Kitabı oku: «Betrayed: The heartbreaking true story of a struggle to escape a cruel life defined by family honour»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

By the same author

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

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Prologue

Moonlight shrouded a robed figure as he entered the unlit hallway, his silhouette fading with a gentle clunk as the double lock was secured behind him. Nine-year-old Zadie watched the stranger’s arrival through a narrow gap in the banisters, a chill prickling across the top of her scalp at the sight of the black leather bag clutched in his hand. The realisation of what was inside made her heart pound so hard that she imagined it might squeeze through her ribs and escape from her chest.

Shivering as she crouched on her haunches, her eyes ferreted the shadows for Nadeen. There was no sign of her sister but she could just make out her father as he crossed the hall beneath her, his sandalled feet echoing on the bare floorboards. The late-night visitor followed; a thin, upright sort of man with a thick beard and greying, straggly hair; nothing like the monster who had stalked her dreams. Sensing nervousness in the way her father moved, Zadie felt another hammering inside her chest. Ripples pulsed upwards, teasing her throat into a cough.

She clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound, hardly able to believe that the rumours she had feared since she was a little girl were about to merge with reality. Her stomach lurched, bile fizzing at the back of her throat. Tempted to run directly back to her bedroom, she straightened and was about to turn when muffled sobs from the back room rooted her feet to the floor.

‘Please, Papa. I don’t need an injection, please.’

Zadie squeezed her hands flat against her ears to try and block out her sister’s pleading. Closing her eyes, she was gripped by the sudden image of a woman drifting through the air in front of her. As always, as soon as she tried to reach out for the comfort she knew she’d find there, the grainy presence vanished, sounds of a struggle from downstairs chasing it away.

Zadie whimpered and ran back to her bedroom, slumping down onto her mattress and pulling her pillow over her head. An hour before first light she fell into a troubled sleep but was soon woken by a shuffling noise outside the door. Nadeen walked slowly into the room, tears rolling down her cheeks. As the 12-year-old rolled tentatively into the bed opposite her own, her legs bound tightly together with bandages, Zadie could see tell-tale spots of red on the back of her sister’s linen nightdress. Silently she crossed the room, reaching out to stroke Nadeen’s back.

Zadie sighed with relief as dawn approached and the male members of the household left for morning prayers.

Chapter 1

‘Do you think she’ll be like Phoebe was when she first came?’ my son Jamie called out from his bedroom.

I couldn’t help but smile at the hesitancy in his tone as I swept from room to room, checking there were fresh towels in the bathroom and grabbing a floral duvet set from the airing cupboard. Nine-year-old Phoebe had stayed with us for almost a year before moving on to a long-term carer. The friendly, kind and bubbly girl we said goodbye to was unrecognisable from the angry whirlwind we had first met. Our house seemed so much emptier without her presence and, despite her leaving months earlier and other children staying with us meanwhile, we still missed her. But the first few weeks of Phoebe’s stay had been challenging for all of us, especially so for Jamie.

From the moment she arrived Phoebe had fixated on him so that, whenever she was confused or upset, Jamie would be the one who got a wet finger shoved into his ear or a plate thrown at him. As she settled and learnt to trust us we witnessed some dramatic changes in her behaviour, so much so that our motivation to foster had grown even stronger, but the traumatic start had left Jamie chary of new arrivals.

‘No, I doubt it,’ I said, though my words sounded hollow. I actually had no idea what Zadie Hassan would be like. In a hurried telephone conversation with her social worker late that afternoon, I had been told that the 13-year-old was from a Muslim family who had never come to the attention of social services before, and so information was sketchy. Of Asian heritage, Zadie had been found by two patrolling police officers early that morning, sheltering in a shop doorway in a central northern shopping centre. Apparently she had pleaded with officers not to take her home, begging as if her life depended on it. She had seemed so genuinely terrified that the officers took her straight to the police station and alerted social services.

At 13, Zadie was outside of our approved age range, but she had spent most of the day waiting at the local authority offices, listening as social workers phoned agency after agency, trying to match her with Muslim foster carers. By the time the decision was reached to settle her with a white British family it was almost 5 p.m. and the poor girl was exhausted. Strictly speaking, our family was only approved to take children from 0 to 11, leaving a gap of at least two years between any child coming into our home and my own youngest, Jamie, who was just 13. But when an ideal match isn’t possible and a child urgently needs a warm bed to sleep in, social workers are usually prepared to bend the rules.

A gap of two years is recommended between looked-after and birth children so that the family dynamics are roughly unchanged. If disrupted, resentment against the foster child can build to a point where the placement breaks down. Some fostered children have been so badly abused in their own homes that they find it difficult to witness the positive environment when they arrive in a foster home and seek to sabotage the relationships between family members, so it’s important to maintain the original pecking order.

Preparing children for family life when they have had little experience of boundaries or parental discipline takes time and patience. Even getting them to sit at the table at meal times can seem like an insurmountable task, in the beginning. I wondered whether we would experience any behavioural issues with Zadie. If so, we would have to brace ourselves to get through the first few weeks while she adjusted to our house rules and boundaries.

I had cared for teenagers before and emerged unscathed so I wasn’t too worried about Zadie’s age. What concerned me more was her culture. Would she feel comfortable living with people who didn’t share her faith? I wondered. My own parents were Christian and, having grown up in a house where one adult was more devout than the other, I had witnessed first-hand the problems that differing religious views can cause. My father was so determined to prevent any of his children drifting away from the Church that he would only allow us to mix with families who shared his faith. Such a sheltered existence left me wary of outsiders when I was Zadie’s age. It took years for me to realise that people didn’t necessarily need to be religious to have a good heart. I wondered whether Zadie might feel as guarded as I had. If so, she might well feel awkward around us, frightened even.

Armed with clean linen and towels, I went through to make up Zadie’s bed. It was almost 6 p.m. but the bright, early May sunshine was still streaming through the window, giving the magnolia walls a cheery glow. I was pleased Zadie would have the room in our house that got the most sun during the day; she needed to recover from the nights spent sleeping outside.

I wondered whether there was anything about the place that Zadie’s parents might disapprove of, certain that they would have concerns about her staying in an environment so far removed from her own. The last thing I wanted was for Zadie to feel uncomfortable in what was to be her home.

My 16-year-old daughter Emily, still dressed in her school uniform, was already bustling around the room with accessories she thought Zadie might like. As if reading my thoughts, she plucked a book from the shelf beside the bed and handed it to me. It was a children’s illustrated Bible. ‘I don’t think she’ll be needing that, Mum,’ she said.

‘No, you’re right,’ I said, grimacing. ‘Help me scout around and see if there’s anything else we should move, would you, Ems?’

Emily nodded, kneeling in front of the bookshelf and running her index finger along the spines. ‘There’s a Muslim girl in my class, Mum. Aisha. She has, like, a special room to go and pray in. She’s never allowed to skip prayers and she sometimes has to miss lessons to do it. Muslims have to wash their feet and everything before they pray.’

‘And they’re not allowed to fart,’ Jamie piped up from his bedroom. ‘Or they have to start all over again.’

Emily rolled her eyes. ‘He’s so gross, Mum.’

I could hear Jamie snickering to himself. Leaning out of the bedroom door, I called down the hall, ‘How did you discover that then, Jamie?’

‘Rohan told me. But I’m not sure if he was lying or not.’

Typical of my son to retain that particular nugget of information, I thought, although, to be fair, it was the sort of thing that captured the imagination of 13-year-old boys. There were actually quite a few Muslim pupils at Jamie’s school so he shouldn’t have been too ignorant about the faith. In fact, one of his friends from primary school had been Muslim. I remembered Jamie going to Tariq’s house for tea one day after school. He must have been about six or seven at the time and the little rascal had cleared his plate, yet at home he had been such a picky eater. When I asked Tariq’s mother how she managed such a feat she volunteered to show me how to cook chicken shorba with keema naans. I had taken her up on the offer, so at least I was confident about cooking a traditional meal for Zadie, although it was probably gross stereotyping to assume that she even liked spicy food.

Emily broke my chain of thought, handing me another pile of books – the Harry Potter series. ‘Goodness, all of these have to go as well?’

‘Honestly, Mum. Muslims are so strict. There’s no way Zadie would be allowed to read these. Aisha is the only one in our class who hasn’t seen the films. I feel really sorry for her.’

‘Hmmm,’ I said, my mind racing again. Emily had sparked a memory of myself as a child, coming home from school in an excited state and telling my parents about our assembly that morning. It had been close to the end of term and teachers had arranged for a magician to come into our school to perform a show for the children. My father was furious and complained to the school; to him, magic meant sorcery – a violation of the first of the Ten Commandments. He feared that through magic there was a risk of me being seduced by the occult. After that, whenever a story or topic involving magic came up, my teacher would ask me to leave the room. I think my classmates felt sorry for me at the time. I bit my lip. ‘Strict isn’t necessarily bad, Ems,’ I said, bending to rest the heavy pile of books on the carpet in the hall. ‘Look at your grandfather and how devout he is, but we weren’t unhappy growing up.’ I fanned my fingers and swept my hands through the air in front of me. ‘And see how I’ve turned out?’

Emily curled her upper lip. ‘Exactly. See what I mean?’

I gave her a mock stern look.

She grinned. ‘I’m just so glad we’re not that religious, Mum. It’d be awful.’

‘I think you’re generalising, Em. Faith can be a positive thing. And Muslims are no different to anyone else. All religions have their extremists but on the whole people just want get on with their lives and do the best they can, don’t they?’

She looked doubtful. ‘I don’t see how anyone can be happy with all those rules. I bet that’s why Zadie ran away. Her parents were wa-a-ay too strict.’

‘We don’t know that at all,’ I said, shaking the pillows and moving the duvet so I could get on with making up the bed. ‘We hardly know anything about them.’ But what Emily had said really got me thinking. So many questions ran through my mind. Had Zadie rebelled against her faith, or would she still need a special area for prayers? And what about visiting the mosque? I wondered as I manoeuvred the pillows into freshly washed cases. If Zadie wanted to worship in a particular way, then, as a foster carer, I had to honour her beliefs and provide her with whatever she needed to maintain her faith.

Still, whatever hurdles we had to get over, a feeling of excitement ran through me. It wasn’t unusual for me to feel apprehensive before meeting a new, temporary member of the family. If I was to take the best care I could of Zadie then there was certainly a lot I had to learn. I got the sense that this placement would open my eyes to a way of life very different to my own but I was looking forward to the challenge. I resolved to do a bit of research on Google if I had time before Zadie arrived. But preparing the room had to be a priority.

