Cathy Glass - My Dad’s a Policeman

My Dads
a Policeman

Cathy Glass

Contents

My dads a policeman and it can land me in trouble. Take last week, for example. A kid on our estate shouted: Your dad aint a policeman! Youre a bastard, same as rest of us. So I hit him, not hard, but enough to send him crying to his mother, who called the police.

Oh, Ryan, my mum sighed, exhausted, when she opened the front door two hours later to find the police there. Whatever have you done now?

At that moment I really regretted hitting that kid. Not because he hadnt deserved it no one says things about my dad and gets away with it. But because of the look on Mums face. She was so sad I thought she was going to burst into tears, and I knew it was my fault. She didnt need more trouble from me, not with everything she had to cope with.

Im sorry, Mum, I said as she let the two officers into the hall. Some kid got to me with something he said about my dad.

But Ryan youve never known your father! Why do you pretend you do and make up things about him?

I shrugged, looked at the ground and felt pretty small.

Say sorry to the police, she said. Then tomorrow you can apologise to the boy.

Im sorry, I said to the two officers, I promise it wont happen again. But I knew from the glance they exchanged my apology wasnt going to be enough this time. Id said sorry to them when Id been in trouble before and then got into more trouble.

I also knew that if the police told social services that Id been in trouble again it would be my fault if my brother and I ended up in care.

Its not your fault, the social worker said. This was a week later, and she was smiling at me over her Ted Baker half-rimmed glasses. Even without that incident with the boy, or the fire last night, the situation could not have carried on.

All the agencies involved in your case feel its in your and your brothers best interests to come into care for a while. It will give your mother a chance to sort herself out. Shes had quite a lot to cope with and this decision will help her.

I stared at the social worker. Shes called Sarah Duffy, but Mum and me have nicknamed her Duffy for short. I didnt say anything. I knew if I said what was in my head it would make things even worse.

Her comment about my mum sorting herself out had really bugged me, plus I was cross at the suggestion Mum would do better without my brother and me living with her. You cant talk to social workers; they listen but they dont hear. My mum had tried talking to social services and look where it got her!

I do understand how you must be feeling, Ryan, Duffy continued. She spoke in the same patronising, dead-beat tone. But aged twelve you are a minor and need to be looked after.

She gave a funny little sniff, which made her glasses twitch, then waited for me to agree. I hoped she found my silence unsettling or even menacing. Social workers love to talk and Duffy could talk for England. I know, Ive listened to her rabbiting on to Mum.

So theres nothing for you to worry about, she said after a while. Ill take you to your foster home shortly. Then Ill call round and see your mum and get some of your things. If Ive got time this evening Ill bring your things to you. If not, Ill bring them first thing in the morning. Duffy smiled and sniffed again. Then she looked at the folder she had open on the table.

I wondered how old Sarah Duffy was and if she was married with kids of her own. I tried to picture her kissing her old man or even having sex, but my imagination didnt stretch that far.

Your foster carer is called Libby, she said, reading from a print-out. I dont know her myself but Im sure shes a very nice lady. It says here that she has looked after lots of boys your age. Youll have your own room and plenty to eat. If you have any worries you can ask her or phone me. Ill give you the number to call before we leave. She looked at me and waited again.

I had the urge to smack her silly face not just for what she was doing to me but for what she was doing to my mum. I knew my mum would be gutted when they told her my brother and me had been taken from school into care. My mum often says my brother and me are the only reason she carries on living, and now Duffy was taking us away.

Wheres Tommy? I asked at last, speaking for the first time since Id come into her office.

Your brother is with another social worker, Duffy said. She was smiling, clearly feeling she was getting somewhere and that my talking was real progress. Hes going to a foster home not far away from yours. Once youre both settled with your foster carers, Ill arrange for the two of you to see each other later in the week.

Later in the week! I said, shocked. Tommys my brother. We have to stay together. I look after him.

I know, pet, she said, dead patronising, but my manager and I feel the needs of you and your brother would be best met if you had different placements. Tommy is young enough to make a fresh start. Read: youre a bad influence on him.

Fresh start! I said, my voice rising. What are you talking about? Tommys my little brother. He doesnt need a fresh start! I was starting to feel all hot and bothered, like I did when that kid said my dad wasnt a policeman, or when the maths teacher told me to shut up and sit down and I hit him. I felt the heat creep up my spine and it made me twitchy. I knew I had to calm down; otherwise I was going to do something I would regret. And that would make things a lot, lot worse.

I cant go without my brother, I said, taking a deep breath, and trying to be as calm as I could be. I heard my voice shake slightly from anger or fear? I promised my mum Id look after Tommy, I added. I cant let her down again.

Youre not letting your mum down, Ryan, Duffy said, fixing me with her patronising, half-rimmed Ted Baker gaze. Try not to worry. Its for the best. Your brother will be well looked after, I promise you.

What, like you promised my mum that if she worked with you and tried to stop drinking youd keep our family together? I could feel the heat rising and settling in the back of my head. My feet began to drum beneath the table.

I did my best, Ryan, Duffy said, a little too easily, like maybe she hadnt. But, as you know, your mum didnt keep to the rehab programme. We gave her a year to stop drinking but nothing changed, did it? If you hadnt woken last night and smelt smoke coming from your mums bedroom you could have all died. I understand your mum fell asleep with a cigarette

Im not going anywhere without my brother, I said tightly, interrupting. I could feel my teeth clench as panic rose. If you have to take us away from my mum, then please keep us together.

Duffy was quiet for a moment and when she spoke she was slightly subdued. Im sorry, Ryan, the decision has been made.

My brother needs me, I blurted. Hes only five. You must place us together, please, or Ill tell my dad.

I saw the faintest hint of a smile flicker across her face at my last comment, about my dad. I tried to calm the rage flaring inside me and had she not said anything more I might have managed it. I might have been OK and calmed down.

But the silly moo thought either I was dim and didnt understand what she was saying, or that I needed a reality check. Duffy continued: Ryan, pet, youre not in contact with your father, and as far as Im aware you never have been. Although I can of course appreciate why a boy of your age would like to believe he is.

For a moment I felt strangely calm, as though someone had just pulled out my fuse. When I spoke, my voice had lost its tremble and sounded calm too, almost too calm controlled. My dads a policeman, I said, meeting her gaze, and when he finds out youve taken my brother and me into care hes going to get you, big time!