Mick Pease

Children Belong in Families


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English speech is the habit of reducing or not pronouncing the definite article “the.” Instead, it is replaced by an abbreviated “t” sound, produced simultaneously with a glottal stop. In some cases, there is barely any discernible sound there at all and it appears to outsiders that the definite article is missing entirely. English readers from outside the UK may be familiar with it from the novels of Emily Brontë and D. H. Lawrence.

      3. Life Lessons

      You were just another authority figure telling him what to do.

      When Eddie rounded on me I felt as if I were staring into the eyes of a cornered beast. His reaction took me completely by surprise with its sudden ferocity and venom.

      “Who do you think you are? Do you think you are bigger than us, cleverer than us?” I could feel his breath on my face as he jabbed and prodded at my chest.

      “Eddie . . . Eddie . . .”

      “You want to watch out, that’s all. You want to watch your back, I could have you, I could break your arms!”

      “Eddie, there’s no need to . . .”

      “And those kids of yours, you watch out for those lads because if I catch them, I’ll break their arms and all!”

      That was it. Nobody threatened my boys. A red light flashed in front of my eyes.

      “Why you . . . !”

      Eddie broke away, stormed out of the TV lounge and down the stairs. I followed him, enraged. I wanted my pound of flesh.

      To think of all the time I had invested in this lad. I had drawn close to him, connected in a way that none of the other staff had been able to. One of the supervisors at the care home had noticed it.

      “Mick, whatever it is you are doing with Eddie, just keep doing it. I don’t know what you’ve done, but you are the first member of staff he has ever opened up to.”

      “I’ve just spent time with him, that’s all,’ I replied, rather pleased that my efforts had not gone unnoticed. “Drawn alongside him, kicked a football around, gone running.”

      “Well, however you’ve done it, you are the first person ever to get through to him,” the supervisor said. “Keep it up. It’s good work.”

      Now, here was Eddie scuttling down the stairs with me in pursuit. My blood was up. When he turned I let him have it, not physically, but verbally, all my anger, all my frustration. How I felt, how he had let me down. How disappointed I was, how hurt I felt. Me, me, me.

      Eddie hauled his hurt and anger away into the night and as my pulse and breathing slowed, it suddenly hit me. What had I done? I was the first person Eddie had ever trusted and I had thrown it back in his face. I told him how angry I was, without any consideration of his feelings. I had belittled him in front of other people, made him feel worthless.

      We were impressed. There was plenty of space, the green acted as a play area, and the way the cottages were organized made sense. As you looked around the green you could follow the progression from babies in one house to toddlers and preschool children in the next, then five- to seven-year-olds, then seven- to ten-year-olds, and on it went with accommodation for adolescents. It was all very neat, all very sequential. At that time, we saw nothing wrong with it.

      The practice of fostering developed during Victorian times, where a child might live temporarily with another family until a more permanent arrangement could be found. By the end of the nineteenth century, the UK’s