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people, probably as a result of all the years he’d spent in front of the television that Karen had mentioned. And I thought that while television might be a useful tool in managing Reece’s behaviour his viewing was going to have to be very carefully regulated. I wanted him to engage and interact with people, not a screen.
    When Lucy and Paula arrived home just before 4.00 they did not, as they had expected, enter a house heaving under the strain of an out-of-control child, but one that was quiet, with a child sitting serenely on a beanbag, watching television, while I unpacked.
    ‘Up here,’ I called as I heard the front door go.
    Leaving their bags and coats in the hall they came straight up. They knocked on the bedroom door, which we always do before entering a bedroom other than our own, and came in.
    ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘This is Reece. Reece, these are my daughters, Paula and Lucy.’
    The girls said ‘Hi’ and ‘Hello’. Reece grunted what could have been an acknowledgement while not taking his eyes from the screen.
    ‘I’ll finish unpacking this case,’ I said to them. ‘Then I’ll think about dinner. Have you had a good day?’
    ‘Yes,’ Paula said.
    ‘Not bad,’ Lucy added.
    The girls looked from Reece to me and back again. I knew what they were thinking: that the child who was sitting so contentedly and now smiling at
The Basil Brush Show
couldn’t possibly be the one I’d told them to expect. However, I also knew, given what I’d previously seen of Reece’s behaviour, that things could revert very quickly.

Chapter Four:
Toilet Training
    W ith Reece being entertained by the television and before I began making dinner, I took the opportunity of mentioning to the girls that they should be a bit careful, as Reece could and did head-butt and bite. They nodded, but I could tell they weren’t convinced. We had fostered children before who’d come to us with appalling records of bad behaviour but had never shown it to us. ‘Just be careful,’ I said. ‘I don’t want any injuries.’
    I also took the opportunity of interrupting Reece’s television for five minutes to show him where the toilet was and explain the rules regarding other people’s bedrooms: that our bedrooms were our own private space and we never went in to anyone else’s without being asked. Reece compliantly agreed because he knew the television awaited once I’d had my say. I knew I would have to repeat the bedroom rules because children of Reece’s age (even those without learning difficulties) are impulsive and tend to be in a room in search of someone before they have remembered to knock and wait.
    At five o’clock while I was making dinner, Reece left the television, stood at the top of the stairs and yelled at the top of his voice: ‘Cathy! I need a pooh!’ I heard him clearly from the kitchen, which is at the opposite end of the house, so great was the volume in his voice. Aware that Reece had a history of soiling himself, I immediately left peeling the potatoes and went upstairs.
    ‘Good boy,’ I said. ‘Straight into the toilet, then.’ I turned him round and steered him along the landing, and opened the toilet door. Completely unselfconsciously he pulled down his joggers and pants and sat on the toilet. I held the toilet door to and waited outside. Presently a none-too-pleasant smell wafted out, followed by, ‘Cathy! I’ve finished!’
    ‘Good boy,’ I said from the other side of the door. ‘Now wipe your bottom and wash your hands.’
    I remained waiting outside because I wanted to make sure Reece did wash his hands, and properly, for so many children come to me having never been taught basic hygiene. I waited some more but couldn’t hear the toilet roll being used; it was on the back of the door and rattled on its fitting when pulled.
    Are you OK?’ I asked.
    ‘I’ve finished!’ he shouted back.
    ‘Yes, now wipe your bottom, flush the toilet and then wash your hands.’
    More silence and I