Hidden Page 7

  I hid my reaction to that. The logic of his mother beggared belief – it was obviously hurtful and damaging to start undermining a child and how they felt about themselves – as if they could do anything about their genetic inheritance anyway.

  The whole area surrounding race in fostering is a minefield of political correctness (just as it is in society at large) but while I was going to tread very carefully, I wasn’t about to mince my words. It was ridiculous for Tayo to be walking around calling himself white, when part of his heritage was black. ‘Tayo, there’s no point in telling or not telling – it’s perfectly easy to see that you have an African heritage. Why not be proud of the way you look, like Lucy is? What does your mum want you to look like?’

  He shrugged again. ‘Like her, I guess.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘Malaysian.’

  ‘I see.’ I was silent for a moment, for I could see instantly what had happened. As in many children with dual heritage, one set of genes had dominated and, as a result, outwardly at least, Tayo had inherited none of his mother’s Malaysian characteristics other than a lighter skin tone. All his other features, including his hair, were African. It appeared that, for some reason, his mother had rejected that part of her son and tried to persuade herself and him that they didn’t exist. I guessed that Tayo now suffered from a very negative sense of himself and it could take a long time to undo. But there were lots of things I could do to start building a positive self-image for him, and there was no time like the present to make a start.

  ‘Tayo, we live in what is called a multicultural area, do you know what that is?’ He shook his head. ‘It means that in this town, indeed in this road, there are people from many different backgrounds. One of my neighbours is Indian; next door to him is a couple where the lady is Japanese and her partner is Egyptian. Further down the road I am friends with a family who came from Sri Lanka, which is a small island off India and used to be called Ceylon. Adrian, Lucy and Paula have lots of friends who have parents from different countries; some of their friends were born abroad. I have also fostered children from many different races and cultures. One boy I had here was a Muslim and his mother showed me how to prepare the halaal meat. He also had a prayer mat and he had to face in a certain direction when he prayed. I always accommodate the needs of the children I foster, and one of the things I would like to show you is how to oil your lovely hair.’

  He looked up, shocked and surprised, as though I had just spoken the unspeakable. ‘I have to have my head shaved every four weeks. Number two all over.’

  ‘Why is that?’ I asked, although I knew the answer even if Tayo didn’t – so that the curl of his African hair was cut off before it had a chance to show.

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t have it done last time,’ he said, ‘because Mum didn’t have the money. It needs doing now.’ It was only about half an inch long but I’d already noticed it was very dry and in poor condition.

  ‘Tayo, you can still have your number two all over, if you want, but in the meantime I’ve got some special gel in the bathroom that will give your hair a real shine. If you like, you can use some, I’ll show you what to do.’ He nodded easily. ‘Good. Now I’ve finished talking. Is there anything you’d like to say?’

  He grinned, a perfectly natural smile, and looked more relaxed. ‘No, not really.’

  ‘OK, it’s getting late and you’ve got school tomorrow. Have your shower and when you’ve changed I’ll show you how to use the gel.’

  He went off to the shower, while I put the chair back under the table and drew the curtains. Five minutes later, Tayo was back, clean and in his pyjamas and sitting expectantly in front of his bedroom mirror.

  ‘Have you towel-dried your hair?’ I asked. He gave it another rub on the towel. ‘This is the gel,’ I said, showing him the pot I’d retrieved from the bathroom. It was called simply Afro, and had a picture of a black male on the front who was very macho and seemed to appeal to Tayo. Tayo drew back his shoulders and straightened himself to his full height. ‘You only need a small amount,’ I said, unscrewing the lid, and dipping in the tip of my forefinger. I set down the jar, rubbed the blob of sheen between my palms and began lightly massaging it into his scalp and hair. ‘All right?’ I asked. He grinned in the mirror as he watched me, and I had the feeling he was enjoying the scalp massage as much as anything. Gradually his dry and wiry hair began to glisten with a deep black lustre.

  ‘Wow!’ he said. ‘That’s magic. What’s in it?’

