he declared, as we added another silver star to the impressive rows of them on the ‘jobs’ list on his chart. ‘He’ll say I’m a good boy, won’t he, Casey?’
‘It’s Colin, love,’ I corrected. ‘Sampson is his last name. But yes, I’m quite sure he’ll think you’re a good boy, because that’s exactly what you are.’
Sam grinned like the Cheshire cat. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘I remember. But I like Sampson better than Colin because it’s got my name in it, hasn’t it? And I bet he’ll let me call him that anyway, because Sampson was a big and strong man from history. I telled it to my little sister, because I know the story.’
Do you now, I thought, marvelling at his random bits of knowledge. He was almost certainly referring to the biblical story, but for a child who seemed likely to have attended school only intermittently, I wondered where he had heard about it. Sunday school? Somehow I doubted it.
And he’d mentioned his little sister. Something else to note. All I knew of his siblings so far was that they were called Will and Courtney, that they were seven and five respectively, and that, even at this early stage, with all the trauma they’d suffered, they were showing no signs of his distinctive, and challenging, mental make-up. And that Sam telling the latter stories was a world away from the relationship they had had latterly, sadly. He’d not mentioned either of them up to now, so this was quite a development, and I wanted to respond to it in such a way that he might tell me more. Give me some opening into the world of his childhood so far, which felt so unreachable and shut-away.
But there was no time to do so as the doorbell then rang. I would have to park it and leave it for later. Moments later I was opening the door to ‘Sampson’ himself – not so much big and strong as tall and reedy. Which didn’t preclude him being strong, of course, but he didn’t look the type to be taking on random lions. But that was fine too, because it was the establishment I was hoping he’d be taking on for me; a different kind of beast altogether. He also looked to be in his late twenties – thirty tops, I reckoned – and, with establishments, the energy of youth was usually a big plus.
‘Come on in,’ I said. ‘Sam has been looking forward to meeting you. Look, he’s even brushed his hair for you.’
Colin Sampson laughed as he followed us through to the dining area. ‘Well at least that’s one of us with neat hair today,’ he said, smiling down at Sam as he ran his hands through his own windswept locks. ‘I imagine I must look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. March winds, eh?’ he added as he took off his quilted jacket.
Sam was right beside him, pulling a chair out, and sticking out his hand to shake. ‘Can I call you Sampson, please, Mr Sampson?’ he asked, as Colin took it and shook it firmly. ‘Because I’m called Sam too, so it’s like we’re the same.’
‘You know, Sam,’ Colin said, ‘I think I might like that. In fact, when I was at school, all my best friends used to call me Sampson.’
Sam’s look could have melted glaciers, let alone ice cubes. ‘I knew it!’ he said happily. ‘Casey, will you tell Sampson all about my really good stars?’
‘I will do exactly that,’ I said. ‘In fact, in a bit, we’ll all go into the kitchen and we’ll even show him. But right now, I’m going to pop off and make some coffee and get the best biscuits out, while you two get to know each other a little bit better. Okay?’
With both happy to do so, I left the pair of them to it, feeling only the smallest pang of jealousy at Colin’s holiday tan. Much as I missed the shot of sunshine I’d been looking forward to so much, it was at least spring now, and I was sure to get my mini-break eventually, and even more cheering was my first impression of Colin, which was overwhelmingly positive. He seemed cheerful and positive and, as I listened to them chatting and laughing in the other room, clearly a natural at getting along with troubled kids. Though I also found myself wondering if he’d read all my frantic emails already and was now forming the conclusion that I’d been making mountains out of molehills, as I’d done myself, once or twice, with Kelly.
‘So,’ Colin said as I set a laden tray down, ‘our Sam here has been telling me all about his chart and how he’s having a movie night this weekend with all the points he’s totted up.’
I passed a mug of coffee across the table and took a seat myself. ‘He is indeed,’ I confirmed, ‘and, you know what? I’ve just had a thought. I was thinking that if you wanted to win a pizza delivery with that movie, Sam, then maybe you could sit quietly for just fifteen minutes in your room now, while me and Colin get the boring paperwork out of the way.’
A shadow passed across Sam’s face. He looked decidedly unconvinced by this new development. Even a little anxious. Something that was confirmed by his response of ‘I don’t have to do any counting, do I?’ Which made me curse myself for not forewarning him about how the meeting was going to be conducted.
So I laughed. ‘Heavens no, Sam! Just fifteen minutes of quiet reading while we go through all the dreary stuff. Why don’t you take up the encyclopaedia and a couple of biscuits?’ I pushed the plate towards him. ‘Go on – any two you like.’
‘Really?’ he said, grabbing the two with shiny wrappers on (kids being the same everywhere) before toddling off up the stairs, great big book tucked under his stringy little arm.
‘Full of beans, isn’t he?’ Colin said, after he was safely out of earshot. ‘And the counting thing – I’d read about it in your emails. Interesting business. How’s it going? Are things still proving challenging?’
I could tell by his tone that he wasn’t challenging me, though. ‘Not in the usual way,’ I explained. ‘As you’ve seen, he can be a poppet. I think the counting is mostly related to his autistic traits – it always seems to soothe him and help him – but the meltdowns are explosive, and I’m still trying to work his triggers out. Though right now I’m still unclear whether there are simply a lot of them or that it’s just the one and I haven’t got to grips with what it is yet. Though I’m no psychologist,’ I added, ‘which is why I’m so keen for him to see one.’
‘You, the world and his wife,’ Colin said, nodding ruefully. ‘And, look, I’m so sorry I was away when Sam was allocated. But I’m on the case now – ahem – literally. So, what can I do to help? Is there any extra support I can give you? I’m obviously more than happy to start taking him off your hands for a couple of hours when I visit. All very well me reading emails and taking notes’ – he had a notebook in front of him and had already been scribbling – ‘but from what you’ve already told me I’m guessing some practical help wouldn’t go amiss either.’
If I’d liked Colin on instinct, I liked him even more now. He was obviously what I thought of as one of the ‘good’ social workers. They were all good, of course, but, from my standpoint as a foster carer, some were more hands-on than others. I suppose it was the same as, on the flip side, social workers probably assessed us as well. Not a hard and fast rule, obviously, and I was always anxious not to stereotype, but, in my own experience, some were more ‘theoretical’ than others; using their training – all that theory – to inform the way they did the job, much more than the hands-on experiences of the foster carers they worked with.
Which was also fine. It was their job to manage their various cases the way they felt most appropriate, but, every once in a while, a ‘Colin’ came along – someone you just knew not only strove to understand and help the children they worked with, using their training and education, but also went the extra mile to empathise with us, the ones working at the coal-face, and to try and make our lives that little bit easier also.
I might
