As every parent learns once their first child goes to nursery, those few precious hours of freedom fly by astonishingly fast, as if calibrated using a completely different system.
No sooner had we defrosted and had a coffee, and Jenna had attended to Tommy’s needs, than it felt as if we were preparing to set off to pick Seth up again. To be fair, today’s session had been shorter than it would normally, but, even so, it was a valuable lesson for Jenna in how managing your time when you had free (well, freer) time to manage gave you more of it. Which was a precious, not to mention sanity-saving, thing for any parent, but particularly so for someone like Jenna, who was likely to be parenting on her own.
I’d continued my little pep talk all the rest of the way home, mostly along lines that seemed important to discuss – the fact that what children said and what they felt were often very different things, and that she must try to see the things Seth said to her as not being from his heart, but more a reaction to the insecurity he’d suffered in life thus far, and, in their own way, a reflection of how much he did need her.
‘When a child says “I hate you”,’ I explained, ‘they almost never really mean that. They might mean “I hate that you’ve stopped me from doing what I wanted to”, or “I hate that I’ve been found out in doing something wrong”. Even when it’s serious – say, a child who’s been let down, perhaps by a parent who was supposed to come and visit them and didn’t – I’ve seen that far too many times – that word “hate” doesn’t mean hate, it’s an expression of love. If the child didn’t love that person so much, they wouldn’t feel so distressed, would they?’
I stuck my neck out then, telling Jenna that I thought that, in Seth’s case, it was mostly an expression of his understandable insecurity, having been separated from his mum for that period of time, and that he was probably anxious that he might lose her again, which, given the circumstances, was a hard thing to say.
‘Of course,’ I added, keen to lighten the conversation up a little, ‘sometimes he says he hates you because he’s way too used to getting his own way, and he knows exactly how to push all your buttons. And the best way to deal with that is to be firm and consistent. If you say no, you must mean no, every single time. If you do that, he will begin to learn where he stands – where he’s safe and secure and the world feels less scary. And it’s that, above everything, except your unconditional love, that will make him feel he’s more on solid ground.’
Her answer to which was to burst into tears again. Hot, noisy tears and a heart-breaking admission: ‘I’ve never felt on solid ground in my whole entire life.’
It sometimes felt as if tears were the currency of my job, because this admission, at my kitchen table, felt like payday.
By the time we arrived back at school I had started to convince myself that my main task over the remaining weeks of the placement was, more than anything, to try and build Jenna’s confidence in her ability to be a capable enough mother to her children. It was easy to forget that she’d been a fifteen-year-old mum, and judging by what I’d witnessed at her parents’ house over the weekend, one with precious little in the way of advice and support.
I also made a mental note to ask Jenna if she knew anything about the circumstances of her own birth. She’d come into their lives very late. So why was that? There were all sorts of possible scenarios up for offer. Was it simply that they had got together relatively late in life? Had they lost a child earlier and had their lives fallen apart as a consequence? Was this a second marriage? Had there been other kids, from previous marriages or relationships? Had they been known to social services at some other, earlier point, and perhaps had children taken away? And just what were their disabilities? (Well, beyond the bloomin’ obvious.) And had they been a factor for all of Jenna’s life?
What I really wanted to do was get her to properly open up to me, and perhaps this morning’s moment was progress in that respect. But right now most important was that we get a routine going, and that, as a result, we could start to do something constructive about her fractious relationship with Seth.
I wanted that so much that I even crossed my fingers as we approached the playground – that he’d enjoyed himself, that he’d behaved himself and that he’d emerge from his session in the same sunny frame of mind as when he’d gone in.
Yeah, Casey, right. Because real life is always like that.
He’d barely been waved off by Mrs Sykes, with a ‘see you tomorrow!’ than he had Jenna in his sights, and not in a good way, his happy mask falling from his face like a stone.
I could see why, as well. We’d had a delivery during the morning of something Jenna had ordered online. My first assumption, opening the door, had been that she’d been buying herself some clothes. Like the little ones, she had precious few of them. But I’d been wrong. Because, in fact, using some of what scant money she had, she’d bought a little baby carrier – entirely on her own initiative – so she could strap Tommy to her chest when she was doing chores, or playing with Seth, and it would also mean she didn’t have to take the pram out all the time. ‘I read on the internet,’ she told me, ‘that if you carry your baby in a sling lots, it helps you bond with them better.’
This, in itself, obviously moved me, as did her comment that she hadn’t told me about it because she knew I’d have insisted on paying for it if she had, or might have said it was too expensive for the ‘social’s allowance’.
So she’d taken the initiative and just gone ahead and done it anyway.
Naturally, she was keen to road test it on the journey back up to school, and I was so pleased at the development – something so clearly positive and uplifting that I could write in my report at last! – that it was gutting to see his response to it.
