Max’s face lit up. ‘Yes. I like going to the barbers,’ he declared.
‘Do you?’ I asked, surprised. Most young boys I knew, Adrian included, didn’t like going to the barbers, not one little bit. Having to sit still under a cloak in the chair for fifteen minutes or longer while the barber cut and clipped their hair, and then coming out scratching from hair clippings down their backs – for Adrian it ranked on a par with a visit to the dentist. But Max was visibly elated, as if I’d promised him a treat. Then I found out why.
‘The barber has a big jar of lollipops,’ he said, his eyes widening in anticipation. ‘If you’re good and sit still you can choose one at the end.’
Although the barber Max would have gone to was in a different part of town and not the one we used, ours also had a large jar of sweets, as I think many do. Pity they didn’t use well-done stickers like the dentist for rewarding children, I thought.
I’d never seen Max move so quickly. With the promise of a sweet at the barbers, he had his outdoor shoes on and was waiting by the front door before I’d finished closing and locking the patio doors. Outside he set up a steady pace along the road towards the High Street. He was holding my hand as he usually did, but now, instead of feeling like I had a lead weight at the end of my arm as I encouraged him along he was now in step beside me – a little red in the face and perspiring, but nevertheless walking rather than slogging.
‘Well done,’ I said. ‘You’re getting much fitter. You’ll be running along here soon.’
He smiled at the praise. ‘I like sweets,’ he said, referring to the sweet that awaited him at the barbers.
‘Yes, I know, and you like vegetables and fruit now too.’
‘Have you read Roald Dahl’s Revolting Recipes?’ he asked with a cheeky grin.
I laughed, pleased that his sense of humour was still shining through.
The bell on the door of the barber’s shop clanged as we entered and the owner glanced in our direction. ‘Hello, take a seat,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t be too long.’ He and his assistant were both busy cutting hair and two men were sitting on the chairs waiting, although I assumed one to be the father of the boy who was having his hair cut.
‘We’ll have a little wait,’ I said quietly to Max as we sat down. But he didn’t mind. His gaze had settled on the large jar of sweets on the shelf by the cash desk, full of an enticing assortment of brightly coloured wrapped sweets.
The barber finished cutting the lad’s hair and his father stood. Max watched intently as father and son went to the till and the father paid. I saw the boy had his gaze on the sweet jar too. Once his father had been given his change and had tipped the barber, the barber said to the lad, ‘I expect you’d like a sweet?’
‘Yes, please,’ he replied.
With a little flourish the barber took the jar from the shelf, unscrewed the lid and offered it to the boy. Max watched intently as the boy dipped his hand into the jar and took one out.
‘What do you say?’ his father reminded him.
‘Thank you,’ the boy said politely.
Max’s expression was of uncontained delight at the prospect of having a sweet and I felt like the wicked witch for only allowing him a few each day. He was such a lovely child that I could have easily showered him with treats, given him every sweet he ever wanted, as his mother had, but that wouldn’t have been kind. Although Max didn’t know it (or maybe he did), in limiting his sweets I was acting in his best interest.
The other man waiting now sat in the vacated barber’s chair, so when it was Max’s turn it was the assistant who was free. I gave Max a helping hand up into the chair, as it was quite high off the ground.
‘My, you’re a big lad!’ the assistant quipped. ‘No more ice creams for you.’
He was just trying to be friendly – the banter of a barber to his client – but I inwardly cringed. I glanced at Max’s reflection in the mirror and he was wearing a polite smile. I guessed he was used to comments and jokes about his weight and this was how he dealt with it, but the remark stung me. No one should have to go through life wearing a polite smile to accommodate others’ thoughtless humour. But there was worse to come.
Having told the barber Max just wanted a trim, nothing drastic, I returned to my seat and he began snipping. Presently Max became uncomfortable from sitting in one position for so long and shifted in the chair. It creaked, as I’m sure it did with many customers. Most men were a lot heavier than Max. But the assistant exclaimed jocularly, ‘Whoa, mate! Steady on. Don’t go breaking the chair.’ And threw me a knowing look in the mirror. I looked away.
Then later, once the haircut was over with and Max was offered the jar of sweets, the assistant remarked pointedly, ‘I think one is enough for you, mate.’ And quickly snapped the lid back on the jar. The lad before had only been offered one sweet, but no comment had been made then because, of course, he wasn’t overweight. Max showed no sign that the comment had hurt and we left the shop with him chewing happily on his sweet, although I didn’t give the assistant much of a tip.
Outwardly, therefore, the comments appeared to have done little damage to Max. He wasn’t looking hurt. But inside it was probably a very different matter. Those words would be another nail in the coffin for Max’s self-esteem and respect, to go with all the others that had been hammered in – intentionally and unintentionally – since he’d been old enough to understand he was fat. Yet other than wearing a polite smile or ignoring such comments, what else could he have done as the butt of a joke about his size? If he’d said, ‘That’s rude,’ or similar, it would have drawn attention to the comment, probably provoking a retort or a lecture on manners. As an adult I would have said a sarcastic, ‘Thank you,’ or a similar put-down. But this remedy wasn’t available to a child, so I guessed Max’s way of dealing with what was an insidious form of bullying (although I’m sure the barber’s assistant hadn’t seen it that way) was probably for the best – a polite smile. And, of course, Max had other worries occupying him at present. ‘Am I seeing my mummy tonight?’ he asked as soon as he’d stopped chewing.
