Mummy Told Me Not to Tell: The true story of a troubled boy with a dark secret

‘Reece, you will have to try and sit quietly,’ I said. ‘I can’t concentrate on driving when there is a lot of noise.’

‘Bruummm! Bruumm!’ Then, ‘Yeoooo crunch crunch,’ which I wasn’t sure represented a car, a plane or even a shark attack, but whatever it was the noise was deafening. Then he started kicking the back of the passenger seat.

I indicated, and drew into the kerb. Putting the car into neutral and the handbrake on, I turned in my seat to look at Reece. He was now yelping and kicking the seat in a frenzy.

‘Reece!’ I said. ‘Reece, listen to me.’

He didn’t.

‘Reece, I need you to be quiet and sit still.’ I tried again, raising my voice so it could be heard over the relentless yelps. ‘Reece, quiet, and please stop kicking that seat. We don’t kick anything other than footballs.’

He didn’t stop, so I switched off the engine, got out and went round to the pavement and opened his door.

‘Reece,’ I said firmly. ‘Sit still. Now, please!’ I placed my hand lightly on his legs to quell the kicking. ‘Sit still and be quiet. Then we can go to the supermarket and you can push the trolley.’

He continued with the yelping and kicking for another few seconds; then suddenly he stopped the noise and became still.

‘Can I?’ he said, looking at me suspiciously. ‘Can I push the trolley?’

‘Yes,’ I said, smiling. ‘Would you like to help?’

He nodded furiously, his head bobbing up and down. All Reece’s movements were accentuated when he was in a hyperactive state. ‘I’ve never pushed a trolley before,’ he said. ‘Can I really push it?’

I smiled sadly. The poor kid: while he had been party to goodness knows what in the adult world at home he had missed out on the simple childhood pleasure of pushing a supermarket trolley and helping mum to shop.

‘All right, Reece, now listen to me,’ I said, looking at him carefully. ‘You can push the trolley as long as you sit quietly while I drive to the supermarket. OK?’ It wasn’t bribery, just positive reward for good behaviour, and he nodded furiously. I returned to the driver’s seat and drove to the supermarket at the edge of town with no more than a ‘wow’ when I had to brake quickly as the car in front suddenly pulled into the kerb without signalling. And I thought that pushing the trolley was going to be another strategy for encouraging Reece’s good behaviour, so that together with reading a lot of books I was also going to be doing a lot of shopping, which was fine because we consumed a lot of food.

Reece pushed the trolley remarkably well, controlling the speed to an acceptable 5mph, once I’d explained there were elderly people in the store who couldn’t get out of the way in time if he went any faster or tried to run them over. Reece’s biggest problem in the supermarket was curtailing his enthusiasm. I had asked him, as I ask all foster children, to choose some of his favourite food. We already had Chicken Dippers, tinned spaghetti hoops and Wall’s sausages in the trolley in abundance, but would also have had, had I not returned them, five cartons of chocolate ice-cream (I kept one), six packets of Jammie Dodger biscuits (I kept two) and twelve tubes of brightly coloured sweets (I put them all back because of the additives and replaced them with milk chocolate bars). I praised Reece for the way he steered the trolley and helped me, and he glowed from achieving the task successfully. He was also pretty patient at the checkout, considering the length of the queue, and I only had to remind him a couple of times not to shunt the trolley into the back of the man in front.

Once it was our turn at the checkout Reece’s enthusiasm for shifting all the food from the trolley on to the belt knew no bounds. The items were jettisoned with such force that they found their way to the cashier without the need of the moving belt. I held back the box of eggs and put them on myself. I paid, and then Reece helped me push the trolley out of the store and through the car park, missing most of the cars. I strapped him into his seat while I packed the bags in the boot — it was safer than having him hopping around in the car park. Once all the shopping was in the boot I returned the empty trolley to the trolley park close by and got into the car. Before inserting the keys into the ignition I turned and looked at him. ‘Good boy,’ I said. ‘Thanks for helping me.’ Then I noticed he was chewing something.

‘What are you eating?’ I asked, for certainly I hadn’t given him anything. I had said he could have one of the iced buns when we got home.

‘Sweets,’ he said, producing a packet of fruit pastels from his coat pocket.

‘Where did you get those?’

‘From the shop.’

I stared horrified. ‘But I didn’t buy them.’

‘No, I looked them,’ he said, popping another one into his mouth.

‘But Reece, that’s stealing. I didn’t pay for them.’

