My Dad's a Policeman (6 page)

Chapter Twelve

‘And there’s me thinking it was the smell of my cooking that made you run away,’ Libby said, laughing. ‘Clearly it wasn’t!’

It was nearly 10 o’clock at night and I was sitting at the table in Libby’s dining room, eating my second helping of her cottage pie. There was just Libby and me at the table. Her son, Brendon, was in bed asleep and her other foster child, Callum, was in his room watching television. Libby had eaten earlier with Brendon and Callum and was now sitting with me while I ate, explaining about being in care and what would happen – short and long term.

‘Your social worker will phone tomorrow,’ Libby continued, ‘to give us the contact arrangements – when you will see your mum and brother. It will seem strange to start with, meeting at the centre, but it will begin to feel fine after a week or so. I’ve been through this so many times before with the children I’ve looked after; trust me, everything will be all right.’ Libby was adding this ‘trust me, I’ve done it before, everything will be all right’ to most of what she was telling me about being in care, and I was beginning to believe her. She had a reassuring way with her that made you trust her and believe what she said. I was starting to feel a bit better.

The duty social worker had brought me to Libby’s about half an hour before and I’d gone straight up to ‘my’ bedroom and put my mobile on charge. I’d texted Wayne as soon as my phone was plugged in but he hadn’t replied, and I was really worried about him. Supposing he hadn’t got away from his evil dad? Mum’s suitcase was on top of the wardrobe in the room and, when I opened the wardrobe doors, I found that all my clothes from the case had been washed and ironed and were hanging neatly on hangers.

‘How did you know I would be coming back?’ I now asked Libby as I ate my tea.

She smiled. ‘Instinct, but if you hadn’t, at least your clothes would have been clean when I packed them.’

I wondered if I could now ask Libby about the pocket money, which was no longer under my pillow. I was trying hard to be polite for Mum’s sake, and I didn’t want to upset Libby on my first night. Would it be rude to ask her for my pocket money now, I wondered?

I listened nicely until Libby had finished telling me that we would be going shopping after school tomorrow to buy me a coat, school shoes, new trainers and anything else I needed, before I said: ‘I don’t have any money at all.’

She gave another little laugh; Libby laughed easily. ‘No, well,’ she said matter-of-factly, ‘that’s what happens when you run off in the middle of the night. You will have your pocket money on Saturday, the same as Callum and Brendon.
After
you’ve completed a good week at school. There’s only one day left, so it shouldn’t be too difficult.’ She smiled kindly, but I knew she meant exactly what she said. ‘And, Ryan, like I said before, if you need anything in the meantime, ask me and I’ll get it for you. Does that sound fair?’

I nodded. ‘I’d like to phone my best mate, Wayne, please,’ I said. ‘He was in trouble earlier and I want to make sure he’s all right. I’ve only got a couple of texts left. Can I use the house phone to ring his mobile and leave a message?’

‘Of course,’ Libby said. ‘And once you’ve settled in, Wayne can come and visit you here; stay for some dinner; and sleepover sometimes if he likes.’

I was warming to Libby and, whilst I’d obviously rather have been at home with Mum, I knew I had to make the best of it here for all our sakes. Libby took away my empty plate and returned from the kitchen with a bowl of treacle pudding and custard. That made me warm to her even more.

‘Leave what you don’t want,’ she said, laughing, as I quickly set upon it, ladling in spoonful after spoonful, and the bowl emptied quickly.

The phone rang – from an extension on the sideboard.

‘I wonder who that can be at this time?’ Libby said, going to answer it. ‘Hello?’ she said, tentatively, then smiled: ‘Oh, hi, Joyce. How are you?’ So I guessed it was a friend of hers.

It went quiet as Libby listened to what the caller was saying and I carefully scraped the last of the custard from the bowl and wondered if it would be rude to lick the bowl clean.