  ‘I’ll have a look in a second.’ Once his hair and scalp were shining healthily, I wiped my hands, then inspected the pot. ‘Avocado is one of the main ingredients. I’ll leave it on your shelf tonight in case you get peckish.’

  He looked at me for a second, uncertain, then doubled up, clutching his sides, and laughing heartedly. He really did have a sense of humour when he wanted to, and it was nice that I could share a joke with him – so many of the children I had looked after had learning difficulties and would have taken my remark literally.

  ‘It wasn’t that funny,’ I said with a grin, but he was still chuckling as I pulled back the duvet and he climbed into bed. I tucked him in, then said goodnight and began towards the door.

  ‘Cathy,’ he called. ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’

  I turned. He was pointing to his forehead and grinning. I returned to the bed, and smiling, leaned over and planted a big kiss on his forehead. ‘Night, love. Sleep tight.’

  ‘And don’t let the bed bugs bite,’ we chorused together, which was to become our nightly refrain for all the months he was with me.

  Chapter Seven

  Manipulation

  ‘Look at my hair!’ Tayo said, still excited the following morning, leaping into his chair for breakfast. ‘Cool, or what!’

  ‘It’s good,’ Paula said, glancing up.

  ‘Wait till my mum sees it.’

  For a moment I wasn’t sure if this was another play-off comment, revealing that this time he intended to annoy his mother, but then I decided it was no more than an innocent remark. He obviously wanted to share his excitement with his mum.

  ‘What would you like for breakfast?’ I asked Tayo from the kitchen. The breakfast room was a small area off the kitchen, and I encouraged the children I fostered to stay there rather than actually come into the kitchen while I was cooking and risk an accident with the hot pots, oven and gas rings.

  ‘Can I have eggs and bacon, please?’ Tayo asked.

  ‘There isn’t really time for a cooked breakfast on a school morning,’ I said. ‘I’ll do you a big fry up at the weekend. Can you have cereal and toast on a school day?’

  ‘Sure,’ he called. ‘Weetabix, please. Can I have the milk warm?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  A moment later I set Weetabix with hot milk in front of him, along with the sugar jar. ‘Good service in this hotel,’ I joked. He laughed while Paula glanced up, unimpressed by my stab at early morning humour. ‘How many pieces of toast would sir like?’ I asked. ‘And what would sir like on them?’

  He was grinning from ear to ear. ‘Two please, and can I have the marmalade I had yesterday?’

  ‘Of course you can.’

  We arrived at school as planned at eight forty-five, and I left Tayo in the playground with a strict reminder that he mustn’t leave it once I’d gone. He was too old to have me wait with him until the bell rang; none of the other children his age had parents or carers waiting with them.

  ‘Have a good day and see you later,’ I called.

  He smiled and with his characteristic hop, which showed he was feeling good, ran off to join a couple of friends. He looked very smart in full school uniform and obviously felt pleased with himself.

  I returned home, cleared up the kitchen, put the Hoover round downstairs and checked that the biscuit barrel was full. Sandra was coming later and, in my experience, social workers liked clean carpets and biscuits. I took some pork chops out of the freezer to
defrost for the evening meal, then got back in my car and drove into town. I wanted to have a look in the January sales for some new shoes – for me, this time. With a shoe size of only 3, I can sometimes pick up real bargains in the sales, although occasionally I do end up in the children’s department, desperately looking for something to fit my little feet. It was my lucky day; I found a pair of shoes, then boots reduced to less than a third of the original price.

  Coming out of the shop I bumped into an old friend, Pat, whom I hadn’t seen in ages and she suggested we had some lunch together.

  Why not? I thought. All the children were accounted for and I had my mobile on if I was wanted.

  Pat and I spent a really pleasant couple of hours in a rather nice bistro, catching up, then reminiscing about our student days, laughing ridiculously as only old friends can. It was like a breath of fresh air and quite therapeutic, and as we said good-bye we made a promise to do it again in another couple of months.

  I arrived at Meadway to pick up Tayo at ten past three. I parked in the same spot as the day before – I’m a creature of habit – and waited in the playground until the bell went. Then I slipped into the school building past the children hurrying out all around me, and found my way to Tayo’s classroom. He was waiting by Mrs Gillings’ desk as the others headed out.

