LITMIR.BIZ

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that was for later. For the moment it was sufficient that we were sitting companionably at the table, and that Sam was embarking, willingly, on the all-important first step – engaging with a process that could reap huge rewards for him, and which would occupying him productively and, hopefully, as a by-product, help his more negative behaviours to melt away a bit.

      At least, that was the theory …

Chapter 6

      By the middle of the second week – i.e. the one after the weekend we’d pencilled in that precious mini-break – I was busy pencilling ticks in my head. Not actual ticks – the ‘ticking’ took the shape of coloured stars stuck on Sam’s chart – but little ‘pride’ ticks because, despite my realistically low expectations, Sam had surprised both me and Mike by proving us wrong. Because the chart seemed to be working, at least after a fashion. Yes, he was still at times the sort of child that inspired pipe dreams of that precious mini-break, but there was no denying that every morning I had a ‘sort of’ made-up bed, that Sam ‘sort of’ brushed his teeth and that, most days, at least, he seemed genuinely eager to get all his ‘very important’ jobs done. Yes, his overly zealous contribution to washing the pots meant that I had already lost one milk jug, one cereal bowl and two mugs, but I figured that, compared to the havoc he’d already wreaked, a few items of old crockery were acceptable collateral.

And, contrary to his previous attitude to breakages (mostly ‘stuff them’), he had begun to care about the consequences of destroying things. ‘I don’t get struck off, do I?’ he’d asked anxiously the first time he smashed something.

      ‘Struck off?’ I asked, wondering at the curious turn of phrase. ‘No, sweetie, once you get your star, you keep your star,’ I told him. ‘We’ve been over this, remember? And you’re doing a great job. Just try to go a little slower and you’ll be fine.’

      And he’d take it on board, and he’d try to be careful, and for periods during the day it was possible to forget that this was a child with a whole host of challenges to face; one to which a ‘one step forward, two steps back’ mantra still very much applied. That we might just be in a honeymoon period.

      Because he was also, in this new incarnation, extremely endearing – as if he’d been bussed in especially, to become the poster-boy for the points programme. Which he took extremely seriously, and in unexpected ways, such as his approach to the business of staying quiet in his room till an adult was up and about.

      Because, to my surprise, the early morning howling had ceased right away. Which obviously made me question the purpose of the behaviour. Perhaps it hadn’t been a self-soothing mechanism, after all. Perhaps it was more akin to the sort of ‘happy babbling’ Kieron used to do in his cot when he was a baby.

It was only by chance, a few days in, that I learned differently. I’d risen early – before Mike – fancying a long, leisurely bath, before those with places to be hogged the bathroom. And was just crossing the landing when I heard a low, slightly worrying, gurgling sound coming from Sam’s room. Alarmed – was he choking? – I went straight across and pushed the door open.

      ‘Sam?’ I whispered to the mound that was hidden under the duvet. From the shape of it, he seemed to be up on all fours, with his head buried under the pillow.

      Up close, the sound was no less alarming. Was he retching? Was he vomiting? ‘Sam?’ I tried again, touching the mound now. ‘You okay, love?’

      He must have felt me because the duvet was immediately flung aside.

      His cheeks were pink, his hair damp. But he was smiling at me. Beaming even. ‘Is it morning?’ he asked me. ‘Is it getting-up time yet?’

      ‘Well, yes, I suppose it is,’ I said, ‘but, Sam, sweetie, what were you doing? Are you okay? What were those noises I just heard?’

      He looked confused for a moment, before comprehension dawned. ‘I was just quiet howling,’ he answered defensively. Then he looked suddenly crestfallen ‘Oh, no – you heard me! You weren’t supposed to! I still get my telly, don’t I? Cos we never said I had to stop. Just that I had to be quiet. And I was quiet. Oh my God,’ he said, slapping a hand against his forehead. ‘Oh, why did you have to hear me? Why?’

Here we go, I thought, watching his expression change. Here comes the next meltdown. I could have kicked myself, too. Why did I rush in the way I had?

      Though I knew I was thinking with the benefit of hindsight. I’d only rushed in because I was worried something was wrong. But cometh the hour, cometh the moment of inspiration. Perhaps I should try a different tack?

      I threw my head back. ‘Ah wooooo!’ I went. ‘Ah wooooooooh!’

      Sam stared at me as though I’d gone completely mad. And spurred on by his reaction – or, rather, lack of negative reaction – I tightened my dressing-gown belt and stepped up onto his bed.

      He looked stunned.

      ‘Come on,’ I urged, planting my feet apart for stability. ‘I’m up now, so let’s do some proper howling, shall we?’ I held out my hands. ‘Come on, both of us. And let’s have a bounce while we’re at it. It’s been ages since I had a proper bounce on a bed.’

      ‘Really?’ he asked, looking up at me doubtfully.

      ‘Yes, really,’ I said, grabbing his hands. ‘Come on – ah woooooooh!’

      And he did. And I reflected on my good choice in divan beds, as it took the strain of my not-so-tiny bouncing, howling body, and we bounced and howled, laughing, for several surreal minutes – at least till Tyler appeared in the doorway.

      ‘What the hell, Mum?’ he said. ‘And I thought I’d seen everything.’

‘Tyler, Tyler!’ sang Sam. ‘Come up! Come and howl with us!’

      Tyler smiled at him. ‘I’d break your bed, mate.’ Then to me. ‘Seriously, I really have seen it all now.’

      ‘And that’s all you’re going to see for now,’ I said, jumping down again. ‘Not least because I’m completely puffed. Come on, love,’ I said to Sam. ‘Enough bouncing for today, I think.’

      He let me help him down, as Tyler – with an eye-roll – headed off to the bathroom, then tugged at the sleeve of my dressing gown.

      ‘So am I allowed to howl again properly now, Casey? I don’t get it.’

      I patted his head. ‘Like you said, sweetie, we never said you couldn’t howl – just that you had to be quiet till the grown-ups were awake. And I was awake, so that was fine.’

      ‘So shall we do it again tomorrow?’ he asked, and his face was as eager as a puppy’s. ‘I can knock on your door first, if you like. You can howl with me every morning if you want to.’

      It was all too easy to picture it. And all too easy to see why Tyler told everyone he lived in a madhouse. But I had averted a meltdown, so it was a productive type of madhouse. Well, at least for the moment.

In the world of fostering, little moments like those really mattered. They were what I fondly called my ‘little bits of happy’, and that morning’s little bit of happy seemed to set the tone for the rest of the morning. By the time Sam’s allocated social worker, Colin Sampson, telephoned me (Christine Bolton had told me to expect to hear from him mid-morning) I was feeling more upbeat than I had at any time since Sam had arrived.

      ‘I’m so sorry about being away,’ he said, once he’d introduced himself. ‘Not an ideal situation, is it?’

      He sounded very young, and a little nervous, too – and I imagined the two were probably related. ‘Oh, it’s fine,’ I reassured him. ‘You couldn’t know, could you? And everyone’s entitled to their holidays,’

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