‘You don’t say!’ Libby exclaimed into the phone, her voice rising with astonishment. ‘Well, well! Now there’s something! Yes, I’m sure he would, Joyce. Just a minute. Ryan,’ Libby said, taking the phone from her ear and turning to me. She was smiling and looked very pleased with herself. ‘Did you say your best mate was called Wayne? Is it Wayne Andrews?’

My mouth fell open in astonishment. ‘Yes. How did you know his second name?’

She grinned. ‘You won’t have to phone him. He’s phoning you. Come on, he’s with Joyce.’

‘Wayne?’ I said, unable to understand exactly what Libby was telling me.

‘Yes, come on.’

I stood and nearly tripped over the chair in my eagerness to get to the phone.

‘He’s here,’ Libby said into the phone, then passed it to me.

‘Wayne?’ I said.

‘Hey, man!’

‘Wayne, where are you?’

‘With a foster carer, called Joyce. I’m in care, man, same as you!’ Whereas I’d been angry and upset when I’d first been taken into care, Wayne sounded happy and very relieved. ‘All the foster carers know each other, man,’ he said. ‘So when I told Joyce about my mate Ryan, she guessed it was you who was staying at Libby’s.’

I glanced at Libby, who was clearing the table, and gave her the thumbs-up sign.

‘But what happened?’ I asked Wayne. ‘How did you end up at Joyce’s? I saw you through your kitchen window.’

‘Yeah, man, I knew it was you banging on the window. I’d gone down to the kitchen about five minutes before, to warn you not to come in as the old man had thrown a sickie and wasn’t going in to work. But he was already down there, hitting the bottle. He grabbed me by the throat and laid into me. It’s not the first time, man. When you banged on the glass, he let go of me and I ran out the front door and up the road to a neighbour. She’s looked after me before, but when she saw my face she said it had gone too far. She called the social and the police, and they brought me here. I haven’t got any of my things, but Joyce says we will sort that out tomorrow. So how are you, man?’

‘OK,’ I said, and it was true.

Wayne and I rabbited on for about twenty minutes. Wayne did most of the talking – about how good it was to be at Joyce’s. Then Libby said it was my bedtime and I had to finish on the phone. I was going to argue: I never went to bed at Mum’s before midnight and it was only 10.30, but I heard Joyce telling Wayne the same at the other end of the phone and he wound up.

‘Got to go, man,’ he said. ‘Joyce is making me a hot drink before bed. See you tomorrow at school?’

‘You bet!’

I hung up, feeling maybe life wasn’t so bad after all. All I needed now was to persuade Libby to buy me a bigger bed so Tommy could come and live with us, and we’d be fine, until Mum got herself sorted out and could look after us again.

‘Bathroom for you, young man,’ Libby said, heading out of the dining room. I followed. ‘I’ve put clean pyjamas on your bed, and a toothbrush, toothpaste and soap with your towel in the bathroom. Even though it’s late, you’re having a shower tonight. You don’t look sparkling clean to me.’ She laughed.

‘I don’t feel it either,’ I admitted.

I was about to go upstairs when suddenly I heard a noise from behind. I span round and stared at the front door, my senses on red alert.

‘Don’t worry,’ Libby said. ‘That’ll be my hubby, Fynn, returning from the late shift. You haven’t met him yet, so say hi before you go up; then the two of you can get to know each other better at the weekend.’

I waited as the key turned in the front door and Libby went down the hall to greet her old man. The door opened and he stepped inside. She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Fynn, love, this is Ryan,’ she said. ‘He’s the lad I told you about who’s staying with us until his mum gets better.’

Fynn nodded at me and came down the hall with his hand outstretched, ready to shake mine. My mouth fell open and I stared at him in disbelief. I couldn’t believe my eyes! Fynn was tall and black like Libby, but that wasn’t the reason I was staring. It was what he was wearing that had shocked me.

‘Good to meet you, Ryan,’ he said, shaking my hand warmly.

‘And you,’ I managed to mumble.

‘I’ve one more late shift tomorrow,’ he said, ‘then I’ve got the weekend off. I’ve promised to take Callum and Brendon to the match on Saturday. You up for that?’