Both Emily and I loved the build-up of getting everything ready, and making the child’s own special place look welcoming was a practical way of doing something positive for them before they’d even arrived. Usually I would make an effort to find out what interested the child, tailoring the room so that it was unique to them, although often that wasn’t possible.

Several years earlier I had been expecting a boy of 10 who was coming into care as an emergency. During the initial phone call with his social worker, she had mentioned that Chester had a passion for motorbikes. With an hour to spare before he arrived I dashed to the shops and bought some models to put on the shelf in his room. When I took him up to show him where he’d be sleeping he got emotional, burying his face in his sleeve. I assumed he was upset because he was missing home so I left him upstairs to have a few words with his social worker. When she came down she told me that Chester was overcome at the sight of the motorbikes. He told me later, ‘It was the nicest thing anyone ever done for me, Rosie.’

I think Chester was moved more by the fact that I had taken the time to think about what might be important to him rather than the items themselves. It really is amazing how something so seemingly insignificant can mean so much to someone when they come from a place where kind gestures are in short supply. Since then I’ve always tried to bear Chester’s reaction in mind.

When the room was ready I went downstairs and logged on to the computer to see what I could find out about Islam. My mind strayed to a hot day months earlier when I went to watch one of Jamie’s cricket matches. I remembered being surprised to see that some of the school’s star cricketers were watching the match from the sidelines. One of the parents told me that some of the boys weren’t allowed to join in as it was Ramadan and they couldn’t drink anything, not even water. Even medicine wasn’t permitted. Before that day I had assumed that fasting during the month of Ramadan meant not eating solid food. I never imagined that fluids were to be avoided as well. To be honest, I didn’t even know when Ramadan would next fall, although I knew it migrated throughout the seasons; something to do with the Islamic calendar.

Wikipedia offered the most condensed information so I printed the pages and took them to the living room to read. Emily was already on the sofa. ‘I wonder if Zadie will have her face covered, Mum.’

‘Yes, I was thinking the same. What does Aisha wear to school?’

‘One of those headscarves, but it has to be in school colours.’

From what I had just read, it seemed that Muslims placed great store in the concept of ‘haya’ – dressing decently and wearing nothing that accentuates the body shape. I couldn’t help but wonder what Muslims must think of some of the local girls tumbling out of nightclubs at the end of a Saturday-night session. I supposed Emily might have been right about Zadie rebelling against her own culture. It was possible she would turn up dressed in T-shirt and jeans. What seemed almost certain was that she would only eat halal meat, but I knew that was easy enough to get hold of these days; I had seen a whole section in our local supermarket. The rest would depend, I guessed, on just how strict the family were. I scanned my eyes over the print-out, my stomach rolling with anticipation.

‘A car’s just pulled up outside, Mum,’ Jamie shouted as he hurtled down the stairs.

Chapter 2

‘Hello, my lovely. Come on in.’

Zadie was smaller than I had expected. Standing aside to welcome her into our hall, I remember her height being the first thing I registered about her. Strange, really, considering that she was cloaked from head to foot in a black robe. But she barely reached my shoulders and I was surprised because, being only a few inches over five foot myself, I’m usually dwarfed by anyone over the age of 10.

‘Peggy Fletcher,’ Zadie’s social worker said as she followed Zadie in. A heavy-set woman in her fifties, she released a light musky scent into the air as she removed her coat, her chest reacting to the effort with a small wheeze. She was wearing a navy-coloured blouse with three-quarter length sleeves that pinched into her flesh, leaving red welts behind on her skin. Her short grey hair and scrubbed, make-up-free skin gave her a stern appearance.

‘Nice to meet you, Peggy,’ I said, momentarily flummoxed. I had planned to shake her hand but instead of reciprocating she slipped her coat over my outstretched arm. For a second I swivelled on my foot, one way and then the other, not sure what to do with it. Peggy snatched the coat from me with a sigh, draping it over the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. ‘There. Now, shall we go through?’ she asked, pushing the glasses she wore further up her nose and gesturing down the hall.

‘Yes, please do,’ I said, already appreciating Peggy’s directness. As I followed them I could hear the social worker’s loud breaths, raspy as if she’d jogged all the way from the council offices. When we reached the living room I gestured for them both to take a seat, certain that Peggy probably would have made herself comfortable, invited or not. Zadie hovered in the doorway, one shoulder hitched higher than the other to support a rucksack. Her head was lowered, her slender hands running over and over themselves as if she was trying to rub Vaseline into her fingers. I noticed that the headscarf fell behind her at an angle from the top of her head and guessed that she must have long hair, caught up in a large bun.

‘I’ve heard your name before, Rosie, doing the rounds,’ Peggy said as she leaned back into the sofa, her face red with exertion. ‘It’s nice to finally put a face to a name.’

‘Oh dear, sounds ominous,’ I said. It was a predictable reply but my mind was distracted by Zadie. She looked so uncomfortable, still standing at the threshold of the room. ‘Would you like to sit down, Zadie?’

She dipped her head politely, obediently taking a seat about a foot away from Peggy on the sofa, though she perched on the very edge nearest the door. I got the sense that she wanted to be as far removed from us as possible. Close up I could see signs of wear on her robe. It was badly creased, tatty at the hem and hung shapelessly from her shoulders. The cardigan she wore, threads trailing from the cuffs, was missing a couple of buttons. She sat with one foot tucked neatly behind the other, her dark hands resting in a pile on her lap. There were sores all over them but it was difficult to get a good look because she kept tugging at her sleeves with her fingers, pulling them down over her knuckles. It was as if she were trying to make herself disappear.

‘Not at all,’ Peggy said after a pause.

I smiled appreciatively, although I knew that generally I was considered to be what local authorities needed their carers to be – a safe pair of hands. ‘Would either of you like a drink before we get started?’ I asked, wondering for a moment where Emily and Jamie had got to. They were nowhere to be seen. They hadn’t passed us in the hallway so I guessed they must have slipped quietly into the garden. It was unusual for them not to crowd around a new house guest, but they were getting older now and probably sensitive enough to make themselves scarce.

‘Nothing for me, thanks. I’ve done nothing but drink tea and make phone calls today. I’ll be up all night if I have anything else.’ Peggy tucked her fingers into her armpits as she spoke, as if trying to warm them, her palms at rest on the top of her breasts. I got the feeling this was not a woman to be messed with and found myself hoping that Peggy would be more supportive than Phoebe’s social worker had been. Back then I had felt as if I was a lone voice, battling against the system as well as Phoebe’s traumatic past, something that happened with dispiriting regularity.

‘Zadie?’

She looked up with a start and shook her head. It was the first time I managed to get a good look at her face. Even without the softening effect of hair, Zadie was clearly very pretty. Her lips were full, although cracked and sore. The horizontal line of the hijab slicing across her forehead seemed to accentuate the large molasses eyes below, her dark-olive, unblemished skin luminous against the harsh black material. With delicate features and thick dark eyelashes, it was the perfect face for framing with a headscarf.

I’m not sure why but I was hugely relieved to see that most of her face was visible. I think I would have been a little intimidated by the anonymity of a face veil. In the first few weeks of a new placement there are many hurdles a foster carer has to overcome in order to gain trust from the troubled child. Children that have been hurt often erect invisible walls around themselves as a defence mechanism. Sometimes it can take weeks to dismantle the barriers and ‘reach’ the child behind and I think that a face veil would have been yet another stumbling block to overcome.

I certainly didn’t need to be a body-language expert to work out that Zadie was nervous; her knees were bobbing up and down and, though the nails on her restless fingers were already short, she kept raising them to her lips, nibbling at the edges. But she may as well have been wearing a full veil for all the clues her expression gave away. It was impenetrable, neither happy nor sad, just devoid of all trace of emotion. I guessed she was probably completely drained.

‘So, Zadie. You’ve had a bit of a day of it, haven’t you?’

She nodded, her large brown eyes meeting mine for a brief moment before she cast them downwards. My eyes followed hers and for the first time I noticed that the Wiki pages were still on the floor where I’d left them before answering the door. I crossed the room and sat down in the armchair, letting a moment pass before discreetly nudging the papers underneath.

Peggy swung her bulky knees around to face the teenager. ‘Yes, she’s been a very silly girl, haven’t you?’ The social worker peered over the top of her glasses and spoke in a loud, patronisingly slow voice. ‘Hmmm? Dangerous, wasn’t it? Wandering around the town at that time of night.’

Zadie nodded her head in avid agreement, her face no longer a blank canvas but dotted with blotches of red. My heart went out to her and I felt the muscles in my jaw clenching. Besides feeling sorry for Zadie, I was irked by the way Peggy was talking to her, as if she had learning difficulties or something.

‘Never mind. I’ve got a comfortable bed ready for you,’ I said gently. ‘I’ll show you in a minute.’

Zadie nodded and gave me a grateful half-smile before looking away.

Peggy turned around again, puffing with the effort of shifting in her seat. ‘Anything could have happened,’ she said, her voice pitched a little softer as she spoke to me. ‘Probably a lad involved somewhere along the line, I shouldn’t wonder.’

Zadie glanced at me then hung her head to the floor, her shoulders hunched over.

‘Ran away from home two days ago, so she says. Slept around the back of Cannons Leisure Centre on the Sunday night. And then in a shop doorway last night, didn’t you?’ she shouted at Zadie. ‘Thank goodness the police found her before …’ Peggy sighed and closed her eyes. ‘Well, doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?’

The social worker then lowered her voice to a normal level, though I got the feeling she would rate it as a whisper. ‘The family didn’t report her missing but I spoke to the father on the telephone this afternoon. He feels that Zadie has brought shame on the family by running away …’

Zadie blinked at that body blow, her eyes flitting between the ceiling, the fireplace and the window. A chink appeared in her expression and I got the feeling that tears weren’t too far away. It was an insensitive thing to say in front of her and I felt my hackles rising again. Children are drawn to their birth parents with inexorable power, no matter what wrong has been done to them, and most, whatever appearances may suggest, genuinely want to please their mother and father. Being a social worker, Peggy must have known that her words were going to hurt.

‘So you’re not going to do anything like that again, are you, hmmm?’ Peggy spoke loudly again, as some people do to foreigners. It then struck me that Zadie might not actually be able to understand or speak English very well.

Zadie shook her head again, her face covered in blotches. My heart went out to her. I scanned my brain, trying to come up with a simple, neutral question to help her relax. Settling back into the cushions, I asked, ‘So, which school do you go to, honey?’