‘I’ll find out when we get home,’ I said.
Once home I telephoned my fostering agency. Jill was speaking to someone on another line, so her colleague said she’d ask her to phone back as soon as she’d finished. ‘I think she’s talking to Jo now,’ she added. It was only a small office with six staff and they kept abreast of each other’s cases so that they were up to date when they covered the emergency out-of-hours service. It was now two o’clock and ten minutes later Jill returned my call.
‘Sorry, Cathy, I’ve only just managed to speak to Jo,’ Jill said. ‘At present Jo’s not sure what’s happening about contact. She’s trying to arrange it for later this afternoon at the Family Centre, but there’s an issue finding transport for Caz. She says she can’t use a taxi; her foot is too painful. If contact doesn’t go ahead today, it will have to be next week. The Family Centre isn’t open at the weekend. Can you prepare Max for that eventuality just in case, as he’s used to seeing his family every day?’
‘Yes, I will. Will his father and sisters be going to contact?’
‘I don’t know. If contact doesn’t go ahead today, I suggested to Jo that Max phones his mother instead.’
‘Yes. All right.’ This was a reasonable second best. ‘How is Paris?’ I asked.
‘Jo took her to her foster carer’s yesterday, but she hasn’t had a chance to speak to her today. At some point she’ll try to arrange sibling contact, but that won’t be this afternoon. I’ll phone you as soon as I know the contact arrangements for Max to see his mother.’
‘OK. Thank you.’
Having said goodbye, I went to Max, who was in the living room, and told him what Jill had said. ‘What’s a Family Centre?’ he reasonably asked.
‘It’s a building with rooms like living rooms where parents and children can meet. There’s a sofa, a table and chairs and lots of games to play with and books. A lady called a conta
ct supervisor stays in the room while you see your mother in case you need anything.’ She would also be monitoring them and making notes on the session, which she’d pass to Jo, but I didn’t go into that now.
‘Will Dad and my sisters be there?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know yet.’
I’d no sooner finished telling Max about the Family Centre when the telephone rang again and it was Jill. She said that contact wouldn’t be going ahead today, as no suitable transport was available to take Caz to and from the centre. Jill said I should phone Caz at six o’clock so Max could speak to her and I wrote down the telephone number, as I wasn’t sure if it had been included in the essential information pack. Jill said I needn’t put the phone on speaker and monitor the call (as I’d had to do with some children in the past), as there were no safeguarding concerns about Caz speaking to Max, but that I should stay in the room while he spoke to her in case he became upset, which I would have done anyway with a child of his age. She said I should also call Caz at the same time on Saturday and Sunday so Max could speak to her, and concluded by wishing us a nice weekend and reminding me to phone their out-of-hours service if I had any urgent problems with Max. I wished her a happy weekend and we said goodbye. As gently as I could I told Max that he wouldn’t be seeing his mother that night, but we could phone her at six o’clock. He took this with his usual stoicism and then asked for something to eat.
‘Max, you know it’s OK to be disappointed and upset?’ I said.
He looked at me questioningly.
‘You’ve had a lot to cope with and you were hoping to see your mother this afternoon, but unfortunately that isn’t going to happen. I’m guessing you could be feeling a bit hurt and maybe angry. I think I would be.’ I wasn’t trying to upset him, but I thought it was emotionally healthier for him to admit he was upset, rather than asking for food to comfort eat.
‘What’s the point in being hurt and angry?’ he asked. ‘It won’t change anything. Adults do things and make decisions that children can’t do anything about.’ Which was profound for a child of six, true, and probably came from all the books he’d read.
‘I understand it can be frustrating being a child,’ I said. ‘But it still helps to let out your disappointment, whether you’re a child or an adult, rather than feeling unhappy and then trying to cheer yourself up with food.’
I saw a flash of recognition cross his eyes. ‘That’s what we do at home, isn’t it?’
‘I think it could be,’ I agreed.
He looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘When Dad gets in a bad temper I hide in my bedroom and eat lots of sweets. Then when he’s gone I come out and Mum tells one of my sisters to go down to the shop and buy us something nice to cheer us up. She means sweets and cream cakes.’
I nodded, but I’d latched onto the words bad temper. ‘Does your dad often get in a bad temper?’ I asked.
Max nodded.
‘While you’ve been going there for contact?’
‘Yes, and before when I lived there. More then. What do you do if you’re upset or angry?’ he asked.
‘Go for a walk,’ I said. ‘It helps clear my head.’
‘I think I’ve done enough walking for one day,’ he said quaintly, and I smiled.
‘Max, you know when your dad gets in a temper, how does he show it?’
‘He shouts very loudly at Mum and sometimes hits her.’
‘That’s very wrong of him. Does he hit you or your sisters?’
‘Sometimes he hits my sisters, but I stay in my bedroom and he forgets I’m there.’