‘What’s that thing?’ he demanded, as we walked up to meet him. Then he flung himself, bodily, against Jenna’s legs. ‘Pick me up!’ he demanded. ‘I’m tired!’
To her credit, Jenna immediately crouched down and put her arms around him. Which touched me likewise – she’d obviously taken in some of the things I’d said to her earlier.
But Seth was having none of it, wriggling free of her embrace. ‘Put him down!’ he demanded a second time. ‘Pick me up!’ Then he turned to me, his little face full of fury. ‘Make her. You have him!’ he commanded me, before wilting theatrically, letting his knees and arms sag, as if he’d just emerged from a twelve-hour shift down a mine.
Which for him, I rationalised, might have been what it felt like, especially if he’d managed to keep control of his impulses for all that time. And now he was letting go, big time. But there was no way we were going to attempt the complicated business of unstrapping the fiddly carrier straps and doing a switcheroo between us out in the cold, and, as if realising, Seth kicked Jenna in the ankle.
‘Ow!’ she yelped. ‘God! You little shit! That bloody hurt!’
‘Good!’ Seth spat at her. Then, his tiredness apparently forgotten, he set off up the pavement at a run.
Glancing round briefly, and pleased to see Mrs Sykes had gone inside now, I told Jenna ‘I’ve got this’ and hurried after him.
‘Hey,’ I said, catching up with him, and grabbing his wrist. ‘Whoah, there. That wasn’t a very nice thing to do, was it?’
‘She’s not very nice,’ he huffed.
‘And who is “she”? The cat’s mother? And how can Mummy pick you up when she’s got your brother strapped to her?’ I let go his wrist, and held a hand out in its place.
He took it – an apparently automatic action. I squeezed it. ‘You sure do like giving your mum a hard time, don’t you? And you know what? A little bird told me that when you were tiny, she carried you round in a sling, just like Tommy’s. That’s what you do with babies –’ I lifted both my arms, bringing his hand along with me. ‘So you have both arms free for cuddling their big brothers.’
‘Didn’t want a cuddle. I wanted a carry. She shoulda brought the pram.’
Yes, I mused. He’s probably right. She should.
But I certainly wasn’t going to chastise her for it because I should have thought of that myself. I glanced back. Jenna was still a few steps behind, texting. Always texting!
I faced forward again, determined not to let things start unravelling, even if it was Jenna, and not me, who should be having this conversation with Seth. ‘Mum was just giving it a try-out,’ I improvised, briskly. ‘You have to check these things work, in case you have to send them back again. Anyway, more to the point, how did your morning go, sweetheart? Did you have fun? I want to hear everything about it. What did you do? Did you make some new friends?’
‘I played polices with Oscar,’ he said. ‘And I threw him in jail!’ But he was smiling as he said this so I figured no one got chastised or hurt.
‘Jail?’ I said. ‘Oh, my! Were you PJ Masks and was he a master criminal?’
He shook his head. ‘No, a burglar. Burglar Bill. We were just doing polices. And I painted a picture but it’s not dry enough to bring home yet. And tomorrow I’m sitting next to Sophia. She’s a girl,’ he added helpfully. ‘And she’s got yellow hair. What’s for food? Can I have sausages and chips for my dinner?’
And there, it was done. That simple exchange was a building block that would, on some level, inform Seth that relationships with adults could be okay. That it was safe to be himself, that someone was interested in his day.
I turned back to Jenna, who’d caught us up now, and whose phone, I was glad to see, was back in her pocket. ‘Did you hear that?’ I asked her. ‘Chips and sausages for dinner. And Seth’s done a picture, haven’t you?’
‘What of?’ she asked, reaching down to stroke his head.
He shook her hand off, clearly not ready to forgive her for the sling yet.
‘Of you,’ he said. ‘You. Sent to jail.’
‘Right, I think we need to institute a school-day routine,’ I told Jenna as she made up a fresh bottle for Tommy, and I cut potatoes up for chips. Not my usual lunchtime fodder – I was more of a sandwich or soup type in the middle of the day – but today, what Seth had asked for, Seth was going to get; I wanted to rid this day of negative memories like sling-gate. Instead I wanted it to be the first of many positive ones in his immediate future. Well, as positive as could be organised, given the complicated dynamics. And having a structure would be a good place to begin.
Much better, certainly, than what was happening right now – that Seth had simply plonked himself down in front of the TV in the conservatory, and where, if I didn’t take any decisive action, all three of them would no doubt spend the rest of the afternoon. And every afternoon after that, left to their own devices – literally: one glued to the telly, one glued to her phone. Jenna’s had been pinging non-stop since we got back.
