Casey Watson - Angels with Dirty Faces: Five Inspiring Stories

These books are works of non-fiction based on the authors experiences. In order to protect privacy, names, identifying characteristics, dialogue and details have been changed or reconstructed.

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The Little Princess first published by HarperElement 2016

No Place for Nathan first published by HarperElement 2014

Daddys Boy first published by HarperElement 2016

The Wild Child first published by HarperElement 2015

Scarletts Secret first published by HarperElement 2014

This collection first published by HarperElement 2017

FIRST EDITION

Casey Watson 2016, 2014, 2016, 2015, 2014, 2017

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Source ISBNs: 9780008142711; 9780007543106; 9780008142704; 9780007543113; 9780007544202

Ebook Edition November 2017 ISBN: 9780008274771

Version: 2018-01-17

Dear readers,

Im excited to share with you a collection of short stories about some of the children who have briefly passed through our lives yet left a lasting impression. Although Mike and I are specialist carers, and ideally are meant to look after children for much longer periods of resettling, we are often asked to take in emergency or short-term children in between placements. We love doing this, of course, and through it we have met some delightful new people, both of the little variety (the children) and the larger kind (social workers and new teams of staff), whom we otherwise wouldnt have met.

These shorter placements can bring a feeling of achievement, when weve been able to play some part in helping a particular young person in need, but they can often leave us feeling sad and discontented that weve only been a stop-gap, a stepping stone on a much longer journey that we wont be part of. That, unfortunately, is the nature of the beast, and we are well aware that fostering doesnt always guarantee a happy ending. But it doesnt stop us from hoping and trying.

When I was a small child I remember watching a James Cagney film with my grandmother called Angels with Dirty Faces. That film and the morals behind it have always stayed with me; the idea that circumstances determine what will become of us and our ability to change lives. I often think of our foster children as angels with dirty faces, and although I am neither a racketeer nor a priest, I like to think that I can play a small role in helping these kids move on to lead stable, happy lives.

Chapter 1

It was the Sunday before Christmas. Almost my favourite time of year. Actually, in some ways my most favourite time of year, because it was the date of our annual family pre-Christmas dinner or my practice run, as my son Kieron had always called it. Which was just like the main one, only in lots of ways nicer, as it involved all the fun without any of the stress, plus the anticipation of Christmas proper still to come.

Well, to my mind, at any rate. I should have known better than to mention it to my ever-loving husband Mike. More like a prelude to a nightmare, he quipped, with this gaggle of little monsters around. Look at them. If this level of mania is anything to go by, heaven help us when we get to the actual day!

I knew, what with the house full of grandkids and mayhem, that he was probably only half-joking. He had a point, too. I winced as I watched Marley Mae, who was deep in the realm of the terrible twos now, almost collide with the Christmas tree. And for the umpteenth time today, while the film Id put on (in the vain hope of keeping Rileys three occupied) blared to itself in the corner. Much as I loved Arnie Schwarzenegger the film was Jingle All the Way I could barely hear myself think.

Shut up, you old Grinch, I told Mike. You know you love it really. And how can you say such a thing? Bless them, I added, scooping Marley Mae into my arms. Youre not a monster. Youre our little princess, arent you?

It was a phrase that would very soon come to haunt me.

Wed had the luxury (in a manner of speaking, since it had been a pretty hectic time) of taking a few months off from fostering. After seeing our last foster child, Flip, off to her forever home the previous spring, wed decided to take a bit of a break. With our Kieron and his partner Lauren having given us our fourth grandchild, Dee Dee, wed taken the decision to devote some time to just being there for them. With Kierons Aspergers (which is a mild form of autism), wed been all too aware that they could really use the extra support. So, apart from Tyler, our permanent foster child, and very much now part of the family, wed only accepted a couple of short-term emergency placements. Wed had a singular lad called Connor, veteran of the care system, for a brief but intense period, and a misunderstood five-year-old called Paulie, whod been rejected by his mother and stepfather, and who was now settled with a long-term foster family.

Both had proved to us if proof were needed that you couldnt fix everything for every child; sometimes you could only help smooth the transition from one kind of life to the next. Life was different for us too now keeping Tyler had changed everything. With the fostering we did at present, we had to keep his needs always in mind.

It had been a happy time. And at the centre of it was the joy of being grandparents. That and the gratitude Mike and I counted our blessings daily. And not least because Dee Dee had proved to be an amazingly easy baby and Kieron and Lauren, despite the usual wobbles, very natural parents. I could still find myself welling up whenever I thought about it; just how lucky wed all been that our anxious, fretful son had met, in Lauren, such a perfect and loving soulmate.

Today, then, was all about the simple joys of family, and as I beavered away in the kitchen, putting pans on and keeping an eye on my roast potatoes, that was what was very much on my mind. So when I saw a car pull up and soon after disgorge our fostering link worker, John Fulshaw, I found myself smiling. Trust him to be working on a Sunday. And how nice it would be to welcome him in perhaps Id even be able to persuade him to have a festive glass of sherry.

John always appeared at some point in the run-up to Christmas. It was one of his traditions to do the rounds at this time of year, bestowing all his foster families with a poinsettia. All the way from sunny San Diego! hed always remind us as he handed it over, San Diego apparently being the poinsettia capital of the world.

There was sun for us too that particular Sunday. Sun, and the sort of frosty air that promised ice tonight, if not snow. But as I watched John walk up the path, there was no pot plant in his hand, just his usual battered briefcase. And, worryingly, no seasonal smile on his face, either. Just a deeply etched frown. I could see it clearly, even in the gathering December dusk.