‘I don’t …’ she whispered, the blotches spreading to her neck. Her voice was nasal and thick with a cold, her eyes red rimmed. It wasn’t unusual for children to arrive in foster care unwell; prolonged abuse or neglect wears down resistance, leaving youngsters susceptible to all sorts of bugs and viruses.

‘Oh.’ I looked from Zadie to Peggy and back again. ‘No?’

‘I don’t know anything about the family,’ Peggy jumped in, ‘but I do know that many Muslim parents worry about lax discipline in schools and the effect on their daughters. It’s not unusual for Muslim girls to miss out on secondary education, even in this day …’

‘I used to go,’ Zadie cut in. I sensed a defensive tone, as if she were sticking up for her parents. ‘Until a few months ago, but Papa felt that it wasn’t …’ Her voice grew quieter with each word that she spoke, as if she’d run out of confidence before she could complete the sentence. Though her voice was barely audible, she spoke so eloquently that it really was ridiculous the way Peggy had raised her voice.

I nodded several times, trying to encourage Zadie to continue.

‘The parents from our local mosque drew up plans for a free school. Papa would have allowed me to go there but approval for the application has been delayed and …’

I cocked my ear, straining to make out what she was saying. Both Peggy and I watched, waiting to see if she was going to say any more. When she didn’t I smiled and nodded. ‘Shall I find a school place for Zadie while she’s here?’ I asked quickly. The social worker was still staring at Zadie and I imagined her to be the sort of person to bellow something like: Speak up, girl! No need to be bashful! Besides, it seemed a shame to me. Zadie was clearly an intelligent girl. For her to miss out on an education at such a critical age didn’t seem right at all.

I noticed a frisson of interest from Zadie. Her head turned sharply towards me, a flicker of hope stirring in her smoky eyes. Peggy’s jaw dropped as if she was shocked to the core by my question. There was a pause and then she recovered, shaking her head. ‘Oh no, Rosie, I don’t think so. Not just at the minute.’ She lowered her voice again, leaning towards me. ‘Things are a little sensitive. We have to tread carefully on this one. The father is not best pleased about her staying with a non-Muslim family as it is. Best not to rock the boat until we know where we stand.’

I prickled. If Zadie was in ‘care’, then we should be looking after her best interests, but I realised it was probably far too early to worry about it. She could be back with her parents before the end of the week, I thought. It seemed that Peggy actually had no idea why Zadie was too frightened to go home.

Peggy echoed my own thoughts, saying, ‘We need to gather more information before we make a decision.’

‘You might only be here for a few days, Zadie,’ Peggy said in another hammering tone. ‘We’ll get you back with your family soon, mmm? Would you like that?’

Zadie’s jaw tensed minutely, enough to tell me that home was the last place she wanted to be. The subtle change in the teenager’s expression seemed to drift right over Peggy’s head. ‘Good,’ she nodded, tapping the papers on her knee. ‘We’ll see what can be arranged. Meantime, do you know much about Zadie’s culture, Rosie?’

I nodded. ‘A little,’ I said, unconsciously slipping my feet back to the rim of the chair where the printout from Wikipedia was nestling. ‘Though I’m sure you won’t mind filling me in on what I need to know, will you, Zadie?’ I asked, smiling.

Again she nodded, whispering a polite, ‘Yes.’

Peggy flexed one of her stout legs and groaned, rubbing the knee. There were red welts on each ankle to match those on her forearms, where her black socks had cut into her skin. ‘I’m so swollen after sitting down all day,’ she groaned, hoicking one of her legs up with cupped hands and resting her ankle on the knee of the other one. ‘I called around all the specialist fostering agencies but every placement was filled. As you probably know, Rosie, we prefer a cultural match if at all possible, but there’s a massive shortage of Muslim fostering families at the moment,’ she said, her breathing jagged as she rubbed away at her ankle. ‘There’s been such a surge of Muslim children being taken into care but nothing like the same number of specialist carers coming forward.’

At that moment Emily and Jamie walked in from the garden, probably unable to contain their curiosity any longer. ‘Ah, here they are. Emily, Jamie, this is Zadie.’

Zadie forced a stiff smile then lowered her head, shrinking back further into the sofa.

‘Hi, Zadie,’ they chorused, Emily lifting her hand in a little wave.

‘And this is Peggy.’

Peggy’s jaw dropped again as if she was shocked by their appearance. Seconds later it was back in its usual position. Her default expression seemed to be a scowl while her brain assimilated a response giving the impression that she was furious with what she had just seen or heard. ‘These yours, are they?’ she asked. The social worker had a way of depersonalising everything, reducing everyone to inanimate objects.

‘Yes. Emily is 16 and Jamie’s just turned 13.’

‘How do you feel about having someone else about the place, taking up your mum’s time?’ Peggy asked, talking in the same loud voice she used with Zadie. Emily raised her eyebrows. Jamie glanced sideways at Zadie. I think they both felt as sorry for her as I did, although I didn’t think for a second that Peggy meant to sound callous. There was a kindness in her slightly hooded eyes that remained while the rest of her face contorted; she was probably just one of those people who spoke her mind before processing it fully, I thought. Still, it was unlikely to make Zadie feel any better about staying with us. One thing I realised, though, was that Peggy was using the same tone with my own children as she had with Zadie. It must have been her way of communicating with all youngsters. Many of the social workers I had met were awkward around children, strange considering their line of work, although there were exceptions. My supervising social worker, Des, for example, was amazing with youngsters, immediately putting them at ease. But then again he was comfortable in his own skin and I think children responded well to his natural warmth.

‘It’s cool,’ Emily said, bestowing a shy smile. ‘Want to come and see your room, Zadie?’

Peggy frowned, her lips stretching to a thin line. ‘That’s a good idea,’ she boomed after a moment, her tone once again incongruous with the look on her face. I had a feeling it was a habit that would take a bit of time to get used to. With a hand at the side of each hip she pushed down on the sofa and rocked forwards, once, twice, until she had enough momentum to heave herself up. ‘Lead the way, young lady,’ she told Emily, shooing her along with her hand. ‘Come on, Zadie. We’ll take a wander to check your room and then I’ll be off.’

Jamie flopped himself down on the sofa while Peggy bundled Emily and Zadie into the hall, her leg creaking rebelliously as she wheezed along. Emily led the way upstairs. Zadie followed in silence, her robe billowing outwards so that the hem brushed each stair as she climbed. Peggy huffed her way up next, chivvying Zadie along with impatient little noises in her throat. Each stair groaned under the weight of her heavy footfall.

In the room, Peggy pulled the duvet back from the bed and pressed her flat palm all over the mattress, a standard check that all social workers are supposed to carry out each time they visit the foster home. It was a routine put in place ever since it had come to light that some rogue foster carers had put children down to sleep on sheets of MDF, with no mattress or even padding on top.

‘Everything OK with the room, Peggy?’ I asked.

The social worker straightened and glanced around, her mouth contorted. Emily looked crestfallen. ‘It’s absolutely lovely, Rosie,’ she said after a moment, her face softening into a smile. ‘Do you like it?’ she boomed, turning to Zadie.

Zadie nodded, rewarding Emily with her own shy smile.

Leaving Zadie to settle in and unpack the few items she had in her rucksack, I went back downstairs with Peggy to go through the placement agreement. Half an hour later, as I said goodbye to the social worker, I was already of the opinion that Zadie had ran away because she was at ‘that age’ and was testing the boundaries, perhaps resenting the strict rules her parents had in place at home. Having to leave school was probably the final straw, I thought. In my head I had it all worked out.

But, as often happens when fostering, my initial assumptions couldn’t have been more wrong.

Chapter 3

Soon after the arrival of a new placement the structure of daily life kicks in and normality replaces those first few hours of awkwardness and polite small talk – a relief, I think, for everyone. Except that in Zadie’s case, without school, the only routine to her day was the observance of five obligatory prayers.

The day after her arrival I was woken by the sound of running water. I opened my eyes to a faint orange glow from the street lamps outside my bedroom window. Blinking, I checked the time on my phone; it was just after 5 a.m. I knew it must have been Zadie using the bathroom as Emily was a hibernator, always reluctant to leave her bed in the mornings, and though Jamie still tended to get up early he was drawn by the lure of his Xbox rather than any wish to have a shower.

I yawned, threw my duvet back and pulled on my long dressing gown. It wasn’t until I had almost reached the bathroom that I realised Zadie was probably preparing herself for dawn prayers. Having taken my Wiki papers to bed, I knew that Muslims were expected to perform wudu before praying, a ritual washing of the hands, feet, face, arms to the elbow and feet.

‘Are you OK, Zadie?’ I whispered, tapping quietly on the closed door.

‘Yes, sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’

‘It’s all right, honey. Not to worry. As long as you’re OK.’ Our whispered exchange was the longest conversation we’d had since Peggy had left the previous evening. Zadie had politely declined when I invited her to join us for something to eat, asking whether I minded if she went straight to bed. I knew she must have been exhausted so of course I told her it was fine, but I worried that she might have been staying out of the way because she felt unwelcome.

Leaving Zadie to get on with her prayers, I went back to bed for an hour but was too alert to go back to sleep. Lying awake on top of the duvet, I listened to the swirling sound of the sink emptying and then the whoosh as the taps went on again. When she finally finished washing I pictured the teenager up in her room bowing, prostrating and then sitting to face Mecca in Saudi Arabia. I couldn’t help but admire her self-discipline. With no adults persuading her, she had still managed to get herself up before dawn. Whatever the problems at home, it was unlikely, I thought, to be a case of the needle on her ethical compass swinging too far in the wrong direction.

At the more civilised hour of 7 a.m, we all sat around the breakfast table. Zadie, dressed in a black robe and baggy cardigan that looked far too big for her, hung her head in silence. Emily, though friendly, tended to be a bit more reserved when older children first came to stay and so I was missing the noisy banter that usually flew between her and Jamie. If Zadie was a toddler, Emily would have been clowning around and trying to make her giggle, but since she was close to her own age she merely threw the odd smile her way and studied her cereal with unusual interest. I tried to behave naturally and let them all get on with it. Children generally hate being thrown together and time usually smoothes the jagged edges.

Sure enough, after a minute or two Emily looked Zadie’s way. ‘You were up early,’ she said as she buttered some toast.

Zadie nodded, lowering her gaze.

‘Do you have to get up early to pray?’ Jamie asked before ramming another spoonful of cereal into his mouth. He always seemed to eat as if he was expecting a famine.

‘Yes,’ she whispered, her gaze lingering on Jamie for a second or two before darting back to the table. It was a penetrative look, as if trying to detect whether he had been mocking her. The flash of suspicion in her eyes reminded me that there was a real person beneath the head scarf.

