Finding Stevie
‘He has been doing recently,’ she said, and was about to add more when her mobile phone started ringing. ‘Sorry, I need to take this call.’ She stood and left the room.
I was left gazing around and twiddling my pen as her muted voice floated in from outside. A few minutes later it stopped and the door opened. Verity came in followed by an elderly couple and a young lad I took to be Stevie. Tall for his age, slim, with styled blond hair flopping over his forehead, he was clearly dressed to impress. Straight-legged, pink-sheen jeans, with a white jersey under a zip-up black leather jacket. I stood and went over to greet them.
‘This is the foster carer, Cathy Glass,’ Verity said, introducing me.
Stevie threw me a small nod and rearranged his fringe, while his grandmother said hello and his grandfather shook my hand. First meetings between the child’s family and the foster carer are always a little difficult and I sensed their reservations. Although I had the best intentions, I was, after all, usurping their role by looking after their grandchild.
‘Mr and Mrs Jones,’ Verity added.
‘Peggy and Fred,’ his grandfather said, and I smiled.
We settled around the table. Verity moved to the end so the three of them could sit together, opposite me, but Stevie sat at the far end of the table, putting as much space as possible between him and his grandparents. Despite this and his flamboyant clothes suggesting confidence, I could see he was nervous. ‘It’s good to meet you,’ I said to him.
He gave a small smile and flicked back his fringe. I saw then he was wearing eye make-up – not a lot, just mascara and eyeliner.
‘So,’ Verity began, ‘this is a short meeting to give us a chance to get to know each other. I’ll make a few notes as we go, but I won’t produce minutes. Let’s start by introducing ourselves.’ Fred sighed, but all social services meetings start with the formality of introductions, even if those present know each other. ‘I’m Verity Meldrew, Stevie’s social worker,’ she said, then looked to Peggy sitting on her left.
‘I’m Peggy Jones, Steven’s grandma, and I apologise for the state he’s in. I told him to change his clothes and take off that make-up, but he refused.’ Stevie responded with a dismissive, overstated shrug.
‘Cheeky bugger!’ his grandfather fumed. It was instantly clear how easily Stevie could wind up his grandparents.
Verity threw me a glance, then said, ‘Let’s continue with the introductions. Mr Jones, you’re next.’
He huffed and said, ‘Fred Jones. And unlike my wife I’m not apologising for the state of him. We brought him up proper, as best we could, and at our age it hasn’t been easy.’
‘Thank you,’ Verity said, then looked to Stevie to introduce himself. My heart went out to him; although it was his choice to sit at the far end of the table, he now looked very alone. I felt I wanted to reach out and give him a hug, as big as he was.
‘Stevie Jones,’ he said, emphasising ‘Stevie’ as he wanted to be known, rather than Steven as his grandmother had called him. ‘It’s not my fault. They won’t accept me for who I am.’
Verity smiled at him reassuringly and then looked to me to introduce myself.
‘Cathy Glass, foster carer,’ I said.
‘Thank you,’ Verity said, making a note of those present. ‘Cathy, would you like to start by telling Stevie and his grandparents a bit about you and your family?’
‘Certainly.’ I’d done this many times before; it’s standard at meetings like this. Looking at Stevie and his grandparents as I spoke, I told them I was a single parent and had been fostering for twenty-five years; that I had three adult children at home. I said Adrian and Lucy worked, while Paula was at a local college. I described an average day and what we liked to do in our leisure time in the evenings and at weekends. I finished by passing them the photograph album to look at. I’d written a caption beneath each picture, so they were self-explanatory. Verity thanked me and we were silent as first Peggy and Fred looked at the album and then passed it to Stevie. I couldn’t tell from his expression what he thought.
‘What do you think?’ Verity asked him as he closed the album and pushed it across the table to me.
‘I’ll have my own room then?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Verity confirmed.
‘There’s a photo in here,’ I said, opening the album. ‘I’ve written your room beneath it.’ I showed him.
He nodded and seemed pleased.
‘He has to share with Liam, his younger brother, at home,’ Peggy said. ‘Kiri, his sister, needs her own room.’
‘I have a question,’ Fred said. ‘Are you going to stop him dressing like a tart? It’s embarrassing.’
