While some of what Reva had written would be helpful – for example, Danny’s bath-time routine, the toys he enjoyed playing with and the television programme that most engaged him – much of it was too regimented to be of use in my household. My family was very different to Reva’s, and I couldn’t expect my children to change their lives to revolve around Danny’s routine. I also felt that so much regimentation was stifling. To have every minute of every hour accounted for meant there was no room for creativity or impulsive or impromptu actions. Yet I could see why Reva had run their lives like this. There’s a feeling of safety in the familiar and predictable. She was in a fragile state and had desperately clung to what she knew worked as a coping mechanism. The downside was that she and Danny were hostages to his behaviour – prisoners locked in their routine.
Chapter Seven
Crisis Averted
Before children were diagnosed with conditions such as autism, Asperger’s, bipolar disorder, special needs, development delay, specific learning difficulties or many of the other syndromes we can now identify, they were referred to as backward, retarded or mentally defective. These are terms we wouldn’t use now. They’re considered derogatory. Yet in our ignorance was a certain freedom for the child and those involved with him or her. Without the diagnosis (or label) we have today, the child’s parents, extended family, community and teachers acknowledged there was something ‘wrong’ with the child and then accommodated and modified their behaviour. True, some of these children ended up in institutions, but the majority remained with their families, where allowances for their different, unusual and sometimes bizarre behaviour were made by those who came into contact with them. I had an older cousin – he’s dead now – who today would probably have been diagnosed with an autistic-spectrum disorder and learning difficulties. But back then he was just Pete. He lived all his life with his mother – my aunt – and worked a few mornings a week sticking down envelopes. He never spoke much, made some very odd noises and often appeared to be in a world of his own. He seemed happy enough, though, and laughed – sometimes at the most inappropriate moments (once at a funeral). We all loved Pete and accepted him for what he was. I remember that as a child he seemed to me to be a big kid, who was always ready for a game. Would he have benefited from a diagnosis? We won’t ever know. But I do wonder if we’re over-diagnosing now, so that any child who doesn’t fit neatly into the ‘norm’ must have something ‘wrong’ with them that needs a diagnosis so we can ‘put it right’.
Obviously children have to learn socially acceptable behaviour, but there is a huge spectrum of conduct that could be described as unusual, eccentric or just odd. And after all it’s our oddities and eccentricities that make us who we are – individuals. I’d just begun my journey with Danny, and Reva had coped as best she could for all of Danny’s life, but by the time I’d read to the end of Reva’s notes I’d made the decision that I wouldn’t be using them much. As well as the rigidity of the routine being impractical in my household, I realized I’d be making a rod for my own back, as indeed Reva had. For, once in place, these routines had to be adhered to, because, as Reva had found, any changes were confusing and upsetting for Danny. I had the advantage of being able to start afresh, without the history and emotional baggage that had blighted Reva and Danny’s relationship.
I put away the notes and then gave some thought to what I should make for dinner that evening. Jill was coming at 4 p.m. – I needed something quick and easy that we could have soon after she’d gone so we wouldn’t be eating too late. I realized that the casserole I’d made the evening before hadn’t been the best choice of meal for Danny (who liked his food separate), but he’d coped. Reva had included in her notes that Danny’s diet was limited and that I should not give him meals where the food was combined, for example, spaghetti bolognese, cottage pie, porridge, rice pudding, etc. – many of the dishes my family and I enjoyed. While I would be making changes to Danny’s diet to give him a better variety and therefore standard of nutrition, I knew I shouldn’t make too many changes too quickly, so I decided on fish fingers and chips, which Reva had listed as one of Danny’s favourites. I’d add green beans for their vitamin content, and then for pudding we could have yoghurt and fruit, which Danny also ate, according to Reva’s notes.
Later that afternoon as I drove to collect Danny from school I thought again of Reva’s notes. She’d written that I had to stand in a particular place in the playground to wait for Danny while Yvonne or one of the other classroom assistants brought him out to me. The spot where I had to wait was at the top end of the hopscotch design, which apparently was painted in red on the playground, and which the children presumably played on at break. I hadn’t noticed the hopscotch design that morning, but then I’d been preoccupied with Danny and Reva.
I arrived ten minutes early and found the design easily. I stood, as I’d been told, at the top of the number ten box and waited for school to finish. As the playground filled with other parents and carers arriving to collect their children, I noticed that they waited some distance from where I was standing, over to the right and in front of the main door where the children would eventually come out. I began to feel slightly isolated on my hopscotch island and wondered why Reva hadn’t arranged a more sociable pick-up point, closer to the other parents. I’m someone who likes a chat and I spend a lot of time waiting in school playgrounds to collect the children I foster, so I usually find it isn’t long before I’m in conversation with another parent or carer. But there was no chance of that here. I’d need a loud-hailer to be heard by them.