‘And is it true that you’re not allowed to –’

‘J-amie,’ I said warningly. ‘Shall we save the interrogation for another day?’

He shrugged and blew out a huff of breath so that his lips vibrated noisily. Zadie looked up again, her dark eyes sweeping over us. I think she must have recognised Jamie’s interest as simple curiosity because the frozen angle of her shoulders seemed to soften a little. She continued to watch both Emily and Jamie whenever their attention drifted from her but, as is often the way with teenagers until the ice is broken, as soon as they made an effort to include her she averted her gaze, overcome by a sudden urge to examine the back of her hands.

‘Not very hungry this morning, Zadie?’ I asked. Her toast, though she had cut each slice into neat little squares and arranged them in lines across her plate, remained uneaten.

She looked at me warily. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Sorry. It’s very nice though. Thank you.’

‘You should try to eat something, honey. How about some cereal?’

She gave her head a tiny shake.

‘When was the last time you ate?’ I pressed. Even though her skin was coffee-coloured there was a pallor to it that I hadn’t noticed the previous evening. She looked awfully washed out.

‘It’s OK. I’ll …’ She picked up a tiny square of toast and took a tentative nibble. With her free hand she rearranged the left-over pieces of toast until there was an equal distance between each of them. Her fingers trembled as she worked and I could tell that Jamie had noticed too. He sat transfixed and was about to open his mouth when Emily, always quick to be kind, whacked him on the shoulder. ‘Come on, you. We’ll be late.’

I mouthed a thank you to Emily as she pushed her chair back. Straightening two fingers, she aimed them at the back of Jamie’s head and crooked her thumb as if firing a gun. I suppressed a grin and she rolled her eyes in his direction. The usual chaotic build-up to leaving the house then commenced, with Jamie emptying the cupboard under the stairs, trying to find his trainers for PE. Halfway through the search he decided it would be a good time to start printing his geography homework.

‘May I leave the table please, Rosie?’ Zadie asked.

‘Of course,’ I said, groaning at Jamie as he switched the computer on.

Zadie began piling the bowls on top of one another. ‘Don’t worry about that, honey. I’ll do it.’

She spoke so softly that I had no idea what she had said, but she continued to collect the crockery and then pottered off to the kitchen. Leaving Jamie to sort the printer out, I took up where he had left off in the hallway. Within 30 seconds I had the trainers in my hands. ‘Oh, Jamie,’ I groaned again, aware of the sound of running water in the kitchen. Five minutes later Emily called out to Zadie from the hall. ‘See you later, Zadie.’

There was a barely audible reply from the direction of the kitchen.

‘Actually, Mum, I think I might stay off today as well,’ Jamie said, beginning to slip his blazer from his shoulders.

‘Oh no you don’t,’ I said, straightening his tie and flattening his sleep-rumpled hair with the palm of my hand. He gave me a look of disbelief. ‘Mum, I like being groomed as much as the next man but I think I can get myself dressed, thanks all the same.’

‘Fair enough,’ I said. Jamie was teetering on the cusp of adolescence and I was still getting used to the transition as well as the tone of sarcasm that threaded all of our recent conversations. ‘Now, have you got everything, honey?’

‘Yep,’ he said, offhandish, driving home the fact that I was meddling in something I had no business with. ‘See you later.’

‘Sure? Packed lunch? PE kit?’

‘Y-e-sss, Mum,’ he said with a long-suffering sigh. ‘Bye, Mum. See you, Zadie.’

I stood at the front gate and watched until Emily and Jamie rounded the corner at the end of the road, then closed and locked the door, quite pleased at the prospect of having some time alone with Zadie. With just the two of us around I was hoping that she might open up a little and give me some idea of the problems that led her to run away.

Dropping my keys on the table in the hall, I walked through to the kitchen. Zadie was standing at the sink with the sleeves of her black robe rolled up tightly to the elbow, her forearms submerged beneath the washing-up water. Our breakfast bowls were all washed, propped over in a neat line on the draining board, each dessert spoon resting neatly beside it. ‘Zadie, you don’t have to do that, honey. Let me …’

‘OK,’ she whispered, though her hands remained where they were for a few moments, as if reluctant to leave the sanctuary of the water.

‘What do you usually do during the day?’

She lifted her hands from the sink and then turned on the tap to wash them. Squirting some liquid soap into her palms, she scrubbed between each knuckle, a few tiny bubbles escaping and floating above her head. After rinsing off the soap she stretched over the sink and released another generous blob of soap into her palm. It was a delaying tactic that wasn’t going to work for ever. When she reached for the soap a third time I handed her a towel.

She took the hint, holding her hands in mid-air for a moment as if not convinced they were clean. ‘I clean the house,’ she said softly, wiping her hands and then hurriedly pulling her sleeves down to cover her arms. ‘Put a wash on and prepare the meals. When the work is done Papa lets me read and …’

I pursed my lips, trying not to grimace. Sometimes as a foster carer it is difficult to hide personal feelings about a child’s home environment but, whatever my opinion, Zadie had the right for her relatives’ lifestyle to be respected. Children in care often have to cope with hearing negative comments about their parents, either from friends or their families, teachers, sometimes even social workers and foster carers. I have always made an effort not to judge but I still couldn’t help feeling that a day filled with housework and reading was a lonely, unfulfilling existence for someone so young. We certainly had enough books in our house to keep Zadie occupied as both Emily and I were avid readers, but I wasn’t sure that what we had was appropriate and, anyway, it all seemed a bit depressing to me. ‘Well, while you’re here, how about we make a bit of a routine to the day? You can have a look around and see if there’s anything you fancy reading and we’ll go to the library later in the week so you can choose some books for yourself.’

She nodded. ‘I’d like that, thank you,’ she said, her gaze fixed somewhere between my ear and the wall behind me.

‘And this afternoon we’ll go for a walk,’ I said. One thing I was certain of – staying cooped up in the house all day wasn’t healthy for anyone. It would be good for Zadie to get some fresh air, particularly as she was looking so peaky.

There was a flicker of anxiety in her eyes. ‘What time will we be going?’

‘After lunch probably. Is that all right?’

‘I’m supposed to pray after …’

‘That’s OK. We’ll go after that. Now, would you like to use the computer while I get this place cleaned up?’

For the first time since we’d met, her face creased into a genuine smile, the light in her eyes transforming her solemn face. It was often that way at the beginning of a placement; a child may seem untouchable, almost beyond reach, but then it’s as if they suddenly emerge from their trance, ready to engage in family life.

‘It’s all set up, honey. You know where it is, don’t you? In the dining room?’

‘Yes, yes. Thank you, Rosie,’ she whispered, backing away from me in a half bow and vanishing from the room. It was the most animated I had seen her.

As I was pulling on a pair of yellow rubber gloves the phone rang, a skirl that shattered the silence and gave me a jolt. I hadn’t realised I was feeling quite so tense. I think it was my strength of desire to put Zadie at her ease that was making me feel anxious, though I knew it probably wasn’t helping matters.

It was Peggy.

‘The brother has been in touch. He wants contact so I’ve arranged for him to come to you tomorrow afternoon if that’s OK?’

That was it. No, ‘Hello, Rosie’ or ‘How are you?’ but I was happy to dispense with small talk. Despite her sledgehammer approach, there was something about Peggy that I liked.

‘Should the family know where we live?’

‘Zadie’s only with you under a Section 20. There are no identifiable risk factors so it’s absolutely fine.’

Since Zadie was in care under a Section 20, voluntary care order, her parents retained full parental rights. Under law, they could have demanded that she be returned home to them. If social services suspected that Zadie was in immediate danger, social workers would have to apply to the courts for an interim care order.

A picture of Zadie’s face when Peggy had spoken about reuniting her with her family swept itself into my mind. I had noticed since then that Zadie was expert at presenting a benign expression, so her inability to hide the shadow that crossed her features at the mention of her family left me feeling concerned. ‘We know nothing about Zadie’s family yet, Peggy.’ I paused, biting my lip. ‘Or have you already disclosed where we live?’

‘No, certainly not. I wouldn’t do that without checking with you first.’

‘Then I’d really rather keep my address confidential for the moment.’

Peggy sighed. ‘Well, that’s awkward. There’s absolutely no capacity to facilitate contact at a centre at the moment.’

‘In the community then?’ I offered. ‘I’m happy to supervise contact,’ I continued, ‘but not at my home. I’d feel much more comfortable on neutral ground until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.’

‘Very well,’ she replied, a little stiffly. ‘Have you managed to find anything out yet? The brother says that the father is willing to forgive Zadie and my manager is pushing for us to mediate between them and try to get her settled back home as soon as possible. There’s only so long we can hold on to her.’

‘Forgive her for what?’ I asked with incredulity.

‘Well, for shaming him by running away, so it would seem.’

‘She’s frightened, Peggy.’

‘I think so, yes. But you need to find out why as soon as you can. As I say, we have no grounds to keep her in foster care unless she gives us something to go on. The family aren’t at all happy with the placement so you’ll have to bear that in mind when you meet the brother. Lots of diplomacy needed.’

Biting my lip to suppress a scoff, I muffled an ‘OK’ in agreement.

Peggy called back ten minutes later to confirm that she had spoken to Chit Hassan and that he would meet us at a local beauty spot, the Lavender Fields, at 2 p.m. the next day. The social worker then trilled a hasty goodbye and I headed for the dining room to give Zadie the news. Our house has an open-plan living, dining and kitchen area, with just a few columns dividing the space, so I could see Zadie’s back as she sat at the desk. She was leaning so close to the computer screen that her headscarf almost touched it and there was something about the intensity of her posture that stopped me in my tracks. I was too far away to identify what site she was looking at but I could see that her fingers were trembling as she scrolled the cursor down the screen.

‘Hi, honey. That was Peggy.’

Zadie spun around, her eyes wide. Her mouth began working at the edges as though she was trying to conjure a response but then she dropped her gaze and swung back to the screen. Making a few hasty clicks, she leaned back and let out a soft breath.

‘Everything all right?’ I asked, trying to muster a light tone to overcome the awkward moment. The words jarred in my throat and came out strained. It was a redundant question anyway; the wisps of unease snaking through the air between us told my senses that everything was definitely not ‘all right’.

‘Yes,’ she whispered, though her jaw was set at a tight angle. It was as though her mask had temporarily slipped.

‘You look …’ I paused, grappling for the right word. ‘You look …’ Guilty, I thought, taking in her downturned eyes and the two pink spots on her cheeks. ‘Anxious …’ I said.

