? She has probably seen something on a music video or film, perhaps.’

      The social worker spoke with a tone of finality, clearly looking for a convenient pause in which to end the conversation, whereas I was only just getting started.

      ‘I don’t think so,’ I scoffed. ‘I’ve seen some risqué things on MTV but I’ve never known anyone to do that.’ Not even Rihanna, I thought, caustically.

      Lenke sighed as if she’d repeated herself several times already. ‘Children with autism, they have difficulty learning the correct boundaries. The testosterone-suppressing medication was considered for Phoebe but there are too many side effects so it was decided not to go ahead with it.’

      Before I had a chance to process this new information she was withdrawing, suggesting we meet ‘in the next week or so’ to discuss matters further. It was as if we were arranging to meet up to discuss soft furnishings. Frustrated by my cowardice at broaching the subject of moving Phoebe on, I ended the call and dropped the handset onto the table.

      Never before had I felt as if I were floundering, with no idea what to do for the best. I knew that social awareness in children with autism was impaired but for Lenke to brush Phoebe’s actions off so lightly struck me as a cop-out. It also struck me as odd that, although well-seasoned social workers were practically immune to shock, she’d failed to sound as surprised by the pen incident as she might have.

      I was about to pull the vacuum cleaner from the cupboard under the stairs when a sudden outbreak of noise drew me hurriedly to the kitchen. With my heart in my throat I threw open the patio doors, wondering what disaster had befallen Phoebe in the few minutes I hadn’t been watching her.

      Blinking uncomprehendingly, I stood and stared at the scene unfolding in the garden. Jamie must have tied the skateboard to his bike because Phoebe was now riding along the path, towing my cheering son along behind. They both crashed into our heavy border of bushes and landed back on the grass, shrieking with laughter.

      Half an hour later they tumbled through the open door, faces flushed, eyes bright. In high spirits they kicked off their shoes in the kitchen and charged into the living room.

      ‘Mum, can we play tennis on the Wii?’ Jamie asked.

      ‘Of course,’ I answered, staggered by this new development. Phoebe was rosy-cheeked, her whole face shining; I could barely contain my delight. ‘You’ll have to come off in half an hour or so, though, because Desmond is coming to see us.’

      ‘Yeah!’ Jamie loved visits from our social worker. In his younger days, before entering the field of social services, Desmond had spent some time in the US, making his living as a bit-part actor, though from the stories with which he regales us and some of Emily’s research on YouTube, it seems he was best known for his role in car-lot commercials. Besides having the most rubbery, expressive face I have ever seen, Des was a talented impressionist and regularly had us all in stitches. He was in the perfect job as far as I was concerned: a real live children’s entertainer.

      ‘What’s wrong, Phoebe?’ I noticed her standing frozen, knuckles white from gripping the Wii controller so tightly.

      ‘Who is Desmond?’

      ‘Our social worker – nothing to worry about, honey. He’s a lovely man, isn’t he, Jamie?’

      ‘Sure, he’s cool.’

      ‘What colour hair does he have?’ Her face was contorted, all trace of colour gone.

      I considered for a moment, watching as she folded her arms and squeezed them with wringing fingers. Her chest puffed out as if she was holding her breath.

      ‘Erm, dark, I would say. Why?’

      Her