Little wonder they all comfort ate, I thought, living constantly under the threat of violence. I would be noting what Max had told me in my log notes and also notifying Jo. As far as I knew she wasn’t aware of the extent of the father’s violence and that it had been directed towards his children, as I hadn’t been until now.
‘Max, will you try to say more about how you are feeling, rather than keeping it inside?’ I suggested.
‘Yes. I’ll try. I miss my mummy, but I’m still hungry,’ he said pragmatically.
‘All right, I’ll get you a small snack to see you through to dinner.’
‘A healthy one so I can lose weight?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Max clock-watched for the rest of the afternoon and gave me regular updates on the progression of time towards six o’clock when he could phone his mother: ‘Two hours to go’; ‘An hour and a half’; ‘One hour, Cathy’; ‘Half an hour’; ‘Fifteen minutes’; ‘Five minutes.’ So at one minute to six we were sitting side by side on the sofa in the living room and I keyed in Caz’s number. I told Max I’d say a quick hello to his mother and then he’d speak to her.
One of his sisters answered with a tight, ‘Hello.’ I wasn’t sure which one it was.
‘It’s Cathy, Max’s carer. Is that Kelly?’ I asked.
‘Yes. I’ll put Mum on,’ she said curtly. So it seemed I was out of favour again.
A moment later Caz’s voice came on and she said a very quiet, ‘Hello.’
‘Hello, Caz, how are you?’ I asked sympathetically. ‘Max is sitting beside me. I’ll put him on.’
Immediately she began crying. I couldn’t pass the phone to him, as it would upset him to hear his mother weeping. He was watching me intently, already aware something was wrong. I waited, and after a few moments Caz recovered a little and said, ‘I’ll talk to him now.’
‘Are you sure you feel up to it?’ I asked. ‘We could call back in a while.’
‘It won’t make any difference,’ she said, her voice breaking again. I waited some more and once she felt better I passed the phone to Max.
‘Hello, Mummy,’ he said faintly.
She must have asked him how he was, for he said, ‘I’m all right. How are you?’
Then he went quiet and looked very sad and eventually passed the phone back to me. ‘She can’t talk, she’s crying.’
‘Caz?’ I said, taking the phone.
‘I can’t stop crying,’ she said. ‘I’ll speak to him tomorrow. Kelly wants to talk to him.’
Kelly came on the line and I passed the handset to Max again.
She must have asked him what he’d been doing, as he told her of our day, including the visit to the barbers. But his tone was very flat and subdued; it wasn’t a natural conversation, I think partly because he wasn’t used to using a phone, but also because it wasn’t a normal situation – he and Paris were in care and his mother was beside herself with grief. He said goodbye to Kelly, and Summer came on the line. He had a similar short and flat conversation with her and then said goodbye. He returned the handset to me, but the line was already dead. Caz had my telephone number, so she could phone if she felt up to speaking to Max later.
‘We’ll phone her again tomorrow,’ I said encouragingly. He looked so sad.
Far from reassuring him, the telephone contact had unsettled him, and although we’d only just had dinner he complained he was hungry and began agitating for food.
‘You’re not hungry,’ I said. ‘You’re worried about your mother.’
‘Yes, you’re right, Cathy,’ he said in his quaint, old-fashioned way. I suppose when emotion and food have been interlinked all your life it’s difficult to separate them.
I then telephoned my parents, as I hadn’t spoken to Adrian and Paula the evening before. Dad answered, as Mum was playing with Paula. They’d all been to the cinema that afternoon and when Dad put Adrian on he excitedly told me all about the animated Disney cartoon they’d seen. He then chatted to Max and told him about the film, which helped cheer him up. After we’d all spoken and said goodbye, Max said he’d like to go to the cinema; he’d been once when Paris had taken him, but that was some time ago. I said we’d go tomorrow afternoon – Saturday – which gave him something else to think about until bedtime, when his thoughts returned anxiously to his mother.
‘Who’s looking after Mummy?’ he asked, one hand on Buzz Lightyear.
&n
bsp; ‘Kelly, Summer and probably her friend, Bet,’ I said.
‘Bet doesn’t like my dad,’ he said. ‘Do you like him?’
‘I don’t know him,’ I said carefully. ‘I’ve only met him a couple of times. But I don’t like the way he has been treating you and your family. A man is supposed to look after his wife and children, not hurt them.’ For, like any child growing up with domestic violence, Max had been shown a very poor example of fatherhood and not one he should follow when he grew up.
‘Why doesn’t Adrian and Paula’s dad live here?’ he asked. ‘Was he horrible too?’
‘No, not like that.’ It wasn’t the first time a child I was fostering had commented on John’s absence. A direct question deserves an honest, age-appropriate reply.
‘He lives with another lady,’ I said. ‘Although he still loves Adrian and Paula.’
‘I wish my daddy lived with another lady,’ Max said, and I could see he meant it, which shook me. It was sad and shocking for a young boy to feel that way about his father; that Max wished him gone gave a good indication of just how damaging Dan’s presence was in their family.
Chapter Twenty-One
Unexpected Turn of Events