‘No, I’m fine, really,’ she said. Her expression was suddenly indecipherable; the mask firmly back in place.

‘Peggy said that your brother Chit would like to see you.’ I paused to let the information sink in. Zadie watched me silently, waiting. ‘We’re meeting him tomorrow, at the Lavender Fields.’

She released the mouse and let her hand fall softly into her lap where her other hand was waiting. With her fingers concertinaed, she squeezed them together until the pads went white, though her face remained impassive. Again, there was no sign of any emotion, happy or otherwise.

‘Are you pleased about that?’

‘Yes, thank you, Rosie.’ She nodded, but suddenly her eyebrows furrowed. She jumped up and darted from the room, her hand clamped tightly over her mouth. My mind raced. Something had clearly upset her. Was it what she had been reading online? Or perhaps the news about her brother? Small sounds from the bathroom drew me to the foot of the stairs. With my head cocked, I frowned in concentration. Zadie was retching. I turned, intending to fetch a glass of water from the kitchen, but it seemed that my feet had other plans. They were already taking me back to the dining room.

At the computer I perched on the edge of the swivel chair. My eyes drifted back to the stairs as my hand hovered over the mouse. Zadie deserved for her privacy to be respected, I told myself, but then again something had upset her and I needed to find out what it was. It was unlikely that Zadie herself would open up and tell me why. Stupidly, I had forgotten to give her an internet safety lecture before allowing her online. If something untoward happened, it would be my responsibility. With my mind made up, somehow I managed to shut my ears to her gasps long enough run the cursor over the screen.

My breathing became raspy as I checked the recent history. Leaning over the desk as Zadie had done a few minutes earlier, I selected the web address at the top of the page. At first I was faced with a blank white page but then colours began to appear. I squinted as an image flickered to life in front of me. I gasped and jerked back, dropping the mouse as if it was on fire. The colour drained from my face and my breath lodged in my throat. My chest throbbed with the pressure, as if I’d been held under water.

An unexpected knock at the door brought a rush of heat to sear my cheeks but I sat unmoving, unable to tear my eyes from the moving images in front of me. The sound of a key in the latch brought me to my senses and I sprang into action, fumbling with the mouse to click on the X. My fingers were so timorous that it took several attempts before the screen cleared, the doorbell growing ever more insistent.

Jogging to the hall, I felt grateful for my usual habit of locking the door whenever I’m home, if I have a child in placement. I had grown more security conscious after a parent had forced his way into my home a couple of years earlier. I had driven to a contact centre to collect his children after a contact session with their birth mother. The father had lain in wait in the contact centre car park and then followed me home. He was more desperate than angry but trying to convince him to leave the house had been a nerve-racking experience and one I wouldn’t want to repeat.

My hands were shaking as I reached for my keys. My eyes strayed to the top of the stairs and a feather of anxiety brushed at my throat. I trawled my brain, trying to work out why a girl like Zadie would be drawn to looking up something so awful. It was a struggle to reconcile what I had seen on the screen with the introverted, withdrawn teenager having an anxiety attack in my bathroom. In my mind, she became even more of an enigma.

On the doorstep stood Jamie, his cheeks flushed, school tie askew over his shoulder. ‘I forgot my locker key,’ he said, groaning. ‘Now I’m gonna be late.’

‘Oh, Jamie,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Don’t worry. Grab your key and I’ll give you a lift.’

‘Ah, thanks, Mum,’ he said with relief, all trace of adolescent bravado gone. He planted a rare kiss on my cheek and raced off to his room.

Up in the bathroom I handed Zadie a glass of water. She refused to meet my eyes but thanked me for the drink and took a few tentative sips. Perched on the edge of the bath, she looked so small and frail that I was tempted to draw her into a hug. I rested my hand on her shoulder but she instantly tensed, angling herself away from me. Overcome with a sudden feeling of déjà vu, I recalled the interactive dance played out between myself and Phoebe when she had first arrived – how she would draw me in with one hand and yet hold me away with the other. Sometimes I would catch the nine-year-old watching Emily, Jamie and me with a sad yearning, her past a barrier that held her in limbo, despite her longing to be part of a loving family. Phoebe kept her distance until the trust between us grew strong enough to overcome her fears, something that couldn’t possibly happen overnight. I was beginning to suspect that with Zadie it was also going to be a case of playing the long game.

At some point we were going to have to have a frank discussion, but with the teenager still struggling to get her breath back and Jamie waiting impatiently in the hall, now was definitely not the right time.

Chapter 4

I drove towards Jamie’s school on autopilot, trying to assemble my thoughts in some sort of rational order. Every time I tried to figure out what had possessed Zadie to search for pornography, naked bodies punctured my concentration. Sashaying to the forefront of my mind, they taunted my already churning stomach with grinding gyrations and twisted leers.

I considered the possibility that Zadie had stumbled onto the website by mistake. But whatever the reason, exposing a child to pornography was a form of abuse, and since it had happened under my roof and while Zadie was in my care, it followed that I was responsible. I let out a sigh, guiltily admonishing myself for not installing security locks before allowing Zadie to use the computer. I had tried parental controls before but quickly grown frustrated with them. The problem was that even tame sites seemed to be blocked by family-user settings, ones that Emily and Jamie found useful for homework, so I always ended up giving up on them.

My mind was so caught up in what had happened that I almost drove straight past Jamie’s school. Fortunately we got there with a minute or two to spare. After dropping him at the gates I suggested to Zadie that we should take our walk then, rather than going out later in the day. The sky was already clouding over and I wasn’t sure how long the dry weather would hold out. Zadie nodded in lacklustre agreement. She had seemed reluctant to leave the house, as if the walls were a protective shell she couldn’t do without. As we headed towards the woods she seemed to withdraw even further into herself.

The traffic grew lighter with the school-run chaos over, and as I approached an almost empty crossroads an idea came to me. Swinging the car into a U-turn, I drove back through a small village and on to a fellow foster carer’s house. Besides caring for three young boys, Jenny had recently taken in a rescue dog. Bobby, a Labrador, was still a puppy; just the sort of lively company I felt we needed. I knew that Jenny would probably be more than happy for us to give him some exercise.

As I’d thought, Jenny readily agreed. ‘You’re in luck, Bobby,’ she called out, bending over to pat her knees. The excited puppy skidded along the wide hallway and collided into her legs, his tail wagging furiously. ‘You do know they forecast rain, Rosie?’ she said, clipping the lead onto the dog’s collar.

‘Hmmm, it does look overcast,’ I said, leaning in conspiratorially and stroking Bobby’s velvet ears. ‘But we need a bit of a distraction …’

‘Ah, right.’ Jenny nodded. ‘Time for a catch-up, I think,’ she said, leading Bobby to the car. ‘When are you free?’

I cradled my chin with my forefinger. Zadie would obviously have to come with me, with her not being in school. I wanted to give the teenager a bit of time at home, a chance to get used to us before introducing her to lots of other strangers. ‘How about the week after next? Monday?’

‘Fine by me,’ Jenny said, guiding Bobby onto the back seat. ‘I’ll ask Rachel and Liz along as well. Hi, Zadie. Lovely to meet you.’

Zadie lifted her chin in acknowledgement, her solemn face breaking into a rare smile when Bobby rested his heavy paws on her lap and nuzzled against her.

Jenny remained on her front step as I pulled away, waving silently in my rear-view mirror. I was looking forward to getting together with some of the other carers. Working from home can be an isolating experience, and when coupled with the need to maintain confidentiality it was often a relief to meet up with Jenny, Liz and Rachel. Apart from the company, each of us was able to share any concerns or challenges we were facing openly, instead of keeping them bottled up.

At the end of Jenny’s road we pulled onto a wide, tree-lined street. We drove on, past a little park and then back through the picturesque village where rows of shops and restaurants were prettily co-ordinated with awnings in complementary shades and window boxes ablaze with jasmine and trailing lobelia. Soon we reached the main road that runs parallel to the river. The tide was high and a light wind was buffeting the blue-grey water into miniature, white-crested waves. As I crossed the steady flow of traffic, I noticed a colourful steam barge emerging from beneath an ornate bridge, the top deck dotted with passengers. ‘Do you see that, Zadie?’

She glanced sideways. ‘Oh, wow!’ she said, the unexpected enthusiasm in her voice taking me by surprise. In the rear-view mirror I could see her smiling and craning her neck as Bobby strained to lick her face. In that moment she looked so carefree that I felt a spike in my throat, upset to think that someone so young could, within minutes of logging onto the internet, access images as disturbing as the ones I’d seen earlier that morning.

The memory brought an unpleasant roll to my stomach, my discomfort compounded by the fact that it had happened ‘on my watch’. A fine mist lowered itself over the river and my windscreen clouded with condensation. Flicking the wipers on, my gaze drifted across the water where several ugly 1970s tower blocks stood. The featureless concrete buildings rose from their scenic backdrop to dominate the skyline, casting ominous shadows over the natural beauty surrounding them. Their incongruity struck me as fittingly apt; the corrupting influence of a fast-paced world on someone as fragile as Zadie seemed to be.

Three-year-old Charlie fell from a first-floor window of one of the blocks, into a large container of rubbish below. I would never forget how frightened he looked when he first arrived at my house, the cut on his head covered with a white bandage. I had recently heard how Charlie was getting on, living with his paternal grandmother; he was thriving and doing brilliantly at school. Pictures from the past often danced their way to the forefront of my mind, helping to boost my confidence at the beginning of a new placement. When things weren’t perhaps progressing as well as I hoped, it helped to remember how resilient children can be. Charlie’s rapid recovery was testament to that. Little did I realise back then that Zadie’s problems would take far longer to mend than Charlie’s cuts and bruises.

Despite the watery grey sky it was pleasantly warm, and as we pulled into a car park at the end of a narrow lane I felt my mood lighten. Zadie seemed to have relaxed. She was giggling and chattering softly to Bobby as I opened the rear door and beckoned them out. On reflection, there was no reason why I couldn’t delay our internet safety chat until another day, by which time Zadie was likely to feel more comfortable in her new environment.

As we walked side by side down a gentle slope and through a canopy of trees, a rich, woody fragrance rose to greet us. A narrow path stretched ahead into the forest, as far as the eye could see, and when we were a safe distance from the road I let Bobby off his lead. He bounded off with his tail high in the air, every so often tripping over his large front paws in his eagerness to explore. We strolled without speaking, our eyes focused on Bobby as he darted between trees and sent squirrels scattering in all directions.

