‘What was your last foster home like?’ I vaguely remember Dad saying that this is George’s fourth placement, but I was eavesdropping at the time.
‘Awful,’ he replies in a low voice.
‘How many have you been to?’
‘After my aunt and before this, a couple,’ he confirms. ‘They couldn’t have given two shits about any of us – definitely only in it for the money.’
I know the sort of carer he means. There are three distinct types: kin, people like my parents who are passionate and resilient, and those who are, as George says, ‘only in it for the money’.
My parents hate to be lumped into this third category. Fostering does pay, but Mum and Dad spend so much of their own money on extras, from nice food to days out like this, not to mention trees for the tree planting ceremony, that they could never be accused of rolling in it.
‘Were you mistreated?’
He shrugs. ‘The first placement was appalling. Our so-called foster mam made one lass stand in the corner facing the wall for four hours, wouldn’t even let her go to the bog. I was only there for a few weeks until they found a more permanent placement for me. The next lot simply didn’t care. There was a lad who wet the bed and they couldn’t be arsed to wash his sheets, so our room stank like nothing I’d ever known. No one was told to shower – I think I was the only one who bothered, half the time.’
‘How did you leave?’
‘Walked out.’
‘You ran away?’
‘No, I just said I was leaving and wouldn’t be coming back. Or I might’ve said, “fuck this”, but I went to school and asked them to contact my social worker. I told her that I wasn’t going back so she’d better move me on or I would run away. She took me to your place.’
‘I hope you like our place better than the last two?’
He smiles at me. ‘Stop fishing for compliments.’
I laugh, feeling warm inside.
We’re still walking on the grass beside the river, but it’s widened out now, unrecognisable from the tumbling stream by the abbey. A family of swans glides beside us, a few metres away. George watches them.
‘How are you feeling about sharing a room with Jamie?’ I ask.
I know my parents want the study back, but they’re giving Jamie a few days to get used to life without Preston.
‘Fine,’ he says. ‘I like Jamie, he’s a good lad.’
I smile. ‘Yeah.’
‘I hope he doesn’t mind sharing with me.’
‘He won’t. I bet you’ll be better company than Preston.’
I mean it as a joke, but I feel a twinge, even as I say it. Preston cried when he left us yesterday – we all did. Joanne still had red swollen eyes at dinner.
George gives me a curious look. ‘What’s the deal with Jamie’s family?’
‘He has eight brothers and sisters, half from different fathers. Five of his younger siblings have been adopted – Jamie hasn’t even met three of them. His mother has learning difficulties and struggles to parent, but she keeps getting pregnant.’
She was only thirteen when she had her first baby.
‘Does Jamie ever see her?’
I shake my head. ‘Not in a while.’
When Jamie was taken into care, his mother kicked up such a fuss, but she hasn’t turned up for a single one of his foster review meetings. At the same time, she’s refused to give her permission for him to go on holiday with us in case it meant he’d miss one of her allocated visitation days. As a result, we basically stopped going on holiday, even though she’s cancelled the visits more than she’s attended them.
Jamie hasn’t seen her in almost a year, but I don’t think he minds – he’s certainly not pushing for a meeting.
‘What about his siblings?’ George asks.
‘He’s in touch with his two older brothers, but you’d have to talk to him about that,’ I reply uneasily, partly avoiding the question.
Jamie isn’t like George. When he came to us, he was in a terrible place. His home had been so chaotic and he was living in poverty, literally starving. He was so malnourished and skinny that he looked my age, not almost three years older. He used to eat his meals so fast that he’d throw them up afterwards, and he hoarded food too: stole it out of other children’s bags at school and even shoplifted. He wouldn’t think twice about eating anything edible that had fallen on the floor.
The teachers didn’t understand – they hadn’t had nearly enough training to know how to support him – and when the headteacher brought up the possibility of exclusion, Mum and Dad fought tooth and nail for Jamie to get the extra help that he needed. It’s hard to believe any of this when you see him now.
It took him a while to get used to the peace and quiet at home, though. And then he did get used to it and the thought of having to go back to his own home again gave him nightmares. Jamie wanted to leave that life behind, had to, for his own sanity.
‘Actually, maybe don’t,’ I say, changing my mind.
I doubt Jamie will want to talk to George about his siblings, and I don’t think George will want to hear what Jamie has to say.
‘Okay,’ he replies, and I sense that he understands.
We’ve reached the landscaped Georgian Water Garden now and we cross over an old stone bridge that is coated with thick bright-green moss. Below us, the river stretches on, the man-made edges now dead straight and pristinely manicured. In the distance, there are two moon-shaped ponds and a round lake, complete with a central white neo-classical statue. But here, the landscape climbs steeply before us and visible amongst the thick forest of trees is a pretty round rotunda. The view is awesome from up there, but I’m not sure we have time to climb up.
‘Uh-oh,’ I say as it starts to rain. ‘I didn’t bring my raincoat.’
‘Neither did I,’ George replies.
‘I’m sure it’ll pass soon. The weather forecast said no rain.’
Up ahead, a stone grotto has been built into the hill. The incline around it rises so steeply that the roots of conifers are protruding from the dirt.
‘They look like octopus tentacles,’ George says, nodding at the tangle of roots.
He’s right: one of the tree trunks has been cut away, giving even more of an impression of an octopus with an elongated body.
‘You and your squid analogies,’ I say with a smile. ‘First there was the inky colour of the River Nidd, and now you’ve found your octopuses.’
He says nothing at first, and then he gives me a sidelong look, a twinkle in the depths of his dark eyes. ‘I’m a man of many molluscs.’
I laugh loudly and he grins, making my insides bubble and fizz.
‘Is English your favourite subject?’ I ask.
He nods. ‘Yeah. I’ve always liked it.’
The light pitter-pattering all around us suddenly breaks into a full-on pounding.
‘Argh!’ I squeal, taken by surprise.
‘Over here,’ George says, running towards the grotto.
We stumble into the small cave. It’s damp and dark, but it’s sheltered, and there’s a small bench seat. We sit down and stare out of the toothy stone opening at the rain hammering down.