concentrating on his phone. ‘I’ll go to my room now.’
‘If that’s what you want to do,’ I said. ‘Unpack your bag and you will feel more at home. Do you need any help with your unpacking?’ He shook his head. ‘Are you sure you don’t want a drink and a snack to see you through till dinner?’
But, lost in his phone, he was already on his way to his room, and I heard the door close. I looked in on Paula, who was reading, and then went downstairs. I tidied away the work I’d been doing before Stevie had arrived, and then texted Adrian and Lucy to let them know that he was here so they didn’t just come back to find a stranger in their home.
Half an hour later I went up to check if Stevie was all right. Despite his age and apparent confident manner, he was away from his family and in an unfamiliar house. His door was closed so I knocked. ‘It’s Cathy,’ I called.
It was a few moments before he replied. ‘Yes?’
‘Is everything OK?’
Silence, so I knocked again. ‘Are you all right?’ More silence. ‘Can I come in?’
Giving another knock, I slowly opened the door and poked my head round. He was sitting on his bed, completely engrossed in his phone, the bag, not yet unpacked, on the floor. ‘Are you OK?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ he said, but some of his charisma had gone and he seemed worried.
‘Sure?’ I asked. He nodded. ‘OK, but don’t sit up here by yourself. Unpack your bag and come down if you want some company.’
He nodded again and I left him with his phone. Little wonder his grandfather had turned off the wi-fi, I thought. But I had some house rules about mobile phones, which I would explain later when his social worker was present.
I checked on Stevie again half an hour later: his bag still hadn’t been unpacked, his phone was on charge and he was gazing out of his bedroom window. His room was at the rear of the house and overlooked the garden, although there wasn’t much to see in winter.
‘Gran phoned me,’ he said quietly, turning from the window. ‘I told her I was OK.’
‘Good. And are you?’
‘What?’
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yeah, I guess.’ He shrugged.
‘You don’t seem very sure,’ I said gently, taking another step into his room. ‘You know if there’s anything worrying you, you can talk to me.’
‘I doubt it,’ he said under his breath.
‘Stevie, I have three adult children of my own and have fostered a lot of young people. I’m pretty good at listening and I won’t make judgements or be shocked by anything you have to tell me.’
He looked at me, his face serious. There was no sign of the flamboyant lad I’d seen previously. Indeed, he looked as though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.
‘Well?’ I asked. ‘Is there something you’d like to share? It often helps to talk.’
He hesitated as if he might be considering this, then said, ‘No.’
‘All right, but if you change your mind, you know where I am. If I’m busy, or with Adrian, Lucy or Paula, just say, “Cathy, can I talk to you?” and we’ll find somewhere quiet to go for a chat.’ I didn’t want to labour the point, but I knew from fostering and bringing up my own children just how much young people can bottle up their problems so that they escalate and get out of all proportion. The teenage years can be challenging and confusing for children living at home with loving parents, even more so for a young person in care.
‘There is something,’ Stevie said as I was about to leave his room.
‘Yes?’ I stopped and turned.
‘Can I have my pocket money? I have to go out later,’ he said anxiously.
‘Where to?’
‘Just out.’
‘I usually give pocket money on a Saturday,’ I said, ‘but you can have yours early this week. However, I don’t want you going out tonight. Verity is coming soon and then I want you to meet Adrian and Lucy, settle in and get ready for tomorrow.’
‘Why? What’s happening tomorrow?’ he asked.
‘I’m hoping you will be going to school. And one of the things I want to discuss with Verity is when you will be going out. Of course you will want to see your friends, but it won’t be every night. We can decide on days and the times you have to be back when we see your social worker.’
‘But I have to go out today,’ he said, growing more anxious.
‘Why?’ He couldn’t meet my gaze. ‘Stevie, are you in some sort of trouble?’
‘No,’ he said far too quickly. I knew then he was, but he wouldn’t be telling me yet.
Chapter Four
Verity arrived as planned shortly after three o’clock. ‘Is Stevie still here?’ she asked, as if he might not be.
‘Yes. He’s in his room. Shall I fetch him?’
‘Please.’
‘The living room is through there,’ I said, pointing, and went upstairs to fetch Stevie. ‘Verity is here,’ I said, knocking on his door.
‘I’ll be down later,’ he returned.
‘No, now, please. She needs to see you.’
No response. ‘Can I come in?’ I knocked again and gently eased open the door. He had taken some of his clothes from his bag and dumped them on the bed. I could see what looked like a school uniform, which I thought was hopeful.
‘Gran packed this,’ he said, scowling. ‘She’s left out most of my good stuff.’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll sort it out later. Come down now, Verity is here.’ I’ve found before that children of all ages sometimes need things repeating, and often.
Clearly not happy with the clothes his gran had packed – image appeared to be very important to Stevie, more so than the average teenager – he came with me downstairs and into the living room. ‘Hello, how are you settling in?’ Verity asked him brightly, taking a wad of paperwork from her bag-style briefcase.
Stevie shrugged and flopped into one of the easy chairs. ‘I have to go out later, but Cathy won’t let me,’ he said.
‘I’ve asked him to stay in tonight,’ I explained. ‘I think that going out, and coming-home
