way,’ I explained. ‘As you’ve seen, he can be a poppet. I think the counting is mostly related to his autistic traits – it always seems to soothe him and help him – but the meltdowns are explosive, and I’m still trying to work his triggers out. Though right now I’m still unclear whether there are simply a lot of them or that it’s just the one and I haven’t got to grips with what it is yet. Though I’m no psychologist,’ I added, ‘which is why I’m so keen for him to see one.’
‘You, the world and his wife,’ Colin said, nodding ruefully. ‘And, look, I’m so sorry I was away when Sam was allocated. But I’m on the case now – ahem – literally. So, what can I do to help? Is there any extra support I can give you? I’m obviously more than happy to start taking him off your hands for a couple of hours when I visit. All very well me reading emails and taking notes’ – he had a notebook in front of him and had already been scribbling – ‘but from what you’ve already told me I’m guessing some practical help wouldn’t go amiss either.’
If I’d liked Colin on instinct, I liked him even more now. He was obviously what I thought of as one of the ‘good’ social workers. They were all good, of course, but, from my standpoint as a foster carer, some were more hands-on than others. I suppose it was the same as, on the flip side, social workers probably assessed us as well. Not a hard and fast rule, obviously, and I was always anxious not to stereotype, but, in my own experience, some were more ‘theoretical’ than others; using their training – all that theory – to inform the way they did the job, much more than the hands-on experiences of the foster carers they worked with.
Which was also fine. It was their job to manage their various cases the way they felt most appropriate, but, every once in a while, a ‘Colin’ came along – someone you just knew not only strove to understand and help the children they worked with, using their training and education, but also went the extra mile to empathise with us, the ones working at the coal-face, and to try and make our lives that little bit easier also.
I might have been way off-beam in my assessment, of course, but by the time we’d gone through the main events of the last couple of weeks, and the strategies I’d put in place for addressing them, I definitely had a good feeling about Colin Sampson.
‘And, listen,’ I said, ‘now the team is complete, I’m feeling really positive. We’re managing okay, I think – though some regular outings would be fallen upon with gratitude, as you can imagine – but now you’re here, perhaps we can begin taking steps to get him into some form of education. Which I know means getting him formally assessed, and I know that won’t be easy. But is there any slim hope of that happening anytime soon, do you think?’
‘That’s the biggest hurdle,’ he agreed. ‘And the request has been made. And I’m told it’s being rushed through – well, as rushed as these things ever rush – but even when we get the results, and if the assumption is that Sam is on the spectrum, there’s still going to be the difficulty of finding a specialist school near enough to you that will have a place for him, sad to say.’
I nodded. I already knew that. It was a constant and growing problem. Even Miller, our last child – with his multiple, urgent problems – had been out of education for months until a place had come up.
‘I know,’ Colin went on. ‘But let’s keep our fingers crossed. I can promise you I’ll keep pushing for that assessment to happen soon, at least. And in the meantime, I’ll try and support you as much as I can.’ He nodded to the biscuits, before taking one and winking at me. ‘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.