As we ventured deeper into the woods, the soft drone of traffic receded until it was barely audible. The loamy earth beneath our feet muffled the sound of our footsteps so that, apart from the occasional crack as we stepped on a twig, the scuffle of small pawed animals or the distant squawking of gulls, there was near silence. I began to chatter about other places we had visited in the past, hoping that Zadie might begin to reciprocate. She smiled politely and nodded in all the right places but, apart from the odd gasp when Bobby tumbled over, she remained more or less mute. Fortunately, just as I had hoped, the puppy’s presence transformed the atmosphere so that our one-sided conversation felt companionable rather than strained.

Another hundred metres in, the path began to widen. Dappled light picked its way through the trellis of overhanging leaves, the shadowed earth shrinking as we reached a glade. Fast-moving clouds swirled overhead and there was the odd rumble in the distance. Looking up at the hooded sky, I wasn’t sure how long we would have before the rain set in. With the grassy area opening further, Zadie jogged ahead, trying to keep up with Bobby. She cut a solitary figure out there in the middle of the clearing and as I followed I hoped it wouldn’t be too long before she was brave enough to reach out to me.

My drifting thoughts were interrupted by Bobby, barking and leaping up at a fence. On the other side was a meadow strung with daisies. Further into the distance the fields sloped away to give a view of the village we had driven through and the lower foothills beyond. Zadie gathered her robe in her hands, lifting it above her ankles like a character from a Jane Austen novel. Suddenly childlike, she ran towards Bobby and pointed to a stile beyond some bushes. ‘Over here, Rosie,’ she called out, her soft voice almost swallowed by the wind. Grasping Bobby around his midriff, she lifted herself to the top plank of the stile and slipped over in one smooth motion.

I climbed over with far less elegance, even though I was wearing jeans. Zadie waited nearby, her arm flickering at her side as if ready to catch me if I stumbled. I was surprised by her gentle consideration. ‘You see over there, Zadie?’ I said, slightly breathless, pointing to a large yellow sandstone building. ‘Inside that hall are boxes of material from all over the country, from Cornwall all the way up to Scotland.’ As we crossed the meadow I told Zadie about my mother’s voluntary job at WEPH, Working to Eradicate Poverty and Hunger, a committee based at the local church. The group, mainly women, met regularly to fundraise; their latest project was to provide desks and equipment for a blind school in the Congo.

‘What are they going to do with all the material?’ she asked softly. I could tell that her interest was piqued. It was the first time she had voluntarily spoken since we left the house but, then, children in foster care are often fascinated by stories of hardship and tales of triumph over adversity. I think that hearing about other children in difficult situations gives them a yardstick to measure their own problems against, one of the reasons why all of the Jacqueline Wilson books in our house were so well thumbed.

Like adults who enjoy watching tragic or sad films, perhaps feeling relief that their lives could be worse, I think that children gain a sense of perspective and learn that they’re not alone in their sadness and uncertainty. One of the therapeutic games I play with older children works on the same principle, where they have to imagine a situation worse than their own. It may sound like a grim activity but it often works a treat and it’s surprising how many colourful and inventive scenarios they come up with.

I remembered playing the game with ten-year-old Taylor, who came to stay with her five-year-old brother. The siblings had endured years of witnessing domestic abuse between their mother and father and, using her personal experiences as a template for relating to others, Taylor would replicate the violence at school. She had a reputation for bullying and most of her classmates shied away from her. It wasn’t unusual for hers to be the only book bag in the class without a colourful little envelope containing a party invitation inside, and she would often come home to me and break her heart over the rejection.

The sad truth was, the only way Taylor knew how to relate to anyone was by using physical force and harsh words. It wasn’t surprising that parents steered their own children away, keeping their distance and encouraging them to have nothing to do with her. The awful, alternative universe situations she managed to dream up were truly terrible to hear, but we would always end the game with strategies for helping ‘Alex who had lost his entire family and was sleeping rough inside a large rat-infested drain’ or the teenager who was made to drink bleach by her drug-addled parents. Imagining what it must be like for others who experience hardship encouraged Taylor to see things from their point of view. It is a proven fact that when we empathise with others our brains release oxytocin, and slowly Taylor learned the simple lesson that showing kindness felt good. It didn’t take long for her to stop hitting out and gradually her peers became less wary of her.

‘They’re going to make patchwork quilts. They have a small army of women working on them already, and since mentioning it on Facebook they have lots more people keen to sign up. I’ve started on one myself.’ I twisted my mouth. ‘Only I haven’t got very far yet.’

I tapped my forehead. ‘And that reminds me, Mum asked me to find out where they can sell the quilts that are already made. Another thing I haven’t gotten around to.’

Zadie seemed so interested in the blind school that I wished I knew more about it. Making a mental note to find out more from Mum, I drifted onto other subjects, none of which caught her interest in the same way. She fell silent but I no longer felt like I was jabbering away to myself. Bobby loped ahead, every now and again performing an emergency stop to grab a stick or a stone between his teeth. Zadie delighted in his company, frolicking around with him in the long grass. Nettles stung my ankles as I waded after them and I was beginning to long for a cup of tea.

Eventually Zadie came to a halt by a cobbled stone wall. A large oak tree stood nearby, skirted by a wooden bench. When I caught up with her I asked, ‘Shall we sit here for a bit?’ Bobby’s breath was raspy and his tongue was hanging out. ‘It looks like I’m not the only one who could do with a rest.’

We sat down, Zadie planting herself a couple of feet away from me. She crossed her legs and rested her hands in her lap but then they tumbled over themselves in that nervous way of hers, continually smoothing invisible folds in her robe. I made a mental note to get some aqueous cream; her skin looked painfully sore. The wind was picking up and there was a sudden chill in the air. I wrapped my cardigan around myself and watched her movements surreptitiously.

She sat hunched over, her head trailing low. On closer inspection I noticed that her chapped fingers weren’t just wringing themselves in a random way; they were strumming a particular beat. Not only that, but her lips were moving silently, as if she was counting or chanting something. Recalling the way she had rearranged her toast so fastidiously earlier that morning, I was beginning to suspect there was more to her twiddling than absent-minded nerves.

‘Your hem is wet through, honey,’ I said. ‘Are you cold?’

Her fingers froze for a moment, then she rested them sedately on her knees. She shook her head.

I sat staring into the middle distance, trying to think of ways to get a conversation going that involved more of a response than a nod of the head. I told her about the time Emily and I went blackberry picking, her clothes getting so heavily plastered in squashed fruit that they turned her car seat blue. I talked about the day I took Jamie for a walk in the hills when he was just three or four. ‘It started to rain and his wellies got stuck in the mud. I had to lift him out of them and carry him to the car. We never did get those little boots back.’

Nothing sparked a response that wasn’t closed-mouth silence. Darker clouds gathered and the air around us was scented with the cloying dampness of impending rain. I listened to the stillness and decided to plunge right in with direct questions. It wasn’t going to be an easy time for her in foster care unless she learnt that she could trust us. ‘So, enough about us. Tell me about your family.’

She turned abruptly, a bit taken aback.

‘There’s not much to tell,’ she said, twisting her lip.

‘Well, do you have any other brothers and sisters, apart from Chit?’

She nodded. ‘I have another older brother. Vijay.’

‘And do Chit and Vijay both live at home?’

She nodded.

‘So there are five of you?

A shadow crossed her face. She shook her head again. ‘Just my brothers, Papa and me.’

‘Ah,’ I said softly. ‘I didn’t know that.’

She lowered her head, the silent curtain of her headscarf shielding her expression. I could tell she was uncomfortable but then I remembered Peggy’s earlier words: if we didn’t find out something soon, Zadie could find herself having to return home. While I phrased the next question in my head, the silent pause worked its magic.

‘I can’t really remember much about her,’ she said softly, risking a glance in my direction. There was a strained quality to her voice and for the first time her expression was transparent, the pain in her eyes diffusing across her whole face. Above, clouds shifted, closing in on us.

‘Your mother?’

She nodded.

‘When was the last time you saw her?’

She let out a breath so gentle it was almost masked by the strengthening breeze. Again her fingers tapped a secret rhythm on her knees. ‘I think I was about five.’ Bobby began to whine. He trotted over and rested his head on Zadie’s lap as if sensing her discomfort. Absent-mindedly massaging his chin, she said, ‘I don’t even remember what she looks like but I can feel her sometimes, as if she’s still around.’

The heavy sadness in her voice brought a sudden lump to my throat. I nodded, hoping to communicate how much I wanted to understand, and all the while other thoughts whirled around my brain, like was her mother dead? Or had she walked out on her family? I was trying to think how to frame my questions delicately when the rain started. Grabbing my handbag, I brushed dried leaves from the back of my jeans and sprinted after Zadie who, slipping and sliding, ran ahead with her arms out, steadying herself. By the time we reached the fence the fine rain had fortified into a deluge. I stumbled over the stile but Zadie waited behind, calling out to Bobby. He ran around the field in wide circles, barking at the air and catching raindrops on his tongue.

When he finally reached us, yapping in excitement, we were both drenched. He jumped up to rest his muddy paws on Zadie’s chest, lapping at her face with his tongue. She closed her eyes and threw her head one way and then the other, laughing loudly. ‘Rosie, help!’ she shrieked, her brown eyes full of life.

It was one of those moments that fixed itself in my mind so vividly that I can still picture every detail. I stood motionless for a few seconds with the rain lashing down on my back, captivated. Her teeth were very white, the front two crossing over one another slightly – not enough to worry about getting braces fitted but perfect for adding a touch of character to her smile. Her headscarf and robes became indistinguishable, clinging cold and heavy against her skin. Curves appeared where before they were hidden and it was clear from her silhouette that she wasn’t as thin as I’d first thought. It was a relief to know that I wouldn’t have to worry too much about her lack of appetite. Still giggling and with water pouring from her face, she closed her eyes and wrestled Bobby away.

‘You jump in,’ I shouted to Zadie over a rumble of thunder when we reached the car. ‘I’ll put Bobby on a blanket in the back.’

Ten minutes later we dropped a drenched, smelly pup back to Jenny. The foster carer gasped when she saw him but I knew she wouldn’t mind. ‘See you on Monday then, Rosie?’

‘Yes, lovely.’

‘I sent Liz and Rachel a text, so hopefully they’ll be here too.’

On the way home I turned the radio on for some background noise. It seemed that a walk in the rain had broken the ice, as far as I was concerned at least. Zadie had told me something about herself, albeit reluctantly at first, but it was a start and it was only her first full day. Feeling much more at ease, I began singing along to the music. Zadie’s expression in the rear-view mirror was a mixture of surprise and amusement.

‘Would you like to use the bathroom first?’ I asked as I stood in the hall shivering, water dripping down my nose.

