A Small Boy's Cry Read Online Free Page B

cold.
    My hand flickers at my side as she nears, as I wonder whether to offer a handshake. Tracy resolves my indecision by walking past me, straight into the playroom.
    â€˜There you are, Charlie. Wha’d’ya go walking right past me for?’
    Charlie swings around to the door, slipping off the horse and landing awkwardly on his bottom. He whimpers and cradles his head but it’s me he looks to for reassurance, even though his mother is standing closer to him. Already we share an unspoken understanding. After such a short time I am his ‘safe base’, his source of protection and comfort; yet another serious cause for concern. I smile with a sympathetic glance but don’t do anything more; experience has taught me that nothing winds mothers up more ferociously than taking over and playing mum in their presence.
    It’s only then that Tracy acknowledges me, giving a curt nod.
    â€˜I’m Rosie,’ I say, smiling, willing her to scoop Charlie up.
    She doesn’t. Bending over, she knocks his shoulder with the back of her hand. Accidentally? With affection? It’s difficult to tell, but what’s obvious is that Charlie’s now hyper-alert; if he were a kitten his back would be arched, his fur up on end. His bottom lip quivers. The sympathy I feel for him swells to fill up my chest and I feel irritated with myself for ever feeling any for her.
    Rotating on his bottom, Charlie follows her around the room with his eyes. Instead of sitting beside him on the floor as I had hoped, she sits on one of the straight-backed chairs at the rear of the room and reaches into her handbag for her phone.
    Charlie continues to study her, his brow furrowed. Is he looking for clues as to her mood? I wonder. There are a hundred questions in that little stare, one of which is perhaps, ‘Why?’ Tracy’s bland expression must signal safety on this occasion because he potters over to her, resting a small but slightly hesitant hand on her knee.
    â€˜I’ve ’at to get two buses to get here, and they haven’t given me no fare money yet,’ she moans, lips tight with bitterness.
    I hesitate, not sure how to respond. Does she expect me to commiserate?
    â€˜How tiring,’ I manage to say, couching my words in an overly polite tone.
    Take a look at your son, I want to say. He looks so alone. I find myself eager for contact to come to an end so I can draw him into a cuddle. It won’t be the same, it won’t mean as much, but it might go some way towards soothing that furrowed brow. Does she not know that it’s her job to show him how lovable he is?
    Before I became a foster carer I’d never considered that the ability to accept love was a skill that needed to be learned. I’d imagined that every child exits the womb with an innate capacity to be cherished. Tracy, surly and hostile, yet curiously frail, looks like she’s never had an affectionate cuddle in her life. I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising that she can’t pass a gift on to her son that she herself was never given in the first place. Remembering how ferociously Charlie clung to me as I put him to bed last night I can’t help but feel terribly sad, knowing that he had to come to a stranger to get some affection.
    Out of nowhere Charlie lunges at Tracy, scratching her face. She gasps and clamps her hand to her cheek, the other bunching into a fist.
    â€˜You f*cking bully!’ she screams, looking ready to shake him. Her eyes dart from him to me, weighing up whether she can get away with giving him a quick slap. ‘See what he did to me?’
    It was glaringly obvious that Charlie lashed out in desperation for some sort of attention. Negative or not, anything was better than indifference.
    â€˜He’s a little animal. Like yer f*cking dad, you are.’
    He learned at your feet, I feel tempted to say. Instead I stay silent, making a conscious effort to loosen my tightened jaw.