In Safe Hands

A corner is turned in this emotional short story by Alyson Hilbourne.

Could I give Josh the love and attention he so needed?

AS Josh and I walk along the street, I’m startled by an angry rapping sound. I look up to see sharpfaced Mrs Williams glaring at me from her window.

She lives in the corner house and her husband spends hours in the garden, keeping it tidy.

“To avoid being inside with her,” Dan says.

I glance down at my foster son and realise why she’s banging. He has run his hand along her wall, knocking the petals off her roses.

“Josh!” I cry without thinking, and immediately regret my accusatory tone when he shrinks away.

I squat and try to pull him into an embrace, but his body goes rigid and he backs against the wall.

There’s a lump in my throat as I look at him. I swallow.

A moment’s thoughtlessness and I’ve undone hours of good work.

“It’s OK, Josh.” I make my voice warm and syrupy. “I didn’t mean to snap, but Mrs Williams is upset about her flowers.”

I point at the bobbing green stems. The odd petal clings on, but the rest are strewn like colourful confetti across the pavement.

Josh stares at me blankly.

“She wants her roses to look nice in the garden,” I explain. “We aren’t allowed to pick other people’s flowers.

“Understand, Josh?”

I tilt his chin with my finger and look into his eyes.

They are deep brown pools and I fear stirring up the muddy water at the bottom.

“Understand?” I ask again. “We can’t break or pick someone else’s flowers. Only from our garden.

“You can do whatever you like in our garden, OK?” I smile.

Joshua gazes back, then gives a quick nod.

“Come on,” I say lightly. “Let’s go to the park.”

His eyes gleam and I take his hand.

I glance at Mrs Williams’ window, but thankfully she’s gone.

Josh holds my hand as we hurry on.

He steps from one paving square to the next, trying to avoid the cracks: something the girls taught him to do.

He’s oblivious as to where we are, to other people and to passing traffic, so I keep a tight hold as we negotiate an erratic path along the pavement.

I hear the throaty choke of the lawn mower and smell the cut grass before we go through the park gates.

Joshua looks up as the paving ends and we track across tarmac.

“Can you smell the grass?” I ask him.

His brow furrows.

“The man is cutting the grass,” I tell him. “Shall we look?”

We follow the gutteral sounds of the mower and soon find a small tractor with spinning blades underneath it that send out showers of snipped grass.

Josh grins and claps his hands, tugging on my arm as we get closer.

He watches reverently as the grass scatters across the ground. His enthusiasm makes me smile, too.

Every day brings new experiences for him, and sometimes the most mundane are the ones he finds most rewarding.

When we fostered him, we were told they didn’t know how much information he retained.

“His development is delayed,” we were warned, but Josh has won us over with his smiles and we want to give him a chance.

“Just do your best,” they said. “Treat him as you did your daughters and we’ll run more tests and get him extra support when he begins school.”

We have exercises for his motor skills. Dan spends time every day helping him to balance and jump, kick a ball and catch one.

I work on his speech and language, but Josh only speaks in single words.

Our girls are delighted to have a baby brother, but sometimes we have to stop them from doing everything for him or Josh will never learn.

I eventually persuade Josh to leave the lawn mower and we head for the swings.

He loves being pushed and flying through the air. His face takes on a faraway look and a dreamy expression.

Getting him off the swing is more of a problem.

Today, after 20 minutes, I try reasoning.

“Look, Josh. There are other children wanting a turn. We have to share.”

I smile at the little girl waiting beside our swing and try to ignore her

mother’s frown and impatient shuffling.

I can feel myself sweating slightly under the woman’s steely glare.

Josh grips the chains more tightly and doesn’t get off when the swing stops.

I wonder if I should put myself through this each time we come to the park.

Maybe we could come in the middle of the night when there is no queue and Josh can spend as long as he likes swinging.

No, I reason with myself. The social worker said to treat him as we would our girls, so he has to learn to share.

I urge him again to get off the swing.

“Come on, Josh. Time to go home. Emily and Ceci are waiting to play.”

His brows knit and his knuckles are white as he clasps the chains of the swing.

“Please, Josh.”