Zadie nodded and slipped off her shoes, bending over to straighten them at a neat right angle to the wall. While she ran a bath I got a clean robe out of her rucksack and draped a fluffy towel over the radiator in the hall, so that it would be warm by the time she was ready to leave the water. Getting her things ready reminded me of when Emily and Jamie were small. Every Sunday afternoon we would go for a walk in the hills or by the river. More often than not, one of them would end up with their clothes soaked through or covered in mud. I relished the thought of getting them home, giving them a hot bath then wrapping them in their soft dressing gowns.

I think one of the reasons I enjoyed fostering so much was the opportunity it gave to lavish comfort on children who’ve sometimes not even experienced basic care. Often, when a child arrives in the foster home, they’ve never known the pleasure of tucking into a home-cooked meal or climbing, sleepy and safe, into a warm, clean bed. Being in a position to console someone in crisis is such a privilege, one I don’t think I will ever tire of.

In the kitchen I made two mugs of hot chocolate and reached for the biscuit tin. Suffused by a feeling of optimism, I still had no sense of the traumas that lay ahead.

Chapter 5

Lunch was pasta with cheese sauce. Zadie had told me not to worry about special food for her as she was vegetarian and I had checked that it was something she liked, but she barely touched anything. She sat in silence, her eyes fixed on her plate as she twirled her fork in her right hand. Her left hand was out of sight under the table, no doubt tapping out nervous rhythms on her thigh.

Des, my supervising social worker, had called soon after we arrived home, to ask if he could pop in later to make one of his statutory visits. He was a gregarious character and always managed to bring out the louder side of my own personality, so I was looking forward to introducing him to Zadie. If anyone could bring Zadie out of her shell, it would be him.

The rest of the afternoon passed quietly, with Zadie up in her room reading The Red Pony. I was happy with her choice, confident that the classic was unlikely to cause offence to anyone. While she was occupied I sat in the conservatory to write up my daily diary. Recording our earlier conversation in the forest, I remembered how abruptly it had ended. It was a shame the rain had started just at the moment she spoke of her mother. I sat mulling over what she had said, itching to find out more.

When my records were up to date I invited Zadie to help me prepare a chicken pie for our evening meal, hoping that we might take up the conversation where we left off. Emily and Jamie were going to the golf driving range with their dad after school – although we had divorced years earlier, Gary remained dedicated to the children and saw them often – so we had a long afternoon to fill. She seemed content pottering around the kitchen and was adept at preparing food, even the meat, despite being a vegetarian. It was clear that she was well practised at preparing meals for a large family. Without any direction from me she tore the plastic from a pack of chicken and rinsed each fillet under the tap before deftly snipping slivers into some hot oil with a pair of kitchen scissors.

I began kneading the pastry and chattered on about the rest of our family; my mother and nieces and nephews, but, while Zadie seemed interested, she didn’t join in or volunteer anything of her own. I remembered what Peggy had said about her father pressurising for Zadie to be returned to him and couldn’t help feeling a sense of urgency, but I didn’t want to force it so I avoided any more direct questions.

Emily and Jamie arrived home just after five o’clock. As soon as Zadie heard their steps on the gravel driveway she washed her hands and then left the kitchen. After a hurried greeting in the hall, she withdrew to the dining room, burying her head in her book.

Emily went straight up to her room and Jamie, following his usual after-school routine, raided the biscuit tin then switched on the Xbox. Leaning his head into the dining room, he invited Zadie to join him. She shook her head shyly, diving straight back into her book. A little pride swelled up in me; it was always so lovely to see my own children’s efforts to welcome others in, even though their friendliness was often shunned in the early days. Jamie shrugged off her rejection and carried on with his game.

Des arrived just before dinner time, as was his usual habit. Jamie answered the door, greeting the social worker by thrusting an Xbox controller in his hands. Although half the time my son made an effort to show that he was now beyond all forms of play by shrugging nonchalantly and forcing a look of disinterest, computer games seemed to be an acceptable caveat.

‘How about you let me take my shoes off first, eh, Jamie? He doesnae give me a chance,’ Des muttered, removing his shoes using the heel of each foot and leaving them in the hall. ‘Hi, Zadie,’ he said casually when he passed the dining room, as if he’d met her dozens of times before. ‘How do you put up wi’ him, you lot?’

Jamie grunted, revelling in the banter. Zadie peered over the top of her book, a little intrigued. Des was such an affable character; he just had that way that some people have about them, of creating an immediate air of familiarity.

‘Don’t start another game yet, Jamie. Dinner’s almost ready,’ I said, leaning against the doorway. It was one of those moments when I wished I had thought to run a brush through my manic hair. I managed to tuck some of it behind each ear. ‘Hi, Des. Would you like to join us?’

He looked at me sideways, his blue eyes shining with their usual glint of humour. ‘What are you having?’ There was no mistaking the caution in his voice and I couldn’t disguise my smile. Des struck me as such a bold character. He was outgoing, charming and had travelled all over the world, yet he was such a baby about food. One sniff of something spicy and his lips would go pale. ‘Not that I’m fussy,’ he insisted, ‘so you can stop looking at me like that, Rosie Lewis.’

‘Chicken pie. We made it this afternoon, didn’t we, Zadie?’

She raised her eyes, nodding silently.

‘You didnae sneak anything hot in there, I hope?’ he teased.

Zadie looked serious. She frowned, shaking her head.

‘Don’t worry, Zadie. Des thinks pepper is an exotic flavouring, don’t you?’

The social worker snorted. Zadie pinched her lips in imitation of a smile but her features didn’t soften accordingly.

‘Yes, count me in then, if there’s enough,’ he said as I leaned my head into the hallway and called up to Emily. ‘Dinner’s ready, love.’

At the table, Des and Jamie argued playfully about the upcoming friendly football match between England and Scotland, Des going into a rant in imitation of a well-known sports commentator. Dark wavy hair that was usually swept back from his temple flew out at odd angles and soon Jamie was in fits of laughter. It was easy to picture Des in his earlier days, as a bit-part actor in dodgy American sitcoms. Tonight he surprised us by throwing into the conversation that he’d also been the lead guitarist in an unsuccessful rock band known as The Bad Natives. Lifting his leg, he wrapped one hand round his shin, strummed his thigh and threw his head back, launching into a rendition of ‘Mustang Sally’.

Jamie whooped, drumming his palms on the table. Zadie raised her eyes, interested but a little taken aback by the banter. Every now and again she would cast a furtive glance around the table but whenever any of us looked her way she would stare into her plate and play lifelessly with her food. But she wasn’t the only one. I could see that Emily was troubled too. I can read my daughter’s expression from across a room, interpreting her mood from the angle of her head or slant in her shoulders, but that night I didn’t need a mother’s instinct to know she was upset. She was usually animated when Des came to visit but she prodded at the same speck of food with her fork, barely glancing in his direction.

‘Are you all right, Ems?’ I asked.

‘Yes, fine,’ she nodded. Des stopped teasing Jamie for a moment and turned to look at her. Emily smiled but quickly returned her attention to her plate, clearly stewing over something. It was unusual for anything to cloud Emily’s brightly glowing aura. She was such a cheerful, buoyant soul that it was a surprise to see her gloomy. I wondered whether Zadie’s brooding silence was affecting her, but then I dismissed the thought. Emily had grown used to children arriving in a much more distressed state than Zadie appeared to be in. I was wondering whether to say anything more when Jamie distracted my attention. ‘Can I leave the table, Mum? I told Ben I’d meet him on FIFA at 7.’

As usual, his plate was clear. ‘Go on then.’

We watched silently as Jamie sprang to his feet and disappeared from sight. Des can’t be described as anything other than a people person; his ability to mingle was the trait I admired in him the most, yet without Jamie at the table he seemed to lose his momentum, as if the silence of the rest of us was contagious.

Our attention soon focused on Zadie. Holding her fork in her right hand, she separated the food on her plate into small mouthfuls; a couple of peas, a piece of her own mini-vegetarian pie and some mashed potato were dotted around the plate in small mounds. If a pea rolled away she manoeuvred it back to the required position with robotic movements. It was mesmerising.

A minute or two of silence passed before Des recovered. ‘I’ve been thinking about reviving the old band actually,’ he said, reaching for his glass of water. ‘First there was the Spice Girls, then Take That. I think the world might be ready for a Bad Natives reunion. What do you think, Ems?’

That was it. Emily guffawed, much like her usual self. Zadie touched her forefinger to the tip of her nose and examined what was left of her pie. She tilted her head then set to work rearranging the layout, making minute adjustments. Des put his fork down and cocked his head, giving me a knowing look. I stretched my lips and gave a slight nod.

It wasn’t unusual for fostered children to display symptoms of OCD, especially where food was concerned. But Zadie’s compulsive behaviour went beyond that; the strumming, the counting under her breath, the tidying. And then it suddenly struck me: the chapped skin on her hands might have nothing to do with sleeping out in the cold for two nights, and all the time she spent in the bathroom may not have been just purifying herself for prayers.

‘Had enough of social work then, Des?’ I heard Emily ask Des.

‘Funny you should say that,’ he answered.

But their conversation faded into the background. I was quiet, absorbed by my own thoughts. I remembered Zadie washing her hands after doing the dishes. I had thought it was nerves but now it all fell into place – she was an obsessive hand washer.

Just after 8 p.m. Des stood at the front door manoeuvring his feet back into his shoes. With his uncanny ability to read me he looked down and touched me on the shoulder. ‘Give it time.’

I sighed. ‘She just seems so very far away.’

‘She’ll come out of herself,’ he said, speaking with absolute conviction, ‘once she feels comfortable.’

He always seemed to make me feel better. ‘Thanks, Des. You would have been wasted as a rock star. You’re in the perfect job, if you ask me.’

He gave me a look I couldn’t quite decipher. ‘Visiting you is more than just a job, Rosie. You do know that, don’t you?’

I smiled, patting his arm.

‘Anyway, looks like there might be changes afoot,’ he said cryptically.

‘Changes?’

Just then Jamie came into the hall and stood beside me, draping an arm around my shoulder.

‘I’ll tell you more on Saturday. You are going, aren’t you?’

Des was referring to the foster carers’ ball. Every year our fostering agency arranges a dinner dance for its foster carers. They often invite a motivational speaker along to give a talk and then to present long service and special recognition awards afterwards. It was an enjoyable occasion, although this year, feeling a bit guilty about leaving Zadie with a back-up carer so soon after her arrival, I wasn’t as keen to go.

‘Yes, I’ve booked my mum in to babysit.’