The klaxon sounded from inside the school, and presently, the main door opened and the children started coming out. Danny was among the first, his coat zipped up and a large school bag over his shoulder that was nearly as big as him. He was holding the hand of a lady I took to be a classroom assistant. They looked in my direction and, seeing me, came across the playground. With his mop of blond hair, delicate features and slight build, Danny looked younger than six, especially compared to the other children, who appeared so robust as they ran shouting and laughing into the arms of their parents.
‘Hello, I’m Yvonne, Danny’s classroom assistant,’ the woman accompanying him said with a cheerful smile as they arrived. ‘You must be Cathy, Danny’s carer?’
‘Yes, hello. Lovely to meet you.’
‘And you.’
‘Sue asked me to give you this.’ Yvonne handed me an envelope. ‘It’s a copy of Danny’s education plan.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Danny has his reading book and the flash cards we’re working on in his bag. We keep the same book and cards for a week, so there’s no pressure to do the work every night. Just see how it goes.’
‘That’s great,’ I said. ‘We’ve got a social worker visiting this evening, so we may not have a lot of time.’ Then, including Danny in the conversation, I said, ‘Have you had a good day?’ Which is what I asked all my children at the end of the school day.
I was expecting a nod or possibly a blank stare, but to my surprise Danny said, ‘Yes, thank you very much.’
Yvonne smiled. ‘It’s the phrase of the day,’ she said. ‘Danny often has a pet phrase he uses all day, sometimes for a few days, and then it changes.’
‘Well, it’s a nice polite phrase, so that’s good. How has he been after the trauma of yesterday?’
‘All right, I think,’ Yvonne said. ‘Although it’s sometimes difficult to tell what he’s feeling. There’s an exercise book in his bag that we use as a home school book. Record in it anything you think might be helpful to us and we’ll do the same. Reva used to do it, but I suppose you will now.’ I nodded. ‘I’ve made a note of today’s events in the book.’
‘Thank you. That’s useful.’
I’d immediately warmed to Yvonne. She was a middle-aged, mumsy type of lady who clearly had a very big heart, loved her job and, I guessed, had endless patience. I knew that children could become very close to their classroom assist
ants, or teaching assistants as they are also known. Danny clearly had; he was still holding her hand.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow then?’ Yvonne said, with another cheerful smile.
‘Yes, in the morning,’ I said. ‘Then Reva will collect Danny after school and take him home for contact. I’ll explain the arrangements to Danny in the morning, but perhaps you could remind him at the end of school that his mother will be collecting him.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Yes, thank you very much,’ Danny put in, having heard, and Yvonne threw me a knowing smile.
‘Goodbye then, Danny, have a good evening,’ she said, and went to pass his hand to me, but Danny snatched it away. ‘Now, now,’ she lightly cautioned him. ‘There’s a busy road out there. You know you need to hold Cathy’s hand.’ But Danny jabbed both his hands into his coat pockets. ‘He can run off,’ Yvonne said quietly to me, obviously concerned for Danny’s safety.
‘I know. Don’t worry, I’m prepared.’ Then more loudly, so Danny could hear, I said, ‘I’m sure Danny will hold my hand once we are at the school gates. He’s very sensible and will know how important it is to stay safe by the roads.’
‘See you tomorrow then,’ Yvonne smiled, and went over to see another parent who was waiting for her.
Danny and I turned, and began towards the school gates. My hand was by my side so he could take hold of it at any moment, but he chose not to. As we arrived at the school gates I moved out of the stream of parents, and bending towards Danny so I was in his line of vision, I said, ‘Which hand would you like to hold, Danny? My left hand or my right hand? This is my left.’ I showed him. ‘And this is my right.’ I offered him that hand too. ‘Left or right?’ I said, holding out both my hands. ‘The choice is yours.’ There was a moment’s hesitation before he took my left hand, and we left the playground holding hands without a fuss.
This technique is called the ‘closed choice’ and is a useful little strategy for ensuring a child does what the parent or carer wants, while allowing the child to make the choice. I use it a lot and explain it more fully in my book Happy Kids.
Danny continued to hold my hand as we walked along the pavement to my car. I pressed the fob to unlock it and then opened the rear door for Danny to get in. He hesitated again. It was then I remembered that his mother had written that Danny always opened the car door himself. Nevertheless, he clambered into the child seat without protest and dropped his school bag on the seat beside him. He then began fiddling with his seatbelt, trying to do it up. I gave him a few moments and then reached in. ‘It’s different from the one in your mother’s car,’ I said. ‘I’ll do it and you can check it.’
There was another small hesitation, but the promise of being able to check the belt pacified him and he took his hands from the clasp, allowing me to fasten the seatbelt.
‘OK, you can check it now,’ I said, straightening.
Bless him, he looked down and his little face was a picture of concentration as he thoroughly checked the belt.
‘All right?’ I asked him.
‘Yes, thank you very much,’ he said sweetly, and my heart melted.
‘Well done. We’re going home now. To my house,’ I clarified.
Before I closed the door he picked up his school bag and sat clutching it on his lap like a little old lady on a coach trip. He really was a quaint child.