In the end I have to unwrap his hands and scoop him up.

He thumps me weakly and sobs.

I hear the girl’s mother tut in disapproval.

I grit my teeth, and focus on the little boy in my arms.

It still stings.

I want to tell her he had a difficult start in life and was neglected and ill-treated. But I don’t.

I walk away, carrying Josh, my back straight and head high.

As Josh’s sobs calm to a whimper, I put him down and hold his hand.

We walk out of the park gate and he is instantly fascinated by the paving slabs again.

He has forgotten his trauma over leaving the swing.

I heave a sigh of relief, despite myself.

I’m thinking about dinner, and whether to make lasagne or stick to spaghetti, when I feel

Josh’s hand suddenly slip from mine.

Before I can react, there is a terrible shriek of brakes and a whiff of burning rubber.

I freeze, an icy chill gripping me.

A car squeals to a halt, inches from Josh, its bumper almost against his shoulder.

He is completely unaware, bent over the body of a bird lying in the road.

Its wing flutters in the breeze as traffic passes, making it look as if it is still alive.

I gasp and rush towards Josh at the same moment an angry man gets out of the car and yells.

“Keep a hold of your child!” he shouts at me “This is a busy road. You shouldn’t be allowed to have one!”

A couple across the road have stopped to watch what’s going on.

I can see the woman’s face crease with disapproval and feel my own face burn.

Cars creep slowly past in the other lane and another car has pulled up behind the angry man.

My heart is thumping and I feel physically sick as I pick Josh up.

Tears well in the corner of my eyes.

I’m shaking so much I can hardly put one foot in front of the other.

I press his head into my shoulder and murmur in his ear.

“Josh, you can’t run out into the road. It’s dangerous. That car nearly hit you.”

He looks back towards the bird.

“Broken,” he says, blinking back tears.

“Because it went in the road, Josh. It’s dangerous.

“If you run out in front of cars, you will be broken, too.”

Josh looks at me and appears to be listening, but as usual I wonder how much he is taking in.

I make apologetic noises at the driver, who is still furious and shaking his head.

Clutching Josh, I hurry home, ignoring his weight in my arms, which makes my back scream in pain.

I replay the accident over in my head, shaking with fear and burning with anger at myself.

Dan knows something is wrong as soon as I get in.

“Emily, Ceci, take Josh out in the garden to play,” he says and steers me to the sofa.

I’m still trembling, my heart racing as I think what could have happened.

I rub my eyes and sniff. Dan brings me a cup of tea and I tell him about Josh running into the road.

“He was nearly killed,” I say, suppressing a shudder as I think about it. “I should have kept a firmer hand on him.”

I look up at Dan, the tears pricking at the back of my eyes again.

“It’s a steep learning curve,” Dan reasons. “We knew it wouldn’t be easy when we took him on. You weren’t to blame.

“Josh has no awareness; he doesn’t make connections. We need to be constantly aware of that.”

He sits beside me and rubs my back.

He doesn’t blame me, but still the sharp teeth of guilt gnaw my insides.

I lean back against the sofa and feel my heart rate subside.

I can see the children in the garden through the French doors.

Emily and Ceci follow

Josh around like minders, although the garden has been carefully childproofed, with raised fences and extra gate catches.

I shut my eyes for a moment, but the vision of the car squealing to a halt invades my thoughts.

I snap my eyes open again.

“Will he ever learn?” I ask Dan, tears stinging my eyes as I wonder how hopeless Josh’s future might be.

“I don’t know . . .” Dan begins, but he stops as Josh steps into the room.

He comes towards us, soil smeared across his T-shirt and streaked over his cheeks.

In one hand is a mismatched bunch of cosmos, some plants pulled out by the roots, others picked so close to the

I’m shaking so much I can hardly put one foot in front of the other

flower that there is no stem.

He thrusts the bouquet towards me.

“Garden,” he says solemnly.

I gasp, momentarily speechless, then shake my head to shuffle my thoughts into place and smile.

“Yes, Josh. From our garden.”

I pull him to me for a hug.

A wave of love rushes through me, swilling my doubts and worries away.

The End.