So was his comment, although of course Peggy and Fred were of a different generation and probably didn’t realise that such comments were unacceptable. The short answer was no, I wouldn’t be stopping him from dressing as he wished in the evenings and weekends. I looked at Stevie and said, ‘I assume you wear your school uniform for school?’
‘He doesn’t go to school,’ Peggy said.
‘Cathy will be liaising with the school to help Stevie return,’ Verity said.
‘I’ll give you a bloody medal if you succeed!’ Fred said. ‘We’ve both tried and got nowhere.’
‘He has a mentor,’ Peggy said. ‘That’s who we see.’
‘And a fat lot of good she is!’ Fred said. ‘Lots of talk, but is she willing to come round and get him out of bed? No!’
I looked at Stevie, who’d lost some of his previous nervousness and was now looking rather smug at having antagonised his grandfather. ‘Is there a reason you haven’t been going to school?’ I asked him.
Tilting his head to one side, he gave an exaggerated shrug. ‘It doesn’t suit me,’ he said.
‘Doesn’t suit you!’ Fred thundered. ‘You cheeky bugger! It didn’t suit us to bring up you lot after we’d brought up our own kids, but we got on with it so you’d all have a proper home.’
‘And you’ve done a good job,’ Verity said pacifyingly.
Fred scoffed, while Stevie provokingly took a small compact from his jacket pocket and checked his face in the mirror.
‘Look at him!’ Fred fumed.
Clearly Stevie knew exactly which buttons to press to annoy his grandparents perfectly!
The only positive part of the meeting, I thought as I drove home, was the photograph album. Stevie and his grandparents had asked to look through it a second time, and his gran said she was less worried now she knew he would be living in a nice house and had met me, as she’d heard some bad things about foster carers not treating kids right. Verity reassured her that I was well thought of and gave the children I looked after a high standard of care. Stevie didn’t say much other than asking how much pocket money he would be getting.
‘You won’t get any if you don’t go to school,’ Fred had seethed. They’d stopped his pocket money when he’d refused to attend school, but as a foster carer I had to give the child or young person their allowance regardless of their behaviour, which of course limited the options available to sanction negative behaviour. Many parents withhold their children’s pocket money if they misbehave and some children are expected to do household chores to earn the money. Young people in care receive an above-average pocket money allowance for their age, plus an amount set aside in a savings account and a clothing allowance, which, at Stevie’s age, he would expect to have in his hand. He would also very likely have a pay-as-you-go mobile phone, which I would be expected to top up, but I didn’t explain all this at the time to Peggy and Fred, and neither did Verity.
It was one o’clock when I arrived home. Paula had left a note saying she’d gone shopping with a friend and would be back around 4 p.m. I had a sandwich lunch and then did some clerical work while I waited for Verity to arrive with Stevie – at around three o’clock. However, just before three the landline went and when I heard Verity’s voice I knew something had changed or gone wrong.
‘Cathy, I’ve just left Mr and Mrs Jones. Stevie won’t be coming to you this afternoon. His grandparents want to give him another chance. They felt bad after the meeting and they think the threat of going into care might give him the shock he needs. I’ll be monitoring the situation and we’ll have to see how it goes.’
‘OK. Thanks for letting me know,’ I said.
While I wasn’t happy at being seen as a ‘threat’, I hoped it all worked out for them. Obviously it’s better for a child or young person if they are able to live with their family, although something told me (from years of fostering) that wasn’t going to happen here, and I was right.
Chapter Three
Trouble
It was midday on 2 January. Lucy and Adrian were at work and Paula was in her room reading in preparation for returning to college the following day. I hadn’t heard anything further from Verity, and I assumed Edith would phone before long with details of another child in need of a foster home. There was never much of a gap between one child leaving and the next arriving. I’d spent the morning taking down the Christmas decorations while I had the time and was thinking of making Paula and me some lunch when the front doorbell rang. I wasn’t expecting anyone, but sometimes a friend or neighbour dropped by, and we also had regular deliveries as we all shopped online.
But it wasn’t a parcel, friend or neighbour. To my utter amazement, as I opened the front door I saw Stevie standing there, a large holdall at his side.
‘Sorry to turn up like this,’ he said, seeing my expression of surprise. ‘But I will be staying with you after all.’
‘Oh, I see. I’m afraid it’s not that simple, but come in,’ I flustered, trying to clear my thoughts. ‘What’s happened? Does anyone know you’re here? How did you know where I live?’
‘I found your address on some papers Gran had,’ he said, stepping into the hall.
‘Does your gran know you are here?’
‘Yes.’ If she hadn’t, I would have phoned her straight away to let her know Stevie was safe.
Paula was still upstairs in her room and must have heard the doorbell and our voices but decided to stay put for now.
‘Shall I slip off my shoes and leave them here with yours?’ he asked, referring to the place beneath the coat stand where our outdoor shoes were.
‘Yes, please,’ I said absently.
‘And hang my coat here?’
‘Yes.’ I usually told my new arrivals where to leave their shoes and coat, but I was still recovering from the shock of finding Stevie on my doorstep.
I waited while he paired his shoes precisely next to ours, then hung his tweed coat on the hall stand, a multitude of questions running through my head. He was well dressed again, but the colour scheme had been toned down a little from the meeting and he was now wearing blue jeans with a yellow sweater.
‘Come through to the living room so we can have a chat,’ I said, leading the way down the hall.
‘It’s just like in your photographs,’ he said, looking around as we went. ‘Very nice.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Oh! You’ve got a cat, how delightful!’ he cried as we entered the living room. Sammy, who was still nervous of strangers, shot off the sofa and out of the room. ‘Oh, he’s gone.’ Stevie looked hurt.
‘Don’t worry. He’ll be back. Sit down.’
He settled on the sofa while I took one of the easy chairs.
‘Does Verity know you’re here?’
‘Gran phoned her,’ he said, flicking back his fringe and crossing one leg over the other. He didn’t appear particularly anxious; in fact, he looked quite at home on the sofa.
‘OK, I’ll need to talk to Verity. If she doesn’t phone soon, I’ll call her. Do you want anything to eat or drink?’ I always ask new arrivals this, as some of them haven’t eaten properly for days if they’ve come from homes where they’ve been neglected.
‘I’m good, thanks,’ he said. ‘Gran cooked me breakfast before I left. I can stay here, can’t I? I mean, for now.’
‘I don’t see why not, the room is free, but it’s not my decision. Verity will need to decide. It’s a foster placement. It’s not like a hotel where you can check in and out.’
‘She’ll be fine with it,’ he said confidently, smoothing his jeans.
‘So what happened at home? I thought you and your grandparents were going to give it another go.’
‘We did.’ He sighed theatrically. ‘It was cool for a day, everyone was on their best behaviour, until I got ready to go out on New Year’s Eve. Well, I mean, you get dressed up to go clubbing, don’t you?’ He pursed his lips indignantly.
‘Clubbing! A nightclub?’ I asked, shocked.
‘Yes. I’ve been before,’ he said defensively.
‘But you’re only fourteen. You’re not allowed into nightclubs.’
‘Nearly fifteen,’ he corrected. ‘I look older.’ Which was true.
‘Don’t the clubs ask for proof of age?’
He smiled. ‘Of course. Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve got a fake ID off the internet.’ I should have guessed – I’d heard this before. But I would be telling his social worker. It was unsafe behaviour for a boy of fourteen to be in a nightclub, and if I was going to be his foster carer I had a duty to pass this on, but I’d explain all that later.
‘It’s a straight and gay club where I can be myself,’ he added, and watched me for my reaction.
‘That’s irrelevant,’ I said. ‘A lad of your age shouldn’t be in a nightclub at all, which I’m guessing is what your grandparents said.’
‘I didn’t tell them where I was going. It was when Grandpa saw me all dressed up ready to go out with my eye glitter on that he blew his top. He said if I went out looking like that I needn’t come back. So I didn’t. I just went home this morning for some of my things.’
‘So you were missing from New Year’s Eve?’
‘Yes,’ he said almost proudly. ‘Gran kept leaving messages on my voicemail. The last one said the police were out looking for me.’ His eyes lit up at the drama of it all.
‘I would think they were worried sick. Where were you all that time?’
‘After the club closed I went back to a friend’s pad to crash.’
‘If you are going to live with me, there will be rules and boundaries.’ Best say it now, I thought, for I was concerned by his attitude.
‘Not too many rules, I hope,’ he said, flicking back his fringe again.
‘No, just enough to keep you and everyone here safe. What did your grandfather say when you returned this morning?’
‘He wasn’t there, just Gran. He’d taken Liam and Kiri to the park with their bikes. They both had new bikes for Christmas.’
I nodded. ‘And what did you get for Christmas?’
‘Money for clothes. Can I see my room now?’
‘In a minute. I’ll phone Verity first and make sure you can stay. She may have other plans for you.’
‘I’m not going back home,’ he said, his face setting. ‘She can’t make me.’
‘Let’s see what she has to say.’ I picked up the handset from the corner unit and pressed the social services’ number.
Verity was now at her desk. ‘I was about to phone you,’ she said. ‘Has Stevie arrived?’
‘Yes. About ten minutes ago.’
‘He can stay, but I’ll need to place him. I’m in a meeting soon so I’ll come over later, around three. Can you keep him in until I arrive?’
‘Yes.’
We said goodbye. ‘She said you can stay,’ I said to Stevie. ‘I’ll show you around the house.’
‘Thank you so much,’ he said, and came over and kissed my cheek.
Usually when a new child arrives it is with their social worker, so I show them around the house together, as the social worker needs to see where the child is living, but Stevie was keen to look now, so I’d show Verity around later when she arrived. I began with the room we were in, pointing out the television, and explained how we tended to relax in here in the evenings and weekends.
‘Do you have wi-fi?’ Stevie asked, taking his phone from the pocket of his jeans.
‘Yes.’
‘Can I have the password?’
‘I don’t know the code off by heart, it’ll be on the router in the front room. I’ll give it to you in a moment when we go in there.’
‘You know about the internet and stuff?’ he asked.
‘A reasonable amount, yes,’ I said.
‘Gran and Grandpa don’t. I had to use my phone credit to get online cos he kept switching off the router at night. He thought it would catch fire.’ He raised his eyebrows in exasperation.
‘We all have different ways of doing things,’ I said, and led the way into our kitchen-diner. To a younger person who’d grown up with computers, routers and mobile phones, switching off the wi-fi at night would seem ludicrous, but not to someone of Fred and Peggy’s generation.
While we were in the kitchen I took the opportunity to ask Stevie if he had any special dietary needs or was allergic to anything. It’s something the social worker would tell me in respect of a younger child.
‘No, I eat most things,’ he said easily.
‘Excellent,’ I smiled.
We left the kitchen-diner and went down the hall and into the front room. ‘I call it a quiet room,’ I said. ‘You can read and do your homework in here or in your room, whatever you prefer. The computer and printer are here too,’ I said, pointing. These were now considered essential items in a foster carer’s home.
‘And there’s the router,’ Stevie said, spotting the hub on the bookshelf. I didn’t have to read out the passcode, as he beat me to it. Going over, he entered the code and began tapping away at the keypad on his phone as if his life depended on it. I watched him for a while as his fingers flew over the letters. Completely absorbed, I think he almost forgot I was there.
‘Stevie, what do you do on the internet?’ I asked.
He looked up. ‘Chat to friends, you know, the usual stuff,’ he said, and returned his attention to the screen.
At his age, of course, he would need internet access; teenagers are all computer savvy and online now. But whereas a younger child would use my computer, which had parental-control software to protect them while online by limiting the websites they could access and filtering out inappropriate content, I guessed his phone did not. Internet safety is part of foster-carer training now and foster carers are expected to include it in their safer-caring policy. The older the child, the more difficult it becomes to monitor their activity on the internet.
‘You are careful who you talk to online, aren’t you?’ I asked. ‘I mean, you wouldn’t give out your personal details to a stranger.’
He looked slightly startled. ‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘There are some nasty people out there who can hide behind the anonymity of the internet. They can be very devious in getting what they want. I’m not trying to frighten you, but you do need to be aware.’
He nodded and continued with whatever he was doing on his phone. I’d talk to him more about internet safety another time, just as I had with Adrian, Lucy and Paula. They were of an age now to appreciate the dangers, but Stevie wasn’t. Despite the image he liked to portray, he was a vulnerable young person who was undecided about his gender identity – just the sort of person who could be preyed upon. ‘Come on, I’ll show you upstairs,’ I said. ‘Bring your bag with you.’
Still tapping his phone with one hand, he collected his bag from the hall with the other, and we went upstairs and into his room. He dropped his bag on the floor and looked up from his phone long enough to glance around and say, ‘Cool.’ He followed me out and as we continued round the landing Paula came out of her room.
‘Oh my!’ Stevie cried, clapping his hand to his chest. ‘You gave me such a fright. I didn’t know anyone else was in.’
‘Sorry, I should have told you,’ I said. ‘This is Paula, my youngest daughter. Adrian and Lucy are at work.’
‘Hello, Paula, lovely to meet you,’ he gushed. ‘But don’t go jumping out on me like that again, will you? You scared me half to death.’ His manner was effusive, over the top and completely unnecessary. It was as if he was acting a part.
‘Nice to meet you,’ Paula said, ignoring his theatricals.
I threw her an appreciative smile and then showed Stevie where the bathroom was as Paula disappeared back into her room. I didn’t take Stevie into our bedrooms, I just pointed them out and explained that all of them, including his, were private and we didn’t go into each other’s. ‘If you want Adrian, Lucy or Paula, you knock on their door and wait until they answer,’ I said. ‘They will do the same to you. OK?’
‘OK,’ he said absently, concentrating on his phone. ‘I’ll go to my room now.’
‘If that’s what you want to do,’ I said. ‘Unpack your bag and you will feel more at home. Do you need any help with your unpacking?’ He shook his head. ‘Are you sure you don’t want a drink and a snack to see you through till dinner?’
But, lost in his phone, he was already on his way to his room, and I heard the door close. I looked in on Paula, who was reading, and then went downstairs. I tidied away the work I’d been doing before Stevie had arrived, and then texted Adrian and Lucy to let them know that he was here so they didn’t just come back to find a stranger in their home.
Half an hour later I went up to check if Stevie was all right. Despite his age and apparent confident manner, he was away from his family and in an unfamiliar house. His door was closed so I knocked. ‘It’s Cathy,’ I called.
It was a few moments before he replied. ‘Yes?’
‘Is everything OK?’
Silence, so I knocked again. ‘Are you all right?’ More silence. ‘Can I come in?’
Giving another knock, I slowly opened the door and poked my head round. He was sitting on his bed, completely engrossed in his phone, the bag, not yet unpacked, on the floor. ‘Are you OK?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ he said, but some of his charisma had gone and he seemed worried.
‘Sure?’ I asked. He nodded. ‘OK, but don’t sit up here by yourself. Unpack your bag and come down if you want some company.’
He nodded again and I left him with his phone. Little wonder his grandfather had turned off the wi-fi, I thought. But I had some house rules about mobile phones, which I would explain later when his social worker was present.
I checked on Stevie again half an hour later: his bag still hadn’t been unpacked, his phone was on charge and he was gazing out of his bedroom window. His room was at the rear of the house and overlooked the garden, although there wasn’t much to see in winter.
‘Gran phoned me,’ he said quietly, turning from the window. ‘I told her I was OK.’
‘Good. And are you?’
‘What?’
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yeah, I guess.’ He shrugged.
‘You don’t seem very sure,’ I said gently, taking another step into his room. ‘You know if there’s anything worrying you, you can talk to me.’
‘I doubt it,’ he said under his breath.
‘Stevie, I have three adult children of my own and have fostered a lot of young people. I’m pretty good at listening and I won’t make judgements or be shocked by anything you have to tell me.’
He looked at me, his face serious. There was no sign of the flamboyant lad I’d seen previously. Indeed, he looked as though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.
‘Well?’ I asked. ‘Is there something you’d like to share? It often helps to talk.’
He hesitated as if he might be considering this, then said, ‘No.’
‘All right, but if you change your mind, you know where I am. If I’m busy, or with Adrian, Lucy or Paula, just say, “Cathy, can I talk to you?” and we’ll find somewhere quiet to go for a chat.’ I didn’t want to labour the point, but I knew from fostering and bringing up my own children just how much young people can bottle up their problems so that they escalate and get out of all proportion. The teenage years can be challenging and confusing for children living at home with loving parents, even more so for a young person in care.