He gave a shrug. ‘No worries. The police can’t do me. I’m under age.’

I stared at him, dumbfounded, as he chewed loudly, unashamed by his admission. Clearly Reece had no idea that stealing was wrong but was well aware he was below the age of criminal responsibility and therefore couldn’t be prosecuted even if he was caught.

‘Who told you that?’ I asked.

He shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’ So I could guess.

‘Did you use to steal things when you lived at home?’

He didn’t say anything, but popped another pastel in his mouth and grinned. I certainly couldn’t let him enjoy the spoils of his theft. I opened my door and got out. I went round to his door.

‘Reece,’ I said leaning in and taking the pastels. ‘You have taken these without paying for them, so they are not yours. It’s stealing. We have to pay for the things we want: we don’t just take them.’

‘But they’re mine!’ he yelled, making a grab for them.

‘No. They are not, Reece. They belong to the shop. They only become ours if we pay for them.’

If the item had been of any greater value I would have taken it back to the store, but returning a half-eaten tube of fruit pastels was going to cause more trouble than it was worth, particularly as I would have to take Reece with me and he was now erupting with force.

‘Mine!’ he yelled, kicking the back of the seat in a frenzy. ‘Mine! Give me them! Thief!’ which I thought was choice.

‘No, Reece. You won’t have these sweets. They are not yours, they are the shop’s.’ I dropped them into my coat pocket to throw away later.

‘Mine,’ he screamed. ‘Mum gives me the sweets when I help her.’

‘Help her do what?’ I asked over the noise.

‘Take things,’ he said. Then he stopped.

‘You stole things for your mum?’

He stopped screaming and looked at me. ‘Hate you,’ he said and poked out his tongue, which was bright green from the pastels.

The return journey from the supermarket was more eventful than the one going when Reece had sat quietly in his seat with the promise of pushing the trolley. Now he screamed, yelled he hated me and kicked the seat relentlessly. I had to stop three times to resettle him and return him to under his seatbelt. After repeated warnings, I told him he had lost thirty minutes’ television time that evening because I couldn’t have him distracting me while driving, as it was dangerous.

‘I’m watching television,’ he yelled defiantly as we finally entered the house.

‘No, you are not, Reece. You can help me to unload the car or you can play with some toys.’

‘I’m watching telly,’ he yelled again, sticking out his tongue.

I ignored it and began unloading the car with the front gate bolted so that he couldn’t run out into the road if he had a mind to. Each time I carried the bags of shopping into the house I checked on where he was and what he was doing, which was zooming around, arms outstretched and making whooping noises, so at least I knew where he was.

Once I had all the bags in the hall I began carrying them through to the kitchen. ‘Would you like to help me?’ I called to Reece, but he was in no mood for cooperating. By the time I had all the bags in the kitchen Reece had done a dozen laps of the house and was demanding lunch.

‘You can have lunch, yes,’ I said, glancing at the clock. ‘It’s twelve o’clock. But say “Can I have lunch?” rather than “Give me”. Sit at the table and I’ll make you a sandwich.’

The promise of food settled Reece and I quickly made a ham sandwich, which he ate while I unpacked the food into the cupboards and fridge-freezer. As soon as he’d finished he was out of his seat and orchestrating one of his plane landings or shark attacks. I made a hasty sandwich for myself, took it into the living room and ate it while reading Reece some stories. He was quiet again and the incident of the sweets had now been forgotten. I wouldn’t say anything more about them now, but next time we went shopping I would remind him that things in the shops only became ours when we paid for them.

Sadly, Reece wasn’t the first child I had come across whose parents had primed their child to thieve as though they were modern-day equivalents of Fagin. Sometimes it had been out of necessity — there was no food in the house and the benefit money wasn’t due until the following week. Sometimes it had been for more expensive items like iPods, jewellery and CDs, where the easiest option was to take the item rather than save up for it as socialized parents teach their children to do. I didn’t know enough of Reece’s home situation to know whether it was from necessity or greed he had been trained to steal and then rewarded with sweets, but clearly I would have to be more alert in future, because I still had absolutely no idea when he had slipped the sweets into his coat pocket. His technique had clearly been well designed and I suspected well practised.

The afternoon passed with me reading Reece more books and then with me beside him, painting and Play-Doh. This was interspersed with him zooming around when there was a break in the activity. Reece repeatedly asked if he could have his television on and I repeatedly explained that he had lost half an hour of his television time for his behaviour in the car, and that he could have it on at four o’clock instead of 3.30 when the pre-school programmes began.