I went round to the driver’s door, got in and, dropping the envelope containing Danny’s education plan on the passenger seat, started the engine. I didn’t try to make conversation on the way home. Danny needed some time to adjust to the transition from school to home, and I was concentrating on driving. Danny was looking straight ahead, over the passenger seat in front of him and through the windscreen. Every so often I’d glance at him in the rear-view mirror, but he didn’t meet my gaze. As Yvonne had said, it was difficult to know what he was feeling, for he said so little and his face was often expressionless.
‘Are you all right, love?’ I asked once as I drove.
‘Yes, thank you very much,’ he said. But given that this was his choice of phrase for the day it was impossible to know if he really was all right.
I pulled into the driveway at home, but before I’d parked and cut the engine Danny had moved his school bag from his lap and was tugging to undo his seatbelt.
‘Don’t undo your belt until I’ve stopped, please,’ I said. This was a rule I had for all the children for their own safety.
His hands grew still but remained on the clasp. I parked, got out and went round to open his car door. He immediately began fiddling with the belt again, quickly growing impatient when the clasp wouldn’t open. One of the reasons I’d chosen this particular car seat was that the fastener was very secure. I’d fostered children before who thought it was funny to take off their seatbelt and bounce around on the back seat while I was driving, when they knew I couldn’t immediately do anything about it.
‘It’s different from the belt in your mum’s car,’ I said again. ‘I’ll unclip it and you can bring your school bag.’
He took his hands from the clasp and picked up his bag while I unfastened his seatbelt. ‘We’ll hold hands until we are inside the house,’ I said – for, once out of the car, he could easily dash off up the street if he had a mind to. ‘Left or right?’ I offered.
He took my left hand and clambered off the seat and out of the car, dragging his bag behind him.
‘Good boy,’ I said. ‘Well done.’
I locked the car and we crossed to the front door with Danny holding my hand. Now I’d put the ground rules in place for Danny getting in and out of the car it would be easier the next time, and each time after that, until it became second nature to him and part of his routine. Start as you mean to go on is a very good maxim for managing children’s behaviour, but of course Reva hadn’t had the luxury of that, as Danny’s behaviour had built up gradually, over years.
I closed the front door and then let go of Danny’s hand. ‘George!’ he shouted at the top of his voice, making me start. Dumping his school bag on the floor, he ran off down the hall, into the kitchen and to the back door. ‘George! George!’
‘George is coming tomorrow,’ I said, arriving at his side. ‘Did Mummy tell you when you saw her at school this morning?’
‘George! I want George now,’ Danny shouted, grabbing the door handle and rattling it.
‘George is at your house,’ I said. ‘I’ll be fetching him tomorrow and bringing him here.’
‘George!’ He screamed and kicked the door.
‘No,’ I said. I lightly took his arm to ease him from the door. ‘Don’t kick or scream.’
He pulled away and threw himself on the kitchen floor where he lay on his back, thrashing his arms and legs and shouting, ‘George! George!’
At that moment I heard the front door open as Paula returned home from school. ‘Mum, Jill’s here,’ she called from the hall. ‘She said she’s early.’
Perfect timing! I thought.
‘I want George!’ Danny yelled, now trying to kick me. ‘George!’
‘Can I come in?’ Jill called. ‘I take it you’re in the kitchen?’
‘Yes,’ I returned over the noise. ‘How did you guess?’
‘George!’ Danny screamed, drumming his fists and feet on the floor. ‘I want George!’
Jill and Paula arrived in the kitchen.
‘This is Danny,’ I said, introducing him to Jill.
Jill looked at Danny, who was still in his coat, had his eyes screwed shut and was writhing on the floor. ‘Hello, Danny,’ she said evenly. ‘You don’t look very comfortable down there.’ Jill had been a social worker long enough to have witnessed most types of behaviour and wasn’t fazed.
‘I want George!’ Danny yelled.
‘Who’s George?’ Jill asked.
‘His pet rabbit,’ I said. ‘I’m collecting him tomorrow.’
‘Are you all right, Mum?’ Paula asked, concerned.
‘Yes.
Perhaps you’d both like to go into the living room? Then Danny and I will come in and join you in a few minutes when he’s calmer.’ I could see how worried Paula was, and I didn’t think it would do Danny any good to have an audience.
Paula and Jill did as I suggested and went into the living room, and I heard Jill exclaim with exaggerated surprise, ‘What a wonderful Lego pattern! I wonder who could have made this.’ I’d left the Lego on the floor exactly as Danny had left it, and he’d heard Jill’s remark. In an instant he’d stopped thrashing and was on his feet, running out of the kitchen and into the living room. Crisis averted, thanks to Jill.
Chapter Eight
A Work of Art
‘It’s mine!’ Danny shouted protectively as he ran into the living room and then squatted on the floor in front of his Lego.
Jill and Paula were standing to one side of the pattern, admiring it. ‘So you did it all by yourself?’ Jill asked.
‘Yes, thank you very much,’ Danny said.