‘Not least because bribery, as we all know, gets you everywhere.’
‘That’s good to know,’ I said, grinning. ‘And, for the record, I can also run to cakes. Though right now, I’m guessing you’ll want to go and see Sam’s bedroom. And also speak to him properly – and alone, of course – so why don’t you head upstairs and kill two birds with one stone, while I go and dig out my lemon drizzle cake recipe?’
Colin took his notebook and pen and headed upstairs. As per the protocol, a social worker always needed to spend time alone with a child, new or not. A foster carer was never privy to these conversations, because, apart from anything else, it was an opportunity for a child to speak openly and honestly about how they were getting along in their placement, and what they really thought about their carers. If there were any issues or allegations as a result of these meetings then the carers would be told about them and given the chance to explain themselves. But if anything serious cropped up, then, in some cases, the placement would be ended. This had never happened to us, thankfully, but making sure the child had the opportunity to feedback their experience of being fostered was a necessary part of a social worker’s job, and rightly so.
In this case it appeared that all was good, bordering on very good, because when they emerged half an hour later, Sam was, if possible, full of even more beans.
‘Casey! Casey!’ he shouted as he bounded down the stairs, ‘Sampson thinks I’d make a very good dog person, don’t you, Sampson?’
‘Yes, I do,’ he said, following at a more sedate pace, ‘but I also said that when you grow up would be a good time to get your very own dog, didn’t I? Sam here was telling me all about his dog, Brucie,’ he explained to me. ‘And how sad he’d been that he’d died when he was still only a puppy.’
This was news. Useful news. Contradictory news, too. ‘Oh, love, I didn’t know that,’ I said. ‘I thought you never had a dog. That is sad. I’m so sorry.’
Sam nodded, looking sad, seemingly having forgotten he’d told me otherwise. ‘Brucie was my dog. His real name was Bruce but he got out of the garden and was runned over because his cage wasn’t locked.’
Ah, I thought. Ah. Perhaps that had been why – because he felt partly responsible. ‘I tell you what, Sam,’ I said, ‘I’ve been thinking while you’ve been upstairs. And I happen to know that our Kieron isn’t working today, so if you like we can call down to his house after lunch and ask if we can take Luna out for a walk in the park or something. Would you like that? Luna is my son’s Westie,’ I added for Colin’s benefit. ‘The word “walkies” is her favourite in the entire dictionary.’
‘Well, that sounds like an excellent idea,’ Colin said as he slipped his jacket off the newel post. ‘And while you’re off doing that, I’ll go back to the office and check if they’ve left any spaces in my diary. I’ll come and visit you in the next week or so, Sam, okay? So have a think about the sort of thing you’d like us to do.’
‘I like doing everything,’ Sam told him, beaming.
And Sam certainly seemed to love Luna. As it turned out, we got out later than we’d planned, so by the time we’d driven over to Kieron’s he’d had to pop out to collect Dee Dee from school and take her to her dance class straight after. So he’d texted me to tell me to let myself in, take Luna and drive back to mine to walk her. He’d come and pick her up from us on his way home again. So half an hour after that, Sam and I (him as excited as a puppy himself) set off to the park and woods at the end of our road, on what had turned out, though still windy, to be a lovely bright spring afternoon.
I’d been here many, many times before, of course. It was one of the main reasons we’d come to love living where we did so much. We’d moved to our current home several years back, in circumstances that weren’t exactly ideal (it had been with a heavy heart, and we’d only done so because of a previous foster child we’d cared for), but we’d settled in really quickly, not least because of the lovely (and, happily, tolerant) neighbours, plus the beautiful green space that was just a walk away. I’d brought previous foster children here, and my own grandchildren, obviously, who loved the woods and the play area and – best of all – being able to paddle in the small stream which ran through it.
And, as soon as we set off, I could tell straight away that to bring Sam here, perhaps daily – at least till a school was found for him – would potentially be a good thing for him too; not least to wear him out a bit and perhaps, as a result, take the edge off his rages and meltdowns.
We’d brought Luna’s ball, and her plastic ball-throwing doohickey. I carried the latter, while Sam took charge of lead duties, thrilled to be responsible for extending the line, and reeling her back in again to cross the road.
‘This is wicked,’ he enthused, as if it was the best invention ever. ‘It’s like she can be on the lead but off the lead all at once. I think all dogs should be given them, on the Health Service.’
It was such a funny little thing to say that I almost laughed out loud. And did, when he declared the ball-throwing device to be, in contrast, the worst invention ever. ‘Why can’t people throw with their actual arms?’ he wanted to know. ‘Doing it with that thing’s so lazy.’
I could only agree, so we abandoned the ball-throwing doohickey, and as I watched him enjoy the simple pleasure of spending time with Kieron’s dog, I was reminded of the oft-quoted truism about animals – that they really could be good for the soul. And for this little troubled soul, definitely.
And as is so often the case when you’re out with a dog, we passed other dogs, and other owners I knew. And one dog in particular, a Collie called Flame, who lived on our street, but who was tugging on his lead in his enthusiasm to say hello, but from the grip of an unexpected owner.
Flame was owned by a lady who lived a few doors down called Mrs Pegg, but he was in the charge of a teenager I didn’t recognise. At least, I thought I didn’t, but when he caught up with his overexcited canine, I realised his face was familiar from somewhere.
And I was right. He was Mrs Pegg’s grandson, Oliver. ‘She’s recovering from surgery,’ he explained, when I asked how she was. ‘She got her knee-replacement operation moved forward.’
I knew my neighbour was on the waiting list but, as with knee operations everywhere, had assumed it would be months away yet.
‘Is she okay?’ I asked. ‘Does she need anything?’
‘She’s fine,’ Oliver said. ‘Just can’t walk much for a bit, obviously.’ He made a grab for Flame’s lead so he wouldn’t trample Luna in his excitement. Then smiled wryly. ‘In the meantime, we’ve got a rota.’
‘What’s a rota?’ Sam piped up.
‘Like a chart,’ I explained. ‘With a list of who’s supposed to do what and when.’
‘I’ve got a chart! I’ve got a chart!’ Sam trilled to Oliver. ‘I do lots of different things when I’m supposed to as well. And when I do them I get a star on it. Do you?’
Oliver shook his head. ‘No, just one of my nan’s “brownie points”,’ he said, chuckling.
‘And her undying gratitude,’ I added. ‘Of that I’m sure. Will you tell her I’ll pop over to see her later?’
And as we parted, and I made a mental note to do just that, I reflected that while Sam had his chart, I had something equally useful.
An idea.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив