Given Time

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When I last saw Terry, he picked up the clock from the mantelpiece and threw it across the room. Jenny screamed and I shouted some expletive. Then he was gone, running out of the house, his social worker rushing after him perhaps imagining that he was about to run for ever. Instead, he got in the back of her car and flopped down.

 

Jenny ran out and shouted, ‘Terry, it’ll be alright, I promise.’ But he lay prone below the window and would not look. In a few moments the car had disappeared down the road.

 

I know Jenny should not have said that, and so does she. We were in no position to promise anything. We’d had him for six months and they had been some of the most rewarding and most dire in our years as foster parents. After that, things were no longer ours to decide. That’s the trouble with fostering. You have complete control and then none, no half way measures, no giving of advice to those who follow about what you learnt. They have to start again, fresh ideas, trying things out. But so do poor kids like Terry. He got just enough time to love then had to learn once again how to live with his own mother.

 

We know the theory of course. What they get is a whole lot better than what they would have got. For Terry it would have been beatings from his father, being locked up in a cupboard to drown his screams. It would have been a diet close to starvation because, for the last year or so, bread was what they thought about after alcohol and cocaine. It was when his father got locked up for burglary that the welfare people got involved. Terry was ‘taken into the care of the local authority’. How much terror and injustice do those benign, technical, institutional words hide? They thought about putting him into a care home after he had helped to destroy the lives of other foster parents. We were the last resort.

 

‘We have this young lad,’ Liz had said. She was the link social worker we usually dealt with. Tall and skeletal, she looked as though the wind would blow her over. And from the look of her hair, it may well have done. But she was good at her job, intelligent and realistic. When you foster, the first thing that goes is judging by appearance.

 

‘Quite a handful I’m afraid. His mother has decided to reform. She’s weaning herself off the booze and drugs, started divorce proceedings and asked for Terry back. That’s where he should be, of course, and if things go as well as they look that’s what we’re aiming for. We need him to experience a solid family life before that happens, get him used to a domestic environment.’

 

Terry was a wiry lad and short for his eleven years. He had small staring eyes that gave him a shifty appearance and sallow look, likely due to his poor diet. His hair would never lie down, never managed a sheen to its surface even when newly washed. One of my overriding memories is of a kid who found it impossible to look neat and tidy. It wasn’t helped by a crooked left arm, the result of one of his dad’s drunken moods and a failure to get the fracture treated in time.

 

We showed him Adrian’s set of toy trucks the day after he arrived. Looking back I can see that our son’s need to keep them ordered and spotless seemed obsessive. But, at the time, it was good to see his mature ability, at the age of eight, to look after things while being willing to share. Terry’s face gleamed with avarice. Possibly for the first time in his life he was confronted with perfect, shining playthings, like being let loose in a toyshop.

 

‘Would you like to play with them?’ I asked him.

 

His face looked up at me, a mixture of pleading and pleasure, and he crouched down to touch them. Nervously at first, he pushed one then the others slowly across the floor. They turned at corners made of chair legs, stopped at imaginary lights, picked up some bricks, and whatever else that would fit, then made their return journey to be garaged under the edge of the bed. Within seconds Terry was oblivious to our presence and we left them together. The screams and shouts were heard about half an hour later. Adrian came running down stairs clutching his favourite truck.

 

‘Daddy, stop him hurting my toys.’

 

I ran up stairs to find Terry kicking the trucks around the room like footballs.

 

‘No, Terry. You must not do that.’

 

 I picked him up while he was still kicking, getting a few bruises for the effort, and carried him downstairs.

 

‘Look,’ said Jenny, showing me the truck.

 

One of the wheels had been bent at right angles. Adrian had his head buried in her lap and was sobbing.

 

‘I only wanted to play with them,’ he managed to say through his tears.

‘You must allow Adrian to play with his trucks, Terry,’ I said.

‘But I was playing with them,’ he screamed, his face red with fury.

‘Adrian lent them to you for a little while. Why can’t you play together?’

‘He was getting in the way. He walked right across my road.’

 

It was clear that I was never going to transpose myself into a child’s world of ethics and equality. I explained the need to play together, promised Adrian I would buy a replacement and left it there. We had many days like that.

 

A week or so later we discovered his adoration of steak and kidney pie. He used to come into the kitchen at meal times and look reverently at the feast on the dining table. Sometimes he would follow that by a plunge of hands and fingers into anything that looked edible if he got half a chance. He knew the rudiments of behaviour and we continued the learning process but the day of the steak and kidney pie was different. When he walked up to the table I saw the same glazed look that had overcome him when confronted with shining trucks.

 

‘Is that steak and kidney?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ replied Jenny. ‘I hope you like it.’

‘Yeah! My Mum used to make it. It was my favourite.’

‘Oh, that’s good. Well sit down. We’ll start in a minute.’

 

The meal began well. He was keen to please. We talked about the things we might do over the coming months and learnt of his interest in the Imperial War Museum. I promised to take him. When their plates began to look denuded I gave the children a second portion each.

 

‘They’ve got a bigger bit than me,’ said Terry.

 

He reached over and tried to grab Melissa’s portion. She screamed with fear. She was just six and had no means of combating an attack by a boy twice her age. The piece of pie squelched like mud in Terry’s hands.

 

‘No, Terry,’ I shouted. ‘That’s a very bad thing to do.’ But before I had finished he had repeated the manoeuvre on Adrian’s piece.

 

I ran round to remove him from the table as he swept his hand across its surface. Dinner plates, sauce bottles and remnants of pie streamed through the air and smashed into the kitchen cabinets. There was a moment of silence as gravy made its lazy way down the doors and dripped quietly onto the floor.

 

Adrian and Melissa started to cry. Jenny cowed back against the wall as though she might become the next target. I grabbed Terry, once again getting damaged by his flailing arms and legs, and took him to his room.

 

‘Why, Terry, why?’ I asked. I felt like hitting him but controlled myself. He had been brought up knowing that hitting and abuse were the only way of getting what you wanted. The last thing I needed to do was to confirm it.

 

‘I should’ve ’ad a bigger bit. I’m bigger than them,’ he shouted.

 

I tried to work my way round this masterpiece of rational thought.

 

‘How much do you think I should have had. I’m bigger than you.’

He sat in silence.

‘Did your Dad always have the biggest bits?’

He nodded. ‘Sometimes.’

‘Do you think he should have had the biggest bits?’

 

Terry remained quiet and turned away. He was still breathing heavily. Then he said, ‘’E used to steal my chips. ‘E already ’ad more than anyone else. Then he stole mine when ’e’d finished.’

 

‘Did you say something?’

‘I did once but he ’it me. I got to keep ’em if I ate fast.’

‘So now you’re in our family. You don’t have to hit to get anything.’ I put my hand across his shoulder. ‘Would you come downstairs with me and say your sorry?’

 

He nodded.

 

I can’t say it was perfect from then on. Toys still got broken on occasion. And the day he ripped Adrian’s wallpaper was difficult. He’d done it because he’d accidentally torn a piece in his own room and it wasn’t fair that Adrian hadn’t. You try to teach sharing and equality but you can’t foresee the twists and turns that a young, damaged mind goes through to sort the ideas out.

 

Jenny got up the courage to try steak and kidney again some weeks later. Terry had the decency to look embarrassed when he saw it. All of us were unusually quiet at first.

 

‘We’re going to the park this afternoon, kids,’ I said once everyone was tucking in. ‘Anything particular you want to take?’

‘I’m taking my plane,’ said Adrian.

‘I don’t like planes,’ said Melissa. ‘I just want to go on the swings.’

‘You be careful near the swings. They can come back and hit you,’ I said.

‘I can look after Melissa,’ said Terry. ‘I’ll see she’s all right.’

 

I regretted the silence that followed that remark. The gap in the conversation seemed to convey either disbelief or derision. I did not want it there and tried to fill it.

 

‘I’d appreciate that very much, Terry. Thanks. That means I can go and play with Adrian’s plane. Maybe we can take it in turns.’

‘Would you like a little bit more pie, Terry?’ asked Jenny.

 

There was another short silence which I privately wished away.

 

‘No it’s okay. They can have it.’ He gave a shifty look towards Adrian’s and Melissa’s plates.

‘Are you sure? We can share it out if you want.’

 

He shook his head.

 

Liz saw us fairly regularly. It was always tricky to know how much to say. You want to make it clear what difficulties you have but don’t want it to sound like moaning or incompetence.

 

‘It’s going to take a long time to rid him of the lessons he’s learnt,’ I said.

‘But he is learning,’ replied Liz. ‘You’re doing a good job. I can see a tremendous difference in him.’

 

I have to admit we were pleased with the progress and it was a little difficult not to feel proud. But, in truth, we could have no idea why Terry got on with us and not with his previous, benighted foster parents. Sometimes it’s just the way personalities match. It could even have been that we were third and not first. Whatever. Terry seemed happy with us and the worst thing was that we were fast becoming happy with him.

 

‘His mother would like to see him soon. She wants to take him out for the day.’

‘Yes, well. She’s entitled, obviously.’

When Terry was told the news he asked, ‘Will I be coming back to you?’

‘Of course you will,’ replied Jenny. ‘But one day you’ll be living with your mother again.’

 

Terry said nothing. He just walked away. I heard his heavy steps on the stairs and his bedroom door slam.

 

Terry’s mother had made a lot of effort to look smart. She stood at the front door, lips thickly covered in scarlet, cheeks overly blushed and eye lashes weighed down with mascara. Her tight skirt held her legs firmly vertical and her hair was full and solid. No wind was going to knock that over. She was still an attractive woman in spite of it all but I couldn’t help wondering momentarily what her table manners were like.

 

‘Mr Stanhope?’ She enquired while holding a piece of paper as though reading from a script. ‘I’m Terry’s Mum.’

 

She put the paper in her pocket and grasped her handbag with both hands.

 

‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs Carter,’ I said and welcomed her in.

 

She made a crab-like manoeuvre to get over the threshold and wriggled into the lounge. Terry was sitting at the end of the sofa looking as tidy as he ever could.

 

‘Hello Terry,’ she said as she stood at the door.

‘Hello Mum,’ replied Terry from the sofa.

 

Neither moved.

 

‘I’ll leave you to talk.’ I said. ‘We’ll be in the kitchen.’

 

With that I closed the door.

 

Terry was quieter than I would have guessed when he came home again that evening.

 

‘Did you have a good time?’ I asked.

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘What did you do?’

‘We went round the shops and had fish and chips. I bought this.’

 

He handed me a box. Inside was a tiny aluminium biplane and a spike on a stand.

 

‘You put the plane on the spike. It balances. Look.’

 

Terry took the pieces out of the box and placed the plane in position. It rocked gently.

 

‘If you move it, it looks like it’s flying.’

He gave it a gentle nudge. It rocked furiously still glued to its spike.

‘See?’

‘That’s great, Terry.’

‘It’s for you.’

‘For me?’

How easy it is to say the wrong thing for the right reason. This young lad couldn’t afford this. We were the ones who were supposed to be giving. But then, by accepting the gift, that’s exactly what I would be doing.

 

‘That’s lovely, Terry. I’m really pleased with it. I’ll put it on the mantelpiece.’

 

I moved across the room quickly so he wouldn’t see my eyes.

 

The day his mother came to take him away, Terry stayed in his room. I went to fetch him when they arrived.

 

‘Your mother’s here Terry.’

His head remained lowered. ‘Why can’t I stay ’ere?’ he asked quietly.

‘Because your mum wants you to be with her.’

He looked up fiercely. ‘But no one’s asked me ’ave they?’

 

I had no answer that would satisfy. He was right. No one had asked him. When it comes to eleven year olds, parents and guardians have all the rights.

 

I picked up his bag and opened the door. ‘Come on Terry,’ I said.

 

He ran out, not looking at me, and clumped down the stairs.

 

The whole family were in the living room. Mrs Carter and his social worker, someone we hadn’t met before, stood awkwardly in one corner watching us say goodbye. Jenny gave him a cuddle and I shook his hand. I wanted so much more. He stood staring at me and I said it was time to go. It was then that he ran to the mantelpiece, threw the clock across the room and ran outside.

 

I thought through all these things as I drove to the police station. What had he become? Seven years was a long time and we had given up fostering many months ago. Adrian, now well into his teens, had grown into a sensitive lad and was, I was forced to admit, not good at handling the rough and tumble imposed on him by children from less protected backgrounds. Whatever we felt or thought, and sometimes those processes resulted in contradiction, our loyalties had to lie first with our own children’s interests.

 

‘I’m Mr Stanhope,’ I said to the custody sergeant. He was a youngish lad, in his twenties I suppose. I was reaching the age when policemen were looking too young for the job. ‘I understand you have Terry Carter in custody.’

‘Yes, Mr Stanhope, thanks for turning up. Took a bit of time to track you down. Terry’s been arrested for breaking and entering. He asked for you as an ‘appropriate adult.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with the process. What does that mean?’

‘He’s entitled to have an adult as support with him when questioned. He’s not been formally charged yet.’

‘But I haven’t seen him for years. He went to live with his mother. What happened?’

‘I don’t know all the details yet sir but he’s not living with her now by all accounts. Lives on the streets. Anyway he doesn’t want his parents involved. That’s where you come in.’

‘Can I see him on my own?’

‘Certainly sir.’

 

A constable led me down a featureless passage to the interview room.

 

‘Okay, Terry. You’ve got a visitor,’ snapped the constable as he unlocked the door. ‘Ten minutes,’ he said to me quietly as he closed it behind me.

 

The room was windowless and barren apart from a table and chairs in the centre. The floor was concrete and the walls were of brick, lightly painted. I’d never been in one before and a sense of claustrophobia swept over me. If the place was designed to produce a sort of institutionalised fear they'd got it right. Terry was sitting on a chair smoking a cigarette. He looked a lot untidier than before with his torn sweater and jeans. His hair resembled a hay stack that had been slept in. He was resting his arm on a knee, hooked up and supported by a second chair. The other leg dangled purposelessly over the floor.

 

‘Hello, Terry.’

‘What’s this then. Some sort of rescue party? You got the cavalry outside?’

‘May I sit down?’

‘Please yerself.’

‘How have you been keeping?’

 

Terry gave a muffled snort but said nothing.

 

‘They said you mentioned my name.’

‘May’ve done.’

‘It’s nice to see you again.’

‘Is it? Like the room do ya? Not a bad little place is it? You ’ave to be special to get one of these rooms. Like no one gives a shit. That sort of special. No what I mean?’

‘I give a shit, Terry. I was very sorry to see you go and I’m very sorry that things have ended up like this.’

‘You promised everything would be alright. Well it bloody wasn’t.’

‘Your mother seemed to want you back.’

‘It was alright for a while. Then me dad came back.’

‘I thought your mother divorced him.’

‘She did. But he came back anyway and she couldn’t say no. Everything went back to where it was. She chucked him out and got someone else. He was not much better. The third bloke was worse. ’E chucked me out in the end.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘On the streets. Where else?’ He took a final drag of his cigarette, stubbed it out and threw it on the floor. ‘Do you know what’s funny. They think this is punishment. When you’ve been in the gutter, it’s kinda nice to be arrested. Meals and a bit of warmth. Lovely.’

‘How do you manage to live on the streets?’

‘You find what you can where you can.’

‘Like other people’s houses?’

‘Either that or starve. Sometimes I wonder if me dad wasn’t right all along. Look after yerself ’cos no one else will.’

‘Maybe you and I could start again, you know, keep in touch.’

‘Bit late for that, ain’t it? You didn’t care all those years ago. Just shook me ’and ’n that was it. I didn’t wanna go and you knew it.’

‘That’s not fair, Terry. We had no choice. We only had you for a little while. I didn’t want you to go either. Anyway you made your point clear. I had to throw away the clock. It was a complete wreck.’

 

Terry was silent for a while. Then he said, ‘I didn’t mean to do that.’

 

‘It looked very intentional from where we were standing. I remember looking at the clock and telling you it was time. Then you went over and destroyed it. Like time wouldn’t pass if you couldn’t see it.’

‘Cor, listen to the amateur trick cyclist. I mean it wasn’t supposed to be the clock. I bought you a present. I didn’t want you to ’ave it no more. I was too angry, just made a mistake that’s all.’

 

I felt in my pocket and brought out the little metal plane.

 

‘You mean this?’

Terry’s eyes widened. ‘You’ve still got it!’

 

He dropped his leg to the floor, turned towards the table and took it off me.

 

‘Where’s the spike?’

‘It’s at home. I haven’t lost it.’

 

He stroked the toy almost lovingly and studied it from several angles as though imagining it streaking across the sky. Then he put it down.

 

‘Lot of good it did.’

‘You don’t buy presents for what good they do. You do it because you like someone.’

‘Yeah, well.’

‘Anyway, I’m here. That’s a result isn’t it?’

 

He lit another cigarette and resumed his position.

 

‘Do you think you could put a word in?’

‘I will certainly do that Terry. I don’t know what it’ll achieve. We’ll just have to hope.’

‘Yeah, well.’

 

When I got back to the custody sergeant he looked none too pleased.

 

‘Are you aware, sir, that Terry is eighteen?’

I pondered on that for a moment. ‘Well now you mention it, I suppose he is.’

‘I’ve just had word from the investigating officer. It appears we’ve been misinformed. You should have advised us of his age.’

‘I never thought about it. Is it important?’

‘Terry Carter is an adult. He’s allowed no visitors except his solicitor. I take it you’re not a solicitor.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Then that’s that I’m afraid. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been bothered.’

‘What do you mean that’s that? He’s still a person. He still needs help.’

‘He’s eighteen. Everything falls on his shoulders now. That’s the law.’

‘You know what they say about the law.’

 

A man was standing behind me that I hadn’t noticed before and I presume had just walked out of the bowels of the police station. He was staring at me.

 

‘Did I hear you mention Terry Carter?’

 

The man was rotund but was smartly dressed in sports jacket and striped tie.

 

‘Who needs to know?’ I asked.

‘If you’re Terry Carter’s dad you ought to be bloody ashamed of yourself, bringing up a monster like that.’

‘He’s not a monster. Who the hell are you?’

‘I own the house he trashed. Bloody tearaways. Do you want to hear the gory details?’

 

I shook my head and walked towards the door.

 

‘The place was a bloody tip. Books, broken china everywhere. They’d drunk the booze, taken the video, TV, everything.’ He followed me out into the car park. ‘I was back here only to add to the list of things missing. The bedroom looked like a bomb had hit it. My wife’s clothes were everywhere. She can’t go back home. Hasn’t stopped crying. We feel we’ve been assaulted. It’s disgusting. If I could get my hands on him I’d kill him.’

 

I reached my car and fumbled for my keys but the man was still in full flow. ‘Nothing’s too bad for the likes of those sort of cretins. A good whipping wouldn’t go amiss. Then lock ‘em up and throw the key away. If he’s inside he can’t do any more damage.’

 

The thoughtless clichés poured out like venom. But then it had never happened to me and I could only imagine what he was feeling.

 

‘Well I’m not his father. I knew him some years ago. And I know his background. He’s had a terrible childhood.’

‘Oh don’t start the excuses,’ the man shouted. ‘He deserves all he gets. I had a rotten childhood but I don’t go around ruining other people’s lives.’

 

I pressed the ‘unlock’ button and opened the door. ‘I’m sorry about your house and I wasn’t giving excuses,’ I said quietly. ‘He’s not even been charged yet but if he did it I know there’s no excuse. But I do know some of the reasons. I don’t expect you to sympathise but if we cared more about why this sort of thing happens maybe we could prevent some of the kids from getting into more trouble.’

 

‘Now don’t come that one with me. I pay my taxes for all these social bloody workers. Look what good it does.’

 

I leaned against the car. Getting in didn’t seem the right thing to do. Anyway I had a point to make.

 

‘Listen. Some kids get a bad start in life so why can’t we just think it through. Where’s this magic stardust to shower over them on their eighteenth birthday? What makes us think Terry could have turned into a mature adult, nice little job, no baggage to carry around, no memories, everything nice and cosy just because we’ve given him a new label marked “adult”? Why does the law protect him as a kid and then throw him to the wolves? If he goes to prison what good will that do?’

 

‘He won’t be busting up anybody else’s home, that’s what,’ said the man. He stormed away then turned and shouted, ‘I just want my wife back. Bastards!’

 

I sat down and waited while my breathing returned to normal. I hadn’t been so sure first of all, but that conversation had sort of convinced me. If I did nothing except let the law take its course, all the efforts made when he was a kid would have been a waste of time.

 

While driving home I tried to think of ways of convincing Jenny and my kids that being a surrogate family was a good idea. Assuming his guilt, maybe he’d get time inside. But after that? We couldn’t take away his childhood, history was history, but given time, perhaps we could find a way through the sorry mess. I kept on recalling that anguished man and his trashed home. I denied I was Terry’s father. It’s stupid I know but I felt a bit ashamed about that.