meeting, I thought as I drove home, was the photograph album. Stevie and his grandparents had asked to look through it a second time, and his gran said she was less worried now she knew he would be living in a nice house and had met me, as she’d heard some bad things about foster carers not treating kids right. Verity reassured her that I was well thought of and gave the children I looked after a high standard of care. Stevie didn’t say much other than asking how much pocket money he would be getting.
‘You won’t get any if you don’t go to school,’ Fred had seethed. They’d stopped his pocket money when he’d refused to attend school, but as a foster carer I had to give the child or young person their allowance regardless of their behaviour, which of course limited the options available to sanction negative behaviour. Many parents withhold their children’s pocket money if they misbehave and some children are expected to do household chores to earn the money. Young people in care receive an above-average pocket money allowance for their age, plus an amount set aside in a savings account and a clothing allowance, which, at Stevie’s age, he would expect to have in his hand. He would also very likely have a pay-as-you-go mobile phone, which I would be expected to top up, but I didn’t explain all this at the time to Peggy and Fred, and neither did Verity.
It was one o’clock when I arrived home. Paula had left a note saying she’d gone shopping with a friend and would be back around 4 p.m. I had a sandwich lunch and then did some clerical work while I waited for Verity to arrive with Stevie – at around three o’clock. However, just before three the landline went and when I heard Verity’s voice I knew something had changed or gone wrong.
‘Cathy, I’ve just left Mr and Mrs Jones. Stevie won’t be coming to you this afternoon. His grandparents want to give him another chance. They felt bad after the meeting and they think the threat of going into care might give him the shock he needs. I’ll be monitoring the situation and we’ll have to see how it goes.’
‘OK. Thanks for letting me know,’ I said.
While I wasn’t happy at being seen as a ‘threat’, I hoped it all worked out for them. Obviously it’s better for a child or young person if they are able to live with their family, although something told me (from years of fostering) that wasn’t going to happen here, and I was right.
Chapter Three
It was midday on 2 January. Lucy and Adrian were at work and Paula was in her room reading in preparation for returning to college the following day. I hadn’t heard anything further from Verity, and I assumed Edith would phone before long with details of another child in need of a foster home. There was never much of a gap between one child leaving and the next arriving. I’d spent the morning taking down the Christmas decorations while I had the time and was thinking of making Paula and me some lunch when the front doorbell rang. I wasn’t expecting anyone, but sometimes a friend or neighbour dropped by, and we also had regular deliveries as we all shopped online.
But it wasn’t a parcel, friend or neighbour. To my utter amazement, as I opened the front door I saw Stevie standing there, a large holdall at his side.
‘Sorry to turn up like this,’ he said, seeing my expression of surprise. ‘But I will be staying with you after all.’
‘Oh, I see. I’m afraid it’s not that simple, but come in,’ I flustered, trying to clear my thoughts. ‘What’s happened? Does anyone know you’re here? How did you know where I live?’
‘I found your address on some papers Gran had,’ he said, stepping into the hall.
‘Does your gran know you are here?’
‘Yes.’ If she hadn’t, I would have phoned her straight away to let her know Stevie was safe.
Paula was still upstairs in her room and must have heard the doorbell and our voices but decided to stay put for now.
‘Shall I slip off my shoes and leave them here with yours?’ he asked, referring to the place beneath the coat stand where our outdoor shoes were.
‘Yes, please,’ I said absently.
‘And hang my coat here?’
‘Yes.’ I usually told my new arrivals where to leave their shoes and coat, but I was still recovering from the shock of finding Stevie on my doorstep.
I waited while he paired his shoes precisely next to ours, then hung his tweed coat on the hall stand, a multitude of questions running through my head. He was well dressed again, but the colour scheme had been toned down a little from the meeting and he was now wearing blue jeans with a yellow sweater.
‘Come through to the living room so we can have a chat,’ I said, leading the way down the hall.
‘It’s just like in your photographs,’ he said, looking around as we went. ‘Very nice.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Oh! You’ve got a cat, how delightful!’ he cried as we entered the living room. Sammy, who was still nervous of strangers, shot off the sofa and out of the room. ‘Oh, he’s gone.’ Stevie looked hurt.
‘Don’t worry. He’ll be back. Sit down.’
He settled on the sofa while I took one of the easy chairs.
‘Does Verity know you’re here?’
‘Gran phoned her,’ he said, flicking back his fringe and crossing one leg over the other. He didn’t appear particularly anxious; in fact, he looked quite at home on the sofa.
‘OK, I’ll need to talk to Verity. If she doesn’t phone soon, I’ll call her. Do you want anything to eat or drink?’ I always ask new arrivals this, as some of them haven’t eaten properly for days if they’ve come from homes where they’ve been neglected.
‘I’m good, thanks,’ he said. ‘Gran cooked me breakfast before I left. I can stay here, can’t I? I mean, for now.’
‘I don’t see why not, the room is free, but it’s not my decision. Verity will need to decide. It’s a foster placement. It’s not like a hotel where you can check in and out.’
‘She’ll be fine with it,’ he said confidently, smoothing his jeans.
‘So what happened at home? I thought you and your grandparents were going to give it another go.’
‘We did.’ He sighed theatrically. ‘It was cool for a day, everyone was on their best behaviour, until I got ready to go out on New Year’s Eve. Well, I mean, you get dressed up to go clubbing, don’t you?’ He pursed his lips indignantly.
‘Clubbing! A nightclub?’ I asked, shocked.
‘Yes. I’ve been before,’ he said defensively.
‘But you’re only fourteen. You’re not allowed into nightclubs.’
‘Nearly fifteen,’ he corrected. ‘I look older.’ Which was true.
‘Don’t the clubs ask for proof of age?’
He smiled. ‘Of course. Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve got a fake ID off the internet.’ I should have guessed – I’d heard this before. But I would be telling his social worker. It was unsafe behaviour for a boy of fourteen to be in a nightclub, and if I was going to be his foster carer I had a duty to pass this on, but I’d explain all that later.
‘It’s a straight and gay club where I can be myself,’ he added, and watched me for my reaction.
‘That’s irrelevant,’ I said. ‘A lad of your age shouldn’t be in a nightclub at all, which I’m guessing is what your grandparents said.’
‘I didn’t tell them where I was going. It was when