I nodded, still gawping at what he wore – his uniform. ‘I don’t believe it!’ I said at last.

‘What’s that?’ Fynn asked, puzzled, glancing at Libby.

‘That my foster dad’s a policeman!’

‘Well, you better believe it,’ Fynn said, laughing. ‘So keep out of trouble.’

‘I will.’

‘Good lad.’

Postscript

I asked Libby if she would buy a bigger bed so Tommy could come and live with us, but she said no because she was thinking of buying bunk beds, which would be more comfortable; then she explained. She said my Mum had seen a solicitor, and the following week they were going to court when there was a good chance that the judge would make a ruling that Tommy and me should be placed in care together.

Libby was right. The judge said that Tommy and me should stay in foster care whilst Mum went into rehab, but it was important that siblings stayed together whenever possible. So because Libby had offered to have us both, Tommy could move in with me.

A year on we’re still living with Libby and Fynn, and will do until Mum is better. We get to see Mum twice a week – on Wednesdays after school and on Sundays. For the first three months, we had to see Mum at the Contact Centre with a social worker present which I didn’t like but then it was changed to what Duffy calls ‘community contact’.

So now we see Mum away from the centre and without another adult watching over us. We do fun things with Mum that we didn’t do before, like going to the cinema, ice-skating and bowling. Sometimes Mum collects us from Libby and Fynn’s and sometimes Libby or Fynn drops us off wherever we’re meeting Mum. Libby and Mum have become good friends and I know they sometimes chat on the phone in the evening when I’m in bed. Mum is getting better slowly and, although Duffy says she is making good progress, she isn’t there yet so the social are giving her more time to get well so she can have me and Tommy back.

Tommy and me get on well with our foster dad, Fynn. He does all the things a dad should do and we’ve both decided we’re going to join the police when we’re older. Fynn is teaching me how to control my anger so when I feel hot and twitchy, rather than hit someone, I take a few deep breaths, count to ten and walk away. Me and Tommy go to school every day. Some days I’d rather not, but if I don’t go to school, I don’t get my pocket money (which went up to £10 when I had my thirteenth birthday) so I go along and try to do the work and behave myself.

One Saturday morning when I’d been at Libby’s for about two months, I caught a 247 bus to go and meet up with Wayne. I thought the geezer driving the bus looked vaguely familiar but it didn’t click who he was until he said, not unkindly; ‘So are you going to pay your fare this time?’ I realised it was the same bus driver who’d let me off the fare on that dreadful night when I’d run away from Libby’s and had no money.

‘Of course I am,’ I said proudly. ‘I’ve got a bus pass now. And money, so I can pay you what I owe you.’

‘Good lad,’ he said.

I showed him the bus pass Libby had arranged for me; then, returning it safely to my pocket, I took out a £1 coin.

‘Here’s my fare for last time,’ I said. ‘Thanks for helping me out back then.’ I held out the coin.

‘You’re welcome,’ the driver said. ‘You look a lot better than you did that night. I guess things are working out for you?’

‘They are.’ ‘I tell you what. How about you put that £1 in a charity box? You did the right thing by offering me the money you owed, but it will only mess up my till.’

‘Sure. Will do,’ I said. ‘And thanks again.’ And I did just what I told the driver I would do.

The following Saturday I was in town, shopping with Libby, and there was a woman in the High Street collecting money for starving children in Africa. The tin she held had a picture on it of a scrawny kid with a big swollen belly and it reminded me of my promise to the friendly bus driver. The photo also made me think how lucky I was – I could have been that kid if I’d be born in Africa. I took £1 from my pocket and then I took another £1 out and dropped them both in the tin. The woman thanked me and I could see Libby was impressed by my generosity – but not half as impressed as I was with myself!

About the Author

Cathy Glass
has been a foster carer for more than twenty-five years and has three children. She uses the name Cathy Glass for writing purposes only and this is her ninth book. To find out more about Cathy and her story, visit www.cathyglass.co.uk.

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