Angels with Dirty Faces: Five Inspiring Stories. Casey Watson

      

      

       Copyright

      These books are works of non-fiction based on the author’s experiences. In order to protect privacy, names, identifying characteristics, dialogue and details have been changed or reconstructed.

      HarperElement

      An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

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       www.harpercollins.co.uk

      The Little Princess first published by HarperElement 2016

      No Place for Nathan first published by HarperElement 2014

      Daddy’s Boy first published by HarperElement 2016

      The Wild Child first published by HarperElement 2015

      Scarlett’s Secret first published by HarperElement 2014

      This collection first published by HarperElement 2017

      FIRST EDITION

      © Casey Watson 2016, 2014, 2016, 2015, 2014, 2017

      Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

      Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

      A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

      Casey Watson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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      Source ISBNs: 9780008142711; 9780007543106; 9780008142704; 9780007543113; 9780007544202

      Ebook Edition © November 2017 ISBN: 9780008274771

      Version: 2018-01-17

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

       Copyright

       Introduction

       The Little Princess

       No Place for Nathan

       Daddy’s Boy

       The Wild Child

       Scarlett’s Secret

       Casey Watson

       Moving Memoirs eNewsletter

       About the Publisher

       Introduction

      Dear readers,

      I’m excited to share with you a collection of short stories about some of the children who have briefly passed through our lives yet left a lasting impression. Although Mike and I are specialist carers, and ideally are meant to look after children for much longer periods of resettling, we are often asked to take in emergency or short-term children in between placements. We love doing this, of course, and through it we have met some delightful new people, both of the little variety (the children) and the larger kind (social workers and new teams of staff), whom we otherwise wouldn’t have met.

      These shorter placements can bring a feeling of achievement, when we’ve been able to play some part in helping a particular young person in need, but they can often leave us feeling sad and discontented that we’ve only been a stop-gap, a stepping stone on a much longer journey that we won’t be part of. That, unfortunately, is the nature of the beast, and we are well aware that fostering doesn’t always guarantee a happy ending. But it doesn’t stop us from hoping and trying.

      When I was a small child I remember watching a James Cagney film with my grandmother called Angels with Dirty Faces. That film – and the morals behind it – have always stayed with me; the idea that circumstances determine what will become of us and our ability to change lives. I often think of our foster children as angels with dirty faces, and although I am neither a racketeer nor a priest, I like to think that I can play a small role in helping these kids move on to lead stable, happy lives.

      

      Chapter 1

      It was the Sunday before Christmas. Almost my favourite time of year. Actually, in some ways my most favourite time of year, because it was the date of our annual family pre-Christmas dinner – or my practice run, as my son Kieron had always called it. Which was just like the main one, only in lots of ways nicer, as it involved all the fun without any of the stress, plus the anticipation of Christmas proper still to come.

      Well, to my mind, at any rate. I should have known better than to mention it to my ever-loving husband Mike. ‘More like a prelude to a nightmare,’ he quipped, ‘with this gaggle of little monsters around. Look at them. If this level of mania is anything to go by, heaven help us when we get to the actual day!’

      I knew, what with the house full of grandkids and mayhem, that he was probably only half-joking. He had a point, too. I winced as I watched Marley Mae, who was deep in the realm of the terrible twos now, almost collide with the Christmas tree. And for the umpteenth time today, while the film I’d put on (in the vain hope of keeping Riley’s three occupied) blared to itself in the corner. Much as I loved Arnie Schwarzenegger – the film was Jingle All the Way – I could barely hear myself think.

      ‘Shut up, you old Grinch,’ I told Mike. ‘You know you love it really. And how can you say such