time more firmly. But once again he carried on regardless.
I was well aware something was building again, but was entirely unprepared for what happened next. Even before I could properly see what was happening, Justin suddenly lunged for my knife block, grabbed a knife out of it, then leapt up, in a single bound, onto the worktop.
Both astonished at his agility – so much for his apparent lack of athleticism – and also terrified, as he was now towering over me, I watched horrified as he brandished it, his face set in that scary rictus mask again, screaming obscenities at me and becoming more and more incoherent, as the words tumbled out – he hated me, he was going to stab me, I was a fucking crap mother. But when he yelled that I preferred the dog to him, it really brought me up short – we didn’t own one – and I realised he was talking as if he was confusing me with his mother. I wasn’t even sure he was fully compos mentis at that moment, and I knew I had to think fast, and on my feet.
‘Put the knife down,’ I said firmly. ‘Justin, just put the knife down.’ But he was almost blue in the face now, and I could see he wasn’t hearing me. He had completely zoned out and gone to that other place. It was then, in a flash, that I had an idea. One that definitely wasn’t by the book. Not any foster-carer’s handbook I’d ever seen, anyway.
Having considered two things – that Justin had picked up the smallest knife in the block, and also his great love of films, and one film in particular – I lunged myself for the biggest one, which I whipped from its slot and brandished every bit as menacingly as he had.
Then, in my very best Australian accent, I said, ‘Call that a knife? That’s not a knife. This is a knife!’ And then paused, my breath held waiting for his response.
He just stared, now stock still, looking incredulously at me, then, to my mingled shock and immense relief, he burst out laughing.
Astonished almost as much as I had been thirty seconds earlier, there was a second or two when I had no idea how I should react, and then it came to me; I smiled, and then I laughed along with him. ‘Now get down from there, you little madhead!’ I admonished, still grinning. ‘And put your pathetic excuse for a knife back as well!’
Incredibly, he did both things without a murmur.
I still felt shaky, and also slightly stunned by what had happened. Who’d have thought I’d end up diffusing a dangerous situation by using a line out of Crocodile Dundee ?
We did manage to talk about what happened, in the end. Seizing the initiative – and what felt like at least a version of the upper hand – I then changed my mind and suggested he might like to help me, and put the knife to better (and slightly less terrifying) use by chopping some tomatoes and cucumber for a salad. After all, I pointed out, if he loved food so much, it made sense for him learn how to feed himself properly. I even pointed out, remembering Mike’s words about Justin’s view of ‘women’s work’, that some of the best chefs in the world had started out by helping in the kitchen, just like this. And as we worked, and I felt it safe to broach it again, I talked about the different jobs that people had to do: some people were chefs, other people were policemen, and some people – me and Mike being a good example – had decided to make their job one of helping children. Children like him who had had bad things happen, and who needed lots of love and care to help them feel better about things.
I explained again about the reality of my situation; that as his carer, I worked with other people, and had rules I had agreed to, and one of those rules was that I mustn’t keep secrets. Just like chefs had to obey all sorts of rules about hygiene in the kitchen, so that the people who ate their food didn’t get sick, so I had to follow the rules I had been given. Which weren’t put there to hurt him – absolutely the
I was well aware something was building again, but was entirely unprepared for what happened next. Even before I could properly see what was happening, Justin suddenly lunged for my knife block, grabbed a knife out of it, then leapt up, in a single bound, onto the worktop.
Both astonished at his agility – so much for his apparent lack of athleticism – and also terrified, as he was now towering over me, I watched horrified as he brandished it, his face set in that scary rictus mask again, screaming obscenities at me and becoming more and more incoherent, as the words tumbled out – he hated me, he was going to stab me, I was a fucking crap mother. But when he yelled that I preferred the dog to him, it really brought me up short – we didn’t own one – and I realised he was talking as if he was confusing me with his mother. I wasn’t even sure he was fully compos mentis at that moment, and I knew I had to think fast, and on my feet.
‘Put the knife down,’ I said firmly. ‘Justin, just put the knife down.’ But he was almost blue in the face now, and I could see he wasn’t hearing me. He had completely zoned out and gone to that other place. It was then, in a flash, that I had an idea. One that definitely wasn’t by the book. Not any foster-carer’s handbook I’d ever seen, anyway.
Having considered two things – that Justin had picked up the smallest knife in the block, and also his great love of films, and one film in particular – I lunged myself for the biggest one, which I whipped from its slot and brandished every bit as menacingly as he had.
Then, in my very best Australian accent, I said, ‘Call that a knife? That’s not a knife. This is a knife!’ And then paused, my breath held waiting for his response.
He just stared, now stock still, looking incredulously at me, then, to my mingled shock and immense relief, he burst out laughing.
Astonished almost as much as I had been thirty seconds earlier, there was a second or two when I had no idea how I should react, and then it came to me; I smiled, and then I laughed along with him. ‘Now get down from there, you little madhead!’ I admonished, still grinning. ‘And put your pathetic excuse for a knife back as well!’
Incredibly, he did both things without a murmur.
I still felt shaky, and also slightly stunned by what had happened. Who’d have thought I’d end up diffusing a dangerous situation by using a line out of Crocodile Dundee ?
We did manage to talk about what happened, in the end. Seizing the initiative – and what felt like at least a version of the upper hand – I then changed my mind and suggested he might like to help me, and put the knife to better (and slightly less terrifying) use by chopping some tomatoes and cucumber for a salad. After all, I pointed out, if he loved food so much, it made sense for him learn how to feed himself properly. I even pointed out, remembering Mike’s words about Justin’s view of ‘women’s work’, that some of the best chefs in the world had started out by helping in the kitchen, just like this. And as we worked, and I felt it safe to broach it again, I talked about the different jobs that people had to do: some people were chefs, other people were policemen, and some people – me and Mike being a good example – had decided to make their job one of helping children. Children like him who had had bad things happen, and who needed lots of love and care to help them feel better about things.
I explained again about the reality of my situation; that as his carer, I worked with other people, and had rules I had agreed to, and one of those rules was that I mustn’t keep secrets. Just like chefs had to obey all sorts of rules about hygiene in the kitchen, so that the people who ate their food didn’t get sick, so I had to follow the rules I had been given. Which weren’t put there to hurt him – absolutely the
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