A Dark Secret: Part 2 of 3. Casey Watson
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is wicked,’ he enthused, as if it was the best invention ever. ‘It’s like she can be on the lead but off the lead all at once. I think all dogs should be given them, on the Health Service.’
It was such a funny little thing to say that I almost laughed out loud. And did, when he declared the ball-throwing device to be, in contrast, the worst invention ever. ‘Why can’t people throw with their actual arms?’ he wanted to know. ‘Doing it with that thing’s so lazy.’
I could only agree, so we abandoned the ball-throwing doohickey, and as I watched him enjoy the simple pleasure of spending time with Kieron’s dog, I was reminded of the oft-quoted truism about animals – that they really could be good for the soul. And for this little troubled soul, definitely.
And as is so often the case when you’re out with a dog, we passed other dogs, and other owners I knew. And one dog in particular, a Collie called Flame, who lived on our street, but who was tugging on his lead in his enthusiasm to say hello, but from the grip of an unexpected owner.
Flame was owned by a lady who lived a few doors down called Mrs Pegg, but he was in the charge of a teenager I didn’t recognise. At least, I thought I didn’t, but when he caught up with his overexcited canine, I realised his face was familiar from somewhere.
And I was right. He was Mrs Pegg’s grandson, Oliver. ‘She’s recovering from surgery,’ he explained, when I asked how she was. ‘She got her knee-replacement operation moved forward.’
I knew my neighbour was on the waiting list but, as with knee operations everywhere, had assumed it would be months away yet.
‘Is she okay?’ I asked. ‘Does she need anything?’
‘She’s fine,’ Oliver said. ‘Just can’t walk much for a bit, obviously.’ He made a grab for Flame’s lead so he wouldn’t trample Luna in his excitement. Then smiled wryly. ‘In the meantime, we’ve got a rota.’
‘What’s a rota?’ Sam piped up.
‘Like a chart,’ I explained. ‘With a list of who’s supposed to do what and when.’
‘I’ve got a chart! I’ve got a chart!’ Sam trilled to Oliver. ‘I do lots of different things when I’m supposed to as well. And when I do them I get a star on it. Do you?’
Oliver shook his head. ‘No, just one of my nan’s “brownie points”,’ he said, chuckling.
‘And her undying gratitude,’ I added. ‘Of that I’m sure. Will you tell her I’ll pop over to see her later?’
And as we parted, and I made a mental note to do just that, I reflected that while Sam had his chart, I had something equally useful.
An idea.
My dog-walking idea proved to be a winner. Not only did I have the undying gratitude of my neighbour’s grandson, but, as far as I could fathom Sam’s complicated personality, I felt I’d really turned a corner with him, at least in knowing what made him happy, because walking Flame seemed to make him very happy indeed.
It also provided an outlet for his need to howl and bark and, though we attracted the odd sideways look when Sam launched into an episode, most didn’t even bat an eyelid – he was just a nine-year-old boy, out with a dog, who was pretending to be a dog. As for the dog himself, well, he seemed to enjoy it too.
Our new regime of daily dog walks also proved to be a much-needed distraction from all the waiting around for news from the various authorities. Although meeting Colin Sampson had been uplifting, and a very positive experience, I still knew that all the reams of red tape dictated that we had a long road ahead. There were lots of unanswered questions and only certain professionals had the authority to answer them. CAMHS – Child and Adolsescent Mental Health Services – would ultimately decide if Sam really was autistic, and if so, what level of help he would need. The ELAC team would then decide which school he could be enrolled with and, finally, social services would then update Sam’s care plan to show how we, as a family, could best address and support his needs.
In the meantime, as a family, there was some nice news. In the form of an invitation from my niece Chloe – my sister Donna’s daughter – to a wedding just under six weeks hence. Closely followed (Six weeks away? Whattt? had been my first thought) by a call from Donna herself.
‘Sorry,’ she said immediately. ‘I meant to call you last week. But it’s all been so manic since I saw you –’
‘I’m not surprised!’ I interrupted. ‘What’s going on? Why? I thought they were getting married next spring, not this spring.’
‘D’oh,’ my sister laughed. ‘Because she’s just found out she’s pregnant!’
‘Really?’ I said. ‘Wow. That’s certainly … unexpected.’ And it was. My niece was the last person on earth I’d have expected to be expecting unexpectedly. Just like her mum she had life organised to the nth degree. Yes, she’d been with her fiancé a good while now, and they were definitely planning to have children, but as far as I’d been aware, they’d planned to do things in a slightly different order to the one my sister sketched out to me now.
‘Oh, they hummed and hawed about it,’ she explained. ‘They initially thought they’d just have the baby and get married next year, like they’d planned to, but in the end she decided she’d rather be a bride without a baby, in preference to being in the first throes of motherhood – fat and tired, as she put it, bless her – and as it’s turned out they can have a venue gratis, it was a no-brainer.’
Donna went on to explain that Jack’s boss – Jack being Chloe’s fiancé, and a chef – had offered them the use of the marquee at his hotel, after they’d had a late cancellation. And though Donna sympathised with the girl who’d cancelled – as did I, poor thing, because her fiancé had apparently split up with her – she also saw it as fate making the decision for them. ‘They’ll save shedloads. Which they’ll need, of course. So, can you make it?’
I could hear the excitement in my sister’s voice, like a fizz down the phone line. Not only was she about to plunge into full mother-of-the-bride mode, she was also going to have her greatest wish granted and become a grandmother like I was, to boot. And there was to be another baby in the family, which always made me happy.
So my first response would normally have been just try to keep me away. Which is exactly what I said. But with a caveat: Sam. Chloe and her fiancé lived a hundred and fifty miles away now and though I was fairly sure Mike could organise a couple of days off, we’d also need to organise respite. It was almost certain that my own kids and their respective entourages would be going (turning up to the opening of an envelope was a Watson family trait) and only the other day Christine Bolton had been telling me that the service was almost at breaking point, with respite carers currently so thin on the ground that they were having to go further and further afield to find any – perhaps as far away as where Chloe lived? Conceivably.
‘So just bring him with you,’ was Donna’s immediate response when I told her. Which was so like her. Come one, come all. And that despite his little episode in her café. But then she didn’t know Sam that well, did she?
‘Absolutely not,’ was Mike’s, an hour later, when I told him.
And he was resolute. We had a right to a couple of days off. We’d forgone a planned trip to take on Sam in the first place, so it was a problem we had to be extremely firm about – as in placing it very firmly on social services’ shoulders. ‘It’s not fair, love,’ he’d added, seeing the doubt in my face. ‘Yes, you’ve made strides with Sam – big strides – but things are still far from perfect, and who knows how he’ll react in the company of complete strangers? And it’s not