‘So I was thinking,’ I continued, ‘that once he’s home every day and we’ve all had our lunch, we should ring-fence half an hour to an hour, say – whether Tommy’s asleep or not, because I’ll mind him for you – for you and Seth to have some one-to-one “together-time”. You know, just to play together, uninterrupted, you giving him your undivided attention, so he knows he matters to you every bit as much as Tommy does. Which I know is true, obviously,’ I added immediately. ‘But will help cement that truth in Seth’s mind. Plus, I think it’ll do you both good,’ I went on, ‘and it’s the sort of thing the judge will be pleased to see as well, because you making time for play, that kind of regular emotional enrichment generally, is one of those things that they really like to see. In terms of what you do together, it doesn’t need to be anything elaborate,’ I reassured her, seeing as her expression was now reminiscent of a child at a total loss about some tricky piece of homework being explained to them. ‘Just, oh, I don’t know – perhaps doing something crafty at the table. I have a craft box, all sorts of bits and bobs, so there’s plenty to choose from, or, if it’s dry, maybe a game of running around the garden, or perhaps a treasure hunt –’
‘Treasure hunt?’ Jenna looked as if I was speaking to her in tongues.
‘Yes, or races – you could do a little mini-Olympics with him, or just play pretend, imaginative play – I have a huge dressing-up box, and he’s just the right age. Though it doesn’t even have to be structured; you can let him take the lead. It doesn’t matter what you do, love,’ I finished, ‘just that you do something together. Something positive and happy, something that makes you genuinely feel enriched in each other’s company.’
Oh, if only we could achieve that kind of nirvana, I mused. And as I did so, another notification pinged on Jenna’s phone. If only all of us could, I thought, glaring at the thing. And might better be achieved if phones were banned from playgrounds, I decided. And parents – well, some parents – actually got involved a bit in playtime, and stayed in the moment, instead of looking upon it as a chance to take themselves off to social media and immerse themselves in other moments altogether.
I followed Jenna’s gaze, which responded to the noise like a dog being whistled. I went back to cutting chips, determined to put my play-plan into action. Because, frankly, not all ‘progress’ was progress.
The trouble was greater than I could lay at the feet of mobile phones, though. The fact was that Jenna didn’t seem to know how to play; it was all too evident as I watched them from the kitchen window after lunch. She’d managed the first bit – suggesting to Seth that they go and play out in the garden. And he’d responded immediately, suggesting they play ‘polices’ like they’d done at nursery, and even explaining in detail how ‘polices’ was going to work.
And he impressed me. Despite apparently having had so little play in his young life, he’d clearly been enthused by his morning at nursery, because he immediately took the lead; him being the policeman and Jenna being the ‘bad man’, instructing her to hide while he turned around and closed his eyes, then catching her and leading her to the designated jail – the space in the corner of the patio between two garden chairs. He’d found a little stick, too – his truncheon – for giving her a ‘good kicking’ (hmm, I thought, but it was what it was) when she tried to escape.
But Jenna looked a little like a fish out of water. Whether self-conscious or disengaged (perhaps a bit of both) she looked less like his mum than some distant spinster aunty, one who’d been drafted in to keep him occupied and hadn’t the first clue how to do it. One who was hoping to pass the baton on as soon as possible – evident itself from the way she kept glancing at the kitchen window, as if hoping for permission to come back in.
It was sad. So, so sad. But also eye-opening. A window on a world I knew so little about. Both her former world with Seth, almost certainly dominated by her drug use, and the world she’d grown up in herself. Had she ever been played with as a child? I didn’t think so. Not based on the evidence before me.
Still, somehow, they managed to eke out half an hour, and when they did come back in, Seth was pleasingly flushed, both from the cold, but also from the exertion. As was Jenna, who it occurred to me was spending unhealthy amounts of time indoors, and probably not getting enough daylight and vitamin D – the health benefits, especially in the winter months, were undeniable – yes, physically, but also mentally, too.
I was just about to say so when the doorbell went. Another parcel delivery. Which I went to retrieve, while Jenna and Seth took off their coats.
It was addressed to Jenna again, so I took it back into the conservatory to give to her. But she shook her head on inspecting it, and smiled. ‘You open it.’
I had Tommy in my arms, so I passed him over to her. ‘But it’s addressed to you,’ I pointed out, as we swapped package and baby.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘But it’s for you. It’s a present.’
I opened the jiffy bag to find a box inside, and a dispatch note, which she took from me. Inside the box was a bottle of perfume. ‘Impression’, it was called. Not a name I immediately recognised.
‘It’s a knock-off,’ she clarified. ‘Well, not a “knock-off”. Not as in dodgy. It’s the one I had on at the weekend,’ she explained. ‘They’re dead cheap, but they smell soooo like the real ones. Amazing, isn’t it? I thought, since you liked it, I’d get you some too.’
‘Oh, Jen,’ I began. But I couldn’t manage much more. I was too busy doing an impression of someone crying.