LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter 9

      What’s that story about the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dam? Knowing that if he pulls it out there will be a torrent and then a flood? I don’t know what had happened, exactly – was it the action of leaving the house? Or getting in the car? I had no idea which, but one thing was clear. It was almost as if a switch had flipped inside Miller, and turned him into a completely different child.

      ‘Do you think Donald Trump is a good president, Casey? Do they have a phone shop in your town? And have they got a game shop? Or are we just going to do boring things when we get there? I hate shopping. I like phone shopping and game shopping, but I hate shopping-­shopping. Just so you know.’

      This just in the few seconds it took to reverse off the drive. More words that I’d heard him say at one time in a long while. And on it went. Was there a climbing wall, like in the last place he’d gone to? How long would the journey take? Would he be allowed any sweets? ‘And, as well,’ he continued, ‘do you know what horse power this engine has? It’s important, for, like, when you are loading it up with passengers and suitcases and everything. And, as well, did you know that the size of your feet when you’re a baby determines how tall you’re going to be as an adult? Casey? Answer me. Did you? Did you know that?’

      It was such a torrent of words that I even checked the rear-view mirror, just in case Miller had run off and persuaded a completely different child to take his place.

      I managed to meet his eye, even if only briefly. ‘Goodness me,’ I said. ‘One question at a time, please, Miller. And maybe it should wait till we get into town, eh? There are lots of new road works and I don’t want to end up in the wrong lane or something. Okay? And could you stop yanking my seat back while you’re talking, please?’

      ‘Okay,’ he said. But it did nothing to stem the astonishing tide. This was more unsolicited conversation than I’d heard from him since he’d been with us, in fact, and I was truly stumped by what had brought it about. ‘What do you think about that North Korean leader?’ he asked brightly. ‘I reckon Trump will off him. His followers all have the same haircuts, you know. Shall I tell you the history of the Korean divide? Casey, do they have a game shop in town? I bet they do. Towns always do. I bet they have lots of phone shops as well. Which do you think is best, the Galaxy or the iPhone?’

      By the time I’d wound my tortuous way through the road works and into the town-centre car park, I felt almost like my head was exploding. And before long, with no sign of his non-stop chatter abating, I began to wonder if there wasn’t more to this uncharacteristic animation than I’d first supposed. Yes, it was great that he was chatting to me, but was that all there was to it? He seemed to leap from one bizarre train of thought to another, and though my professional head wondered if this, too, was a sign of autism, my instinct, increasingly, was that I was being wound up. That he was babbling on at me with the express intention of irritating me. To the point, given I was trying to negotiate Saturday afternoon town-centre traffic, that I would tell him to shut up?

      It was an effort of will (why did this kid keep bringing out the worst in me?) to stick to the former. ‘Right!’ I said cheerfully, once we were safely in our parking space and I’d opened the door to let him out. ‘Shoot. Ask me anything you want.’

      Miller yanked his hoodie down over his skinny hips. He seemed all out of questions. ‘Donald Trump, was it?’ I prompted, as I shut and locked the car.

      Silence. I pointed towards the pedestrian exit and he stomped along beside me. ‘Are we going to the phone shop first?’ he finally asked.

      ‘The phone shop? No, love. We’re not. I don’t need to go to the phone shop.’

      ‘The game shop, then? The game shop and then the phone shop.’

      I stopped by the fire door. ‘Miller, I’ve come into town to pick up a few bits that I need. Then maybe to get a coffee – and you can have an ice cream, if you like – and only then, if there’s time, we might go in the game shop. Whether that happens or not will very much depend on you.’

      He stood and pouted, his gaze darting around me rather than at me. ‘Not going, then. Not till you promise about the game shop.’

      ‘That’s not a promise I’m prepared to make, Miller. That’s not how it works. You asked to come, and I’ve brought you, but I’m here to do my shopping. So your choice is to accompany me without moaning and groaning, in which case, there will definitely be an ice cream in the mix, and, if there’s time, we will go to the game shop. Alternatively’ – at this point I pulled my phone out of my handbag – ‘I can ring Mike and have him come and pick you up now instead. Your call, love. I’m easy. But I have been cooped up for days now, and I am doing my shopping. Whether you stay with me or get taken home is entirely up to you.’

      ‘Fine!’ he huffed, pushing open the door to the stairwell. ‘I’ll do all the boring stuff. But it best not take all day!’

      Had I levelled up Miller’s imaginary scorecard? I hoped so. Though it nagged at me anyway, that sense of not quite being in control; of having to pit my wits against him to try and ‘win battles’. We were not supposed to be point scoring, like kids in a playground. I was his carer, and he was supposed to be earning points. Or would be, had we been able to sit down and create the chart to put them on together. Still, early days, I decided, as we emerged into the shopping mall. This was new territory – we were out, and that was something in itself. And in this new landscape – both in terms of the physical and the mental – all I could really do was go with the flow.

      Though ‘flow’ was a long way from being achieved. ‘What exactly are you going to buy in here?’ he asked, as we went into my favourite clothes shop. ‘Do you know? Because if you know what you want, it won’t take very long, will it. And then we’ll have time for the game shop.’

      I almost cracked a smile at the thought that those would be Mike’s thoughts and words exactly – well, if he dared voice them. Which, of course, he wouldn’t. One of the reasons our marriage endured was that, unless it was for some big manly electrical item, Mike didn’t come shopping with me any more. As far as he was concerned shopping was a chore, not a hobby. So I did have a smidge of sympathy for Miller. Or would have, had he not finished with, ‘Well?’

      ‘Miller, please!’ I said. ‘We had a deal, remember? And if you want me to keep my end of the bargain, then you have to be patient, and not badger me, okay? We will get to the game shop when, and if, we get there.’

      I was obviously long used to expecting the unexpected when fostering, but even I was astounded at what Miller did next. Which was to drop to the floor, lie down on his back and start cycling his legs madly, as if an enthusiastic participant at a legs, bums and tums class. Round they went, as if piston-powered, while his arms did their own thing – mostly flapping up and down as if miming a doggy paddle, right in the aisle between the jeans and dresses. Not so much ‘downward-facing dog’ as ‘stricken beetle’.

      I wasn’t stunned for long, despite his accompanying shrieking. For this was clearly no tantrum. Just a ploy to deflect me. Designed to ensure maximum embarrassment, and so ensure we beat a hasty retreat.

      So,

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