  ‘Hello,’ a boy said. I looked down. It was the friend of Tayo’s I’d met yesterday.

  I smiled. ‘Hello, Sam.’

  Tayo saw me and gave a little wave. Mrs Gillings looked up and motioned for me to go in.

  ‘Have you had a good day?’ I asked Tayo, then looked at Sonya Gillings for confirmation.

  ‘Pretty good,’ she said. ‘He’s got a piece of science to finish for homework. I’ve given him some new exercise books as the other ones went missing last term. Does he have a school bag?’

  I looked at Tayo. ‘Do you?’

  ‘No. It got left behind where we stayed after Christmas.’

  ‘And can you get it back?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I’ll get him a new one tomorrow,’ I said to Sonya Gillings. ‘I won’t have time tonight, his social worker is coming. Is there anything else he needs for school?’

  ‘Only the basic pen, pencil and ruler. And a set of crayons would be useful, though not essential.’

  ‘I’ll see to it,’ I said, then smiled at Tayo. ‘More new things. It’s like Christmas all over again.’

  He grinned back.

  ‘Well, let’s get going. See you tomorrow, Mrs Gillings,’ I said, ready to leave.

  ‘Actually, Mrs Glass, do you think I could have a word?’ she said.

  I experienced that sinking feeling which only those words, spoken by a teacher can elicit. ‘Can I have a word?’ usually means that the child has been up to something that needs to be discussed out of earshot – and then dealt with by me later.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said with an inward sigh.

  ‘Tayo, go and read a book in the library please, until we’ve finished,’ Sonya Gillings said.

  Tayo didn’t look guilty as he hopped off, although most children also know that ‘Can I have a word?’ spells trouble for them.

  As soon as Tayo was out of earshot, Sonya Gillings said, ‘I thought I should tell you that Tayo came to me this morning looking very sorry for himself and said you wouldn’t let him have breakfast.’

  ‘What?’ I exclaimed, horrified.

  ‘No, it’s OK. I know Tayo, and I’m sure that if he didn’t have breakfast this morning, it must have been for a good reason. That’s what I told him.’

  I opened and closed my mouth like a goldfish as the words fought to get out. ‘He most certainly did have breakfast, a good one!’ I said indignantly. ‘Why on earth would he tell such a silly lie?’ Then I remembered what had happened that morning. ‘It’s true that he asked me for bacon and eggs, and I said that there wasn’t enough time for that on a school day. He seemed perfectly happy, and had cereal and toast instead. I warmed his milk specially!’ I couldn’t help feeling hurt and angry. ‘I don’t believe it! How dare he say such a thing!’

  Sonya Gillings placed a reassuring hand on my arm. ‘Don’t worry. Tayo’s done this sort of thing before. I’ll explain to the Head.’

  ‘He told the Head as well?’ I asked, astounded.

  She nodded. ‘He told anyone who would listen.’

  ‘Little devil,’ I said, my usual sanguinity now completely gone. ‘He must realize that’s a very damaging accusation to make about his carer. He seems to like being with us – why is he so hell bent on trying to get me into trouble?’

  ‘I think it might be more about making people feel sorry for him,’ Sonya Gillings suggested.

  I looked at her. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Well, for the last term Tayo has had a lot of sympathy from staff and classmates. His unkempt appearance, his mother turning up drunk in the playground, all the different addresses … it was obvious things were bad at home. Often he looked pretty depressed. I supposed he enjoyed all the attention and didn’t want to lose it.’

  ‘I give him lots of attention,’ I said lamely.

