contact – but he moved out of reach. Not rudely, just showing he didn’t want to be touched, which I understood. I hoped that would change in future when he got to know me, for if there was ever a child who looked in need of a hug, it was Danny.
As I worked in the kitchen I could hear Paula talking to Danny, encouraging him to play, but there was nothing coming from Danny. I would learn more about his language delay and general development at the meeting at his school the following morning, when I would also meet his mother.
Once dinner was ready I went into the living room where Paula and Danny were sitting on the floor as I’d left them. Paula had built a small house out of Lego, complete with windows, a door and a potted plant on the doorstep. Danny appeared not to have even touched the Lego. There were other games and toys within his reach, but he hadn’t attempted any of them, despite Paula’s encouragement.
‘Very nice,’ I said to Paula, admiring her house.
She grinned. ‘I’ve always liked Lego.’
‘I know. Dinner’s ready,’ I said to them both. ‘I’ll call Adrian and Lucy.’
I left the living room and went to the foot of the stairs where I called up to Adrian and Lucy. They replied that they’d be down straightaway. I returned to the living room where, to my slight surprise, Danny was slowly undoing the zipper on his coat. Then he began struggling out of it – difficult while sitting down. Paula instinctively reached out to help him, but he pulled away from her. She looked at me and I motioned for her not to worry. Fiercely independent, Danny struggled out of his coat and then clutched it protectively to his chest.
‘Danny, we’re going to eat now,’ I said, going over to him.
He didn’t look at me or reply, but he did stand up.
‘Wotcha!’ Lucy said to Danny, as she bounced into the living room. ‘I’m Lucy, Cathy’s other daughter. How are you doing, Mister?’
Danny didn’t look at her.
‘I was a foster child once,’ Lucy said, trying to reassure him. ‘So I know how you feel. But you’ll be fine here, I promise you. You’ll be well looked after and will soon feel at home.’
Bless her, I thought, although Lucy’s arrival as a foster child had been very different to Danny’s. She’d been older and had been grateful for the stability that being in care offered. I wondered if Danny would respond to her approach, but he didn’t; he just clutched his coat and stared at the floor. He looked so lost and alone I dearly wished I could reach out and hug him, as I’m sure Paula and Lucy did too, but clearly Danny was nowhere near ready for that yet.
‘Let’s eat,’ I said.
Lucy turned and led the way into the kitchen-cum-dining room with Paula following and then Danny and me. Danny was still clutching his coat.
‘This is where you sit,’ I said to Danny, drawing out the chair. We tended to keep the same places at the table, partly from habit but also because it helped the children I fostered to settle in if they knew where to sit. It became known as their place, and some even wrote their name on a piece of paper and stuck it to the back of the chair.
Danny was standing by his chair, still holding his coat. ‘Shall I put your coat with ours in the hall?’ I asked him.
He shook his head.
‘Hang it on the back of your chair then,’ I said, ‘so it doesn’t get food down it. It’s a nice coat. You don’t want it spoilt.’
Thankfully, Danny did as I asked and very slowly and meticulously draped his coat around the chair-back, and then spent time adjusting and straightening it.
‘That’s cute,’ Lucy said, watching him. Indeed it was, but it was also a little odd. Most boys of Danny’s age would have happily thrown their coat on the floor, not spent minutes perfecting its position. Adrian still dumped his coat on the floor sometimes if he was in a hurry.
‘Sit down now,’ I said to Danny, for having arranged his coat to his satisfaction he was still standing by the chair.
There was a small delay, as though he was processing or considering what I’d asked him to do, before he climbed onto his chair.
Adrian arrived and said, ‘Hi, Danny,’ as he took his place at the table.
Danny lifted his head slightly in Adrian’s direction but didn’t look at him.
‘This is my son Adrian,’ I said to Danny.
‘Hi, Danny,’ Adrian said again, but Danny still didn’t reply.
‘It’s bound to take Danny a while to get used to us all,’ I reassured everyone.
I served dinner and then sat in my place at the end of the table. Danny and Paula sat next to each other, to my right, and Adrian and Lucy to my left. We all began eating except little Danny, who sat motionless with his hands in his lap, staring at the contents of his plate. I’d given him a spoon as well as a knife and fork, but he made no attempt to pick up any of them. ‘It’s chicken and vegetable casserole,’ I said. ‘Try some. I’m sure you’ll like it.’
‘It’s nice,’ Lucy encouraged.
‘Yummy,’ Paula said.
Danny didn’t move or make any attempt to start eating.
‘Come on, love,’ I said. ‘You need to eat something,’ I picked up his spoon and placed it on the edge of his plate, ready for him to use.
After a moment he slowly picked up the spoon, but instead of dipping it into his food to start eating he set it down again. He repositioned it precisely beside his plate and then picked it up again. Independent, or resenting my help? I didn’t know. My children had seen this, but they knew better than to comment. Nor did they say anything about what Danny did next. Having picked up his spoon, he didn’t use it to start eating but began separating out the various components of the casserole. He arranged them in little heaps around the edge of his plate so that after a while there was a little pile of chicken pieces, another of diced potatoes, another of sliced carrots, and a mound of peas. You couldn’t really call it ‘playing’ or ‘toying’ with his food – it was too exact and precise for that. My children and I watched mesmerised – surreptitiously, of course, so Danny didn’t notice.
‘Are you going to eat it now?’ I asked him eventually.
Danny gave a small nod and then, using his spoon, began eating his food, one pile at a time. First the chicken, then the potatoes, carrots and peas. It wasn’t how one would normally eat a casserole, but the important thing was that Danny was eating. He finished it all and then spent some minutes scooping up the gravy until his plate was clear.
‘Good boy,’ I said.
He was the last to finish, and I now stood and began gathering together the dirty dishes. As I did, Danny finally spoke. He said one word: ‘George.’
Chapter Three
