Daddy’s Boy - Casey Watson

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what you wish for.’

      Which made us both laugh, because those half-dozen words had been said by one or other of us so many times now, and, almost without exception, they’d proved to be the right ones, as well.

      When you spend a fair few of your waking hours in the company of little people during the school holidays, it’s odds on that, when a phone goes, it’ll be one of them that answers it. And so it was that, come the Sunday morning – the beginning of the late spring half-term – Marley Mae, Riley and David’s youngest, aged two-going-on-seventeen, sashayed to my smartphone, and also managed to unlock it, before I’d even properly heard it ring.

      There are few things more arresting than being at the wrong end of your forties and realising that your grand-daughter can work your technology better than you, despite being only just properly out of nappies. And what she couldn’t quite manage, her older brothers certainly could. Though, on this occasion, their help clearly wasn’t required.

      ‘Gangad! It’s me, your cheeky monkey!’ Marley Mae shouted gleefully into it. ‘We’re having yoghurt and crisps!’

      I gently removed the phone from my grand-daughter’s iron grip. ‘Hey, love,’ I said. ‘How are you doing? Bearing up?’ Mike had not only to go into work, but had to do so a day early due to staff sickness. About which he wasn’t terrifically happy.

      ‘Hey, love, yourself,’ came the response, along with a chuckle. ‘And – hmm – Gangad? Is there something you’re not telling me?’

      Not Mike then. ‘About blinking time, too,’ I said, mouthing ‘It’s John!’ at Riley. She raised a thumb. Then another. ‘Tell him he’s a lifesaver,’ she added, loud enough so he could hear. She knew exactly what I was like.

      ‘No, that’ll be you,’ John corrected. ‘Well, you and Mike, to be more precise. And before you ask, I mean it. Well, if you’re up for it, that is. It’s another emergency one, so I’m rather putting you on the spot here. A boy that needs a berth by tomorrow.’

      ‘What, you mean respite care?’

      ‘No, not quite that. He’s not coming from another foster family. He’s coming straight from the family. Currently with an aunt …’

      ‘Oh. Not in care at all, then?’

      ‘Not quite yet in care, no. Well, actually, yes, in care, unless something radical happens in the next few hours, which, frankly, I doubt. And, yes, I know this isn’t really one for you two, but you know what it’s like in the school holidays – horrendous. What with carers on holiday and one thing or another, and it’s sod’s law that we always get emergencies in.’

      ‘I suspect the two might be related,’ I observed, eyeing Levi and Jackson, just at the start of what looked like being fisticuffs over what game to play next.

      ‘I suspect you’re right. And it does leave us in the rather unfortunate position of not always being able to get the matching quite right.’

      ‘Which means you want to send us someone you wouldn’t normally send us? Again?’ I added, in case he’d already forgotten that our last child had been one of those as well. Only for a weekend, to be fair. But it was something of a full-on weekend. When what we really wanted – well, to be accurate, I really wanted – was a new child with whom I could try to ‘add some value’; one of the last-chance-saloon kids we’d been originally trained to foster.

      ‘It’s fine, John,’ I finished, already intrigued despite myself. ‘You know me and Mike. Always up for a challenge. Something different doesn’t scare us. Bring it on.’

      ‘I know that,’ he said, ‘which is obviously why I called you. And it is something rather different. He’s only five.’

      ‘Five?’ I said. ‘Wow. You’re right. That is different.’ In fact, I couldn’t recall when we’d last taken in a child that was so young.

      ‘And it’s not just the age, Casey,’ John went on. ‘Oh, and his name is Paulie, by the way. And he’s no ordinary five-year-old. Not by a long chalk.’

      With the boys upping the decibels I took myself out to the garden. ‘Go on,’ I said, as I sat down on one of the patio chairs, the better to hear him.

      ‘Well, for starters, don’t worry – this is going to be a very short placement. Few days or so. Couple of weeks, tops.’

      ‘How can you know that for sure?’ I asked. Because it’s always prudent to ask that.

      ‘Because there are only two outcomes happening here,’ John explained. ‘He’s either going home, back to his family, which is what everyone is hoping, or to a longer-term placement, possibilities for which are being looked into as we speak.’

      I understood that and my heart sank a little. That meant they weren’t even considering us for the job. Which was understandable, I supposed. This wasn’t our sort of placement, as he’d already mentioned, and our role would be to simply provide a stopgap. Which was fair enough. Mike and I were specialist carers, after all, employed to look after a very niche set of children. Usually older ones; kids who’d been through many placements before us, and were now deemed to be ‘unfosterable’. This was an extremely hard tag for them to carry, but it existed nevertheless. And, sad to say, it was a tag that was beginning to fit an ever growing number of kids in care. Which meant carers like Mike and me – carers who’d been trained, at some expense, to know how to handle such challenging children – would be somewhat wasted if they routinely sent us sweet, biddable five-year-olds.

      And even though I then remembered what he’d also said about ‘no ordinary five-year-old’, I couldn’t imagine a five-year-old who would require specialist carers like us anyway.

      Except today, when there was a crisis. And we did have a bed. ‘I see,’ I said. ‘And that’s fine. Yes, of course. We’re free. Why not?’

      ‘So you won’t mind me bringing him with me tomorrow morning? I mean, I could come on my own first, run everything by you … But, to be honest, it would help a great deal if I could just bring him with me, and you could take him …’

      I laughed. ‘Sight unseen?’

      ‘Kind of,’ he said. ‘And no commitment to buy, obviously.’

      And though we both laughed, we also both knew that sort of stuff was all nonsense. The intention was to bring him and leave him with us, end of. And that was fine too, because I couldn’t imagine any five-year-old child who could be so difficult that I’d feel obliged to slam the door in their face. Except there was something in John’s tone … And I knew John very well now.

      ‘You say like no ordinary five-year-old,’ I said. ‘John, is he really that bad?’

      ‘I’m afraid so,’ he said. ‘At least, let’s say I have a strong indication that he might be. And, look, I know we usually have time – time for you and Mike to make your minds up and discuss things. But in this case we don’t. The pressure really is on. He’s with an aunt for tonight, as I said – the mum’s sister – but she already has five children and will not keep him beyond that. And he can’t go home. Or to a home. So you really are our only hope.’

      ‘Flatterer,’ I said. And I smiled as I agreed. After all, for heaven’s sake, he was five.

      Belatedly, I worried slightly about Tyler. Now we had Tyler permanently, who was thirteen and a half, any fostering decisions we made had to include him, even though it had always been understood that we would continue to take in children for our programme.

      But, in fact, he was very relaxed. ‘I’ll be gone tomorrow anyway,’ he pointed out, ‘so I’ll barely even see him, will I? And he’s

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