A Small Boy’s Cry

A Small Boy’s Cry
Rosie Lewis

A heartbreaking and shocking short story from foster carer Rosie Lewis.Toddler Charlie falls from the second floor window of his tower block home while his mother is busy shooting up in their dirty council flat.Laying alone on a pile of rubbish until concerned neighbours hear him whimpering, Charlie is taken to hospital by police officers who are unable to rouse his mother.With a gash to his head, a terrified Charlie is delivered to foster carer Rosie Lewis’s home. As Charlie opens up about his past, a picture of the traumatic life the little boy has endured so far becomes clear.

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Copyright (#u5e1005fe-a8c9-5b95-82b2-676cf5b34fc4)

Certain details in this story, including names and places, have been changed to protect the identities of the individuals concerned.

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First published by HarperElement 2014

FIRST EDITION

© Rosie Lewis 2014

Rosie Lewis asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014

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Ebook Edition © July 2014 ISBN: 9780007541836

Version 2014-07-21

Contents

Cover (#u9abb05ac-4dea-5e62-bb25-89eac81904f4)

Title Page (#u2857fb73-0bf3-5f35-b3e1-633284c36058)

Copyright (#ulink_65823e9f-2a5e-5c8f-b011-ae7a2fb49f66)

A Small Boy’s Cry (#ulink_74dcc1e7-7461-562a-b258-e18ad7eb1a2c)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Moved by A Small Boy’s Cry? Try The Girl Without a Voice by Casey Watson (#litres_trial_promo)

Rosie Lewis (#litres_trial_promo)

Moving Memoirs eNewsletter (#litres_trial_promo)

Write for Us (#litres_trial_promo)

More from Rosie Lewis (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

A Small Boy’s Cry (#u5e1005fe-a8c9-5b95-82b2-676cf5b34fc4)

With the familiar pips of the BBC News at Ten’s closing music pulsing away in the background, I secure the dead bolt on the back door and walk back through the kitchen. My eyes stray to the smiley face etched onto one of the cupboard doors – a legacy of three-year-old Alfie – then I go through to our ‘lived-in’ lounge, where a carefully placed coffee table fails to conceal a lingering pink glow on the carpet: fuchsia nail varnish, courtesy of Amy.

Amy was fifteen years old when she arrived as an emergency placement the previous year, staying with us for four weeks. By the time she left we were more or less buddies (what’s a few cracked vases and a broken television between friends?), although her arrival and the ensuing days while she acclimatised to the sobering reality of living in a cannabis-free house were, to use social services’ mild description, ‘challenging’.

But I don’t mind that much if our home is less than perfect. Not really. Dimming the lights on our weathered but cosy rooms, I climb the stairs knowing that I wouldn’t have it any other way. Smudges on the window panes or scribbles on walls can be erased with some elbow grease or a splash of paint, the effort more than compensated for by the hope that the children we have fostered aren’t the only ones to leave their mark behind.

It’s nice to think that the time they’ve spent in our family leaves its own impression. Muddy walks in windswept woodlands, splashing through puddles on a rainy afternoon, drinking hot cocoa while playing board games in front of the log fire; the simple, gentle monotony of everyday life spent with people who care leaves an imprint, perhaps even replacing some earlier, less tranquil memories. Sometimes, all it takes to make a positive difference to a young life is just one adult who cares enough to show an interest. Carving a place in a troubled heart nurtures resilience, buffering whatever turbulence may lie ahead when the haven of foster care has ended.

Up in my bedroom I climb into bed, leaving my clothes and mobile phone within reach. Tonight I’m on call and covering the eleven-to-eighteen age range, as well as my usual under-tens. Switching my electric blanket on, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll be needed and who it might be. When covering such a wide age range, I have to be prepared for anything. Jenny, a fostering friend of mine, recently accepted an unaccompanied minor while on call. When the Somalian arrived at her house, she couldn’t help but notice his emerging facial hair and rippling six pack; it turns out that Nafiso was, in fact, twenty-one.

However much my imagination strayed, I must have dropped off fairly quickly because when my phone dances impatiently around the top of my bedside cabinet and I reach out to switch the lamp back on, the bulb is still hot. Still half asleep, I reluctantly grope for the ANSWER button.

‘Hello,’ I answer croakily, switching to loudspeaker mode and blinking rapidly in the soft light. My pulse quickens at the sound of Des’s Scottish burr.

‘I’m just giving you the heads-up, Rosie,’ my supervising social worker tells me in an urgent tone, converting my adrenaline into action.

I force myself to my feet and dress hurriedly, pulling on an old jumper, leggings and a pair of fluffy socks. At 1 a.m. in mid-November, the temperature is already dipping close to zero.

‘Boy, aged three. Suspected neglect. He’s receiving emergency treatment at the moment. Not sure how long he’ll be at the hospital but you’s best get yourself ready.’

Aw, three, I think, aware of a familiar clawing in my stomach; it’s the desire to make him all better before he’s even arrived. Des promises to ping the details through to me and reminds me I can call him for support any time, day or night. After making a quick coffee I switch on the computer and open the email sitting in my inbox from Des.

EMERGENCY PLACEMENT REQUIRED

Charlie SMITH, age three