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ Sonya Gillings said. ‘Look, Tayo is a bright child and we all like him here, but there is another side to him. As his class teacher, I’ve seen it more than the other staff and I know how good he is at manipulating situations for his own ends – surprisingly good for a boy of his age. I suppose he’s had to learn how to look out for himself and manipulate his mother as well, though I’ve no sympathy with her. But he has tried it on with me a few times so I know what he’s like. At the end of last term he went to Mrs Saunders, our welfare lady, looking very sorry for himself and complaining that the class had made mince pies the day before when he’d been absent, and that they’d eaten them all. He said he was very disappointed because he’d never tasted a mince pie as his mother never had the money to buy them. Well, dear Mrs Saunders, who can only see good in anyone, went out at lunchtime and with her own money bought half a dozen mince pies which she gave to him, and he ate them after his school dinner. What Tayo hadn’t told her was that I’d saved two mince pies for him, which he knew I was going to give him at home time. When I found out, I was very cross with him for taking advantage of Mrs Saunders’ good nature, even though he had misled her rather than lied to her. It’s not much of an offence, I know, but I do have to have my wits about me when dealing with Tayo, and I think you will too.’

  ‘That’s good to know – thank you,’ I said thoughtfully, but while I was grateful for her support, I still felt very deflated by what Tayo had said. After all, in this case he’d not just misled, he’d told a deliberate lie. ‘But do you realize that if he’d told his social worker I hadn’t let him have breakfast, I’d have been investigated? The Social Services always take complaints from a child seriously and act on them. The complaint would be on my record even if it was found to be untrue.’

  She looked at me sympathetically. ‘I admire you foster carers, you do a very difficult job. Anyway, I thought I’d better let you know, but please don’t worry about the breakfast issue. I’ll make everyone aware of the truth of the matter first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I raised a smile. ‘I’ll have to talk to him about it. I’m sure he has no idea how serious the repercussions could be. And would you let me know if Tayo doesn’t hand in homework? I always make sure homework is done before television time, so if it doesn’t appear, there’s no excuse.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Thank you,’ Sonya said. ‘We’ll have to work quite closely.’

  I nodded. ‘I’d better get going now. We can’t be late for his social worker. Thank you for dealing with this.’

  I found Tayo by himself in the library, coat on, poring over a book as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. ‘Ready?’ I asked.

  He stood immediately, returned the book to its correct place on the shelf, and trotted up to me. ‘Can we get my school bag now?’ he asked, excitedly.<
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  ‘No. Tomorrow. We’ve got your social worker coming.’ I turned and led the way out of the building, with Tayo bobbing along beside me. I was quiet, still subdued from the revelation, and wondering what I was going to say to him. For his part, he chatted away, unperturbed, telling me about his day. Yesterday it would have pleased me, but today I saw it as a tactic to distract me from what he must know I had to say.

  I let him continue talking until we got in the car. ‘Is your seat belt on?’ I asked, as I always do before starting the engine.

  ‘Yes, Cathy. Shall I do my homework before or after my social worker visits?’

  ‘After. There won’t be time before.’ As I pulled away, I said, ‘Tayo, why did you tell Mrs Gillings I hadn’t given you breakfast?’

  ‘I didn’t!’ he exclaimed at once.

  I met his eyes in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Is that what she told you?’ he continued. ‘If she did, it was a lie. I never said that. What I said was I couldn’t have a cooked breakfast because there wasn’t time on a school day. Which was right, wasn’t it, Cathy?’ He looked the picture of wronged innocence. Then he added, ‘Mrs Gillings doesn’t like me.’

  I shouldn’t have expected more, but somehow I was disappointed. I’d had foster children lie to me before, of course, but somehow when it came from someone of Tayo’s obvious intelligence and pleasant disposition, it felt much worse. I stared at the car in front and kept my voice even. ‘Tayo, that’s not true. Mrs Gillings does like you, and so do I. I believe what she told me, and I’m not going to make an issue of it, but it will make my relationship with you very difficult if you lie like this.’

  ‘I didn’t—!’ he began again.

  I was trying to treat Tayo as his maturity required and it was hard to have him go on pretending to me. I raised my voice slightly. ‘Tayo, I believe Mrs Gillings, and you need to think very carefully before you do anything like that again.’ I glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw his face set into a sulk. I really did feel quite hurt that he was doing this when I had gone to so much trouble to welcome him at home. Fortunately Mrs Gillings was no fool, but someone else – such as too-trusting Mrs Saunders – might have been taken in.