‘Great. Maybe I’ll persuade your mother to have a dance with me,’ Des said, winking at Jamie.

‘I wouldn’t, Mum,’ Jamie said. ‘He might start singing.’

About an hour later, while Zadie was having a bath, I went into her room to look for any dirty clothes she may have left in there. Foster carers usually have to keep their wits about them, especially at the beginning of a placement when the child is assessing their new environment. Taken away from all that is precious to them and then catapulted into a relationship with unfamiliar adults, it’s a natural response to react badly. I remembered the high drama of when 15-year-old Amy came to stay.

Amy spent her first week with us in a highly anxious state, withdrawing from cannabis as well as trying to deal with the commotion of coming into care. It’s fair to say that our house took a bit of a battering during her period of readjustment. But there seemed to be none of that with Zadie, and her room was immaculate, with not a thing out of place.

If anyone had asked me to name three character traits of Zadie’s after she had been with us for a couple of days, ‘quiet’ would most definitely have qualified. Above that would have been ‘nervous’, but I would have struggled with the rest of the list. There seemed to be no substance to her, nothing solid that I could put my finger on.

About to leave the room, I made a little triangle of her duvet by turning it back at the corner and grabbed her pyjamas from underneath the pillow. As I was smoothing them out on the radiator in the hall to warm them, I felt something knobbly beneath my palms. Frowning, I picked them up again, noticing for the first time how heavy they were. Turning them over in my hands, I felt several hard lumps in the material. Running them between my fingers, I found what felt like rough pebbles had been sewn into the hem of the top and the waistband of the bottoms.

‘Zadie. What are these doing here?’ I asked, surprised to find her standing behind me. She moved so lightly from room to room that all I had sensed was a wisp of air. I often have to remind the children I look after to keep covered up but Zadie had dressed back into her robe just to take the short walk along the hall to her bedroom. Her headscarf was off though, her damp, dark hair clinging to the robe and leaving a large damp patch at the back. It was surprising how different someone could look with the absence of one simple garment. She looked even prettier with her hair long and flowing.

‘What?’ she asked, though it was obvious she knew what I was talking about; she was staring straight at her pyjamas.

‘Why are there pebbles in your PJs?’

She looked at me, chewing her lip. With the line of her elegant neck visible she seemed so much more vulnerable. ‘I’d sleep on my tummy if they weren’t there.’

I held them in front of me, staring. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘I’m supposed to lie on my back.’

I shook my head as I passed them to her, still confused. ‘Why?’

‘Prophets sleep with their bellies facing upwards,’ she explained, clutching them to her chest and lowering her chin into the soft material. ‘I might be sent to hell if I sleep badly, so Chit sewed them in.’

I didn’t know how to respond so I stood clutching her door handle for a moment before saying goodnight.

Downstairs, I picked up a book and slumped on the sofa. Holding it open, I ran my eyes over the first page then realised I had no idea what I’d just read. I tried again but gave up after the second paragraph, too preoccupied to take anything in.

And so, the night before the real problems began to emerge, I lay in bed feeling generally puzzled. I was a bit concerned about Emily. From the moment she was born she had been a textbook baby. She slept when I laid her down, like one of those dollies with the closing eyelids, smiling and cooing whenever she was awake; she skipped her way through the ‘terrible twos’, and even as a teenager she was rarely moody or difficult. I resolved to leave it a few days before pressing her any further. Emily tended to think things through for herself before blurting out what was worrying her.

Unlike Zadie. I knew that she would need lots of encouragement if she was to open up. My thoughts turned to our earlier conversation and I felt a flicker of unease. Funnily enough it wasn’t the pebbled pyjamas that worried me. It seemed a bit of a draconian measure to me but it sounded like her family were doing what they could to keep her spiritually safe. All religions had their own special ways of negotiating their followers through an unpredictable world, I reasoned. I could see the logic.

When I was young, my father had a rigid routine of Bible study in place for when I got home from school. There was no relaxing in front of Grange Hill with milk and a biscuit for me. It was a case of working my way through the books of the Bible and memorising important texts to repeat to him when he got home from work. I had a feeling that Zadie’s experiences were magnified tenfold on a scale of severity, but I could certainly relate to them.

What really unsettled me was the control her brother seemed to exert over her. Zadie said it was Chit who had taken it upon himself to correct her for sleeping on her back. It struck me as strange that a brother should involve himself in disciplining his sister so harshly, but then a little girl, Freya, tugged at my memory. Even though she wasn’t quite five years old when she came to stay with me, she was well used to caring for her younger siblings. She knew how to prepare a bottle of formula milk for her baby brother and was so protective of her role as their carer that she became distressed when I tried to release her from it. I wanted her to learn to be a little girl again but she found it hard to relinquish what she saw as her responsibilities. Without his mother around, perhaps it was natural for Chit to take a more active role in caring for younger siblings, I reasoned.

And then there was Des. Usually so quick to comfort and calm, there was something in the way his eyes shadowed when he told me that changes were on the way that stirred up anxiety in me. I had a feeling that I wasn’t going to like what he had to say.

Chapter 6

On Thursday morning I must have woken midway through a dream because when I opened my eyes I sensed the vestiges of something incomplete. I don’t often recall dreams but this one was so vivid that it stayed with me as I went downstairs to make coffee. While the kettle boiled I leaned back against the worktop and closed my eyes. Flickers of black and white played across my eyelids as the dream came back to me, with Zadie and me back in the forest.

Dreary swirls of grey moved across a brooding sky, following us at a pace as we ventured further along a narrowing path. Driven deeper into the woods by a high wind and squally rain, I noticed that my feet were sinking into the sodden earth while Zadie’s seemed to glide above it, like a character in a film that has been switched to fast forward. As I struggled to get free, a shadowy figure emerged from the labyrinth of trees surrounding us and hurried after Zadie.

Beginning to panic, I clawed my way out of my shoes and stumbled off in pursuit. Every so often I caught a glimpse of Zadie’s billowing robes and the faceless stranger following her but, shapeless and fluid, it would float away in a wisp of black smoke whenever I drew near. Soon the undergrowth was too dense for me to follow and all I could do was watch helplessly as the shadowed outline rose up in front of Zadie and blocked her way.

Towering over her, the figure turned and whispered something in a low, mocking voice before reaching out its hand. With one touch Zadie shattered into a hundred tiny pieces, the fragments falling to the soil and rolling beneath tightly interwoven tree roots.

When the figure slipped away the undergrowth parted and I was freed. I ran to the spot where Zadie had been attacked and sank to my knees, scraping at the soil and calling her name. When my hands were too sore to continue I sank back and watched as droplets of blood sprang to colour my palms. Suddenly the dark clouds overhead scuttled away and a shaft of pale blue light pierced through a crack in the overhanging branches. A pathway opened up in front of me and at the end stood Zadie, beckoning. Somehow I knew that she was ready to give up her secrets.

My dream had ended there but in the kitchen I kept my eyes closed, convinced that if I had followed the path Zadie would have offered me the insight I craved. Nothing but ominous grey clouds danced against the backdrop of my eyelids and so, as I drank my coffee, a feeling of frustration lingered.

The house was so quiet that I realised Zadie must have gone back to bed after dawn prayers. It was something of a relief to be alone while I turned things over in my mind. Since her arrival, days earlier, I had found my tension increasing. In some ways, Zadie was the easiest placement I had ever had. Well behaved, courteous and helpful, there seemed to be no great challenges for me to overcome. I also got the sense that she was relieved to be in foster care, something I hadn’t experienced before. Most of the children I have looked after crave their own home; they want to be with their parents, no matter what they’ve been through. They seem to spend their first few weeks in a suspended state, always waiting – waiting for news from the courts, counting down the sleeps until their next contact or passing the time until their forever parents came to claim them. With Zadie it was different. There was no resistance to being a looked-after child. Caring for her should have been a doddle.

And yet every time I looked at her I couldn’t shake the nagging worry that she was in trouble and I should be doing something about it. I couldn’t put my finger on why I felt that way; she was safe with us and we were taking good care of her. She wasn’t eating much but she was hardly wasting away and I was sure her appetite would pick up once she felt more at home.

So why did I feel such a sense of urgency? Somewhere in my head was the sound of a clock, ticking rhythmically. I just couldn’t figure out why, and my dream, rather than resolving anything, only made it worse.

Still bleary-eyed, I crept upstairs and checked myself in the bathroom mirror. My skin was a pasty tone and I noticed that my expression was pinched with anxiety. Bunching a handful of blonde curls on top of my head, I fixed the bundle into place with a large grip, hoping to reduce the hassled look that often besieges foster carers. We were to meet Zadie’s brother in a few hours and I wanted to give the impression that I was a decent, responsible woman, especially since the family had reservations about the placement.

Splashing some water on my face and patting my skin vigorously with a towel to get the blood flowing, I took another hopeful look. A tired, middle-aged woman with eye bags and curly blonde hair stared back at me, but my ever-present optimistic air remained, and, though I tend towards self-deprecation, a definite kindness. When combined with a reassuring smile, I hoped that Chit would see that his sister was safe in my care.

In my bedroom, I ran my hands through the clothes in my wardrobe, opting for a smart dark-blue shift dress and tailored cardigan rather than my default jumper and jeans. An hour later the residual anxiety from my dream was displaced by the bustle of breakfast time. Jamie sat at the table pouring a generous portion of Cheerios into his bowl and Emily, still in her dressing gown, was quietly making herself a cup of tea, a faraway look in her eyes.

‘How was your night, honey?’ I asked.

‘Fine,’ she said, forcing a smile. She looked tired, no trace of her usual exuberant good humour. ‘Yours?’

‘Not bad,’ I said. ‘Everything OK?’

‘Yes, why do you ask?’ she asked, returning the milk to the fridge.

‘You seemed preoccupied yesterday.’

Emily dropped a teaspoon into the sink. ‘Don’t start, Mum, please,’ she sighed.

‘I’m not starting. I just want to know –’

‘Whether I’m all right,’ she interrupted, closing a cupboard door with her hip. ‘And yes, I am, so you can stop going on about it.’

‘Emily,’ I said, gently chiding. It was only the second time I’d asked her.

She softened. ‘Really, Mum. I’m fine,’ she assured me. ‘I’m just tired, and we’re getting stacks of homework at the moment. But there’s nothing wrong.’ She pecked me on the cheek. ‘It’s all good,’ she said, grabbing a bowl from the draining board and turning to leave.

I gave an internal sigh. It had been so easy when Emily and Jamie were small. If something was worrying them it would usually come tumbling out as I gave them a bath, or when