I did talk Mike into booking that holiday and, as fate would have it, our fortnight in Menorca marked a watershed for us, being the last family holiday for just the four of us. Boyfriends, girlfriends and other exciting developments put paid to that, but, as any parent will probably attest, in a good way.
As for the children from school, well of course I went back after the holidays ready to face my new challenges, and happily I got to see Chloe, Jonathan and Tommy almost every day. They were back in mainstream classes and each of them went on to do really well. Chloe and her mum got the support they so badly needed, and they thrived on it. So much so that it was decided to hold off looking for a new specialist school for Chloe, particularly when Mrs Jones started to attend AA meetings and, finally, to everyone’s delight, stopped drinking. She said that she felt like she’d been woken from a very long sleep. Fingers crossed she doesn’t drift away again.
Jonathan continued to live with the Halls, and although he watched other foster children come and go, I found out recently that he remained with them until he was 18, and when he was old enough, he even got sponsored to go to work at Camp America for a full summer, where he assisted in outdoor activities for young people.
Tommy never changed, and I’m glad of it. He did go back to his lessons and he has definitely smartened up some, but his personality dictated that he would for ever be ‘class clown’; perhaps the legacy of so many moves and so many new kids to ‘get in’ with and impress, he just couldn’t help himself. Fortunately, however, all the teachers loved him and, bar our delightful Mr Hunt (more of whom later), went out of their way to keep him on the straight and narrow.
I never did hear anything more from Morgan. Her family moved on from that particular travellers’ site at the end of that summer, and could have ended up anywhere. And though she was only with us for a short time, I like to think she followed her dreams – and having met Granny Giles, I have no doubt whatsoever that her dad wouldn’t have been allowed to stand in her way.
As for Kiara, ah, how much she remained in my heart and on my mind. So much so that when a card was forwarded to me, just before the end of the summer holidays, I burst into tears all over again. I don’t know if she was prompted to write it – I liked to think not – but it was just to thank me and say she missed us and wish her friends in the Unit well, and it really meant the world to me.
And, despite her living in a different area and attending a new school, we did receive updates on Kiara’s progress fairly regularly, thanks mainly to Gary Clark and his ever-growing list of ‘contacts’. He was like a dog with a bone when it came to seeking answers and would pick up that phone every month or so to ask about her progress, just because, like me, what had happened to Kiara had shocked him to the core, despite having already worked for several years in child protection. To have one parent systematically abuse you was trauma enough, but to have two … well, I don’t think I’ll ever look at the phrase ‘out of the frying pan and into the fire’ in quite the same way.
I never did find out what sort of sentence either parent served for their crimes, but one bit of positive news did reach me via Gary, a few months later, and it was that Kiara’s counselling was apparently going well; that she was beginning to understand that although her mother’s behaviour was considered abusive – and it was – what her father had been found guilty of was far worse. She remained in foster care and refused contact with her mother when it was offered a couple of years later. I don’t blame her. I often think of her now and wonder how she is. That sense of incompleteness never really goes away.
Oh, and as for Mr Hunt – well, what can I say? I’d love to be able to tell you we had a professional discussion about where we needed to differ in our approach to managing kids, and just how dismayed I was that he’d been so needlessly unkind to a child who was already in such a vulnerable place. It never happened.
Instead, picture the scene:
The ‘quiet’ room, off the staff-room, at the very end of the summer term. Enter Mr Richard Hunt, better known as ‘Dick’ Hunt, stage right.
Pleasantries are exchanged. Mr Hunt sits at a computer monitor. Mrs Watson, sitting at another, clears her throat, and makes reference to another, similar incident.
CW – So I’d appreciate if you didn’t humiliate the students like that. It’s both uncalled for and unprofessional. I won’t take it any further, I just wanted to let you know how I felt about it.
RH – How you feel? How you feel? You’re not even a real p***ing teacher, so don’t try telling me how to do my p***ing job!
CW – Don’t you dare speak to me like that! Who the hell do you think you are?
RH – I’m a real teacher, love, not a four foot nothing jumped up ‘behaviouralist’ or whatever the hell you are! Keep out of my damn business, woman, okay?
CW takes a deep breath and does a quick check of the adjacent staff-room.
CW – And you, Mr Hunt, are exactly what all the kids call you behind your back. And a first-class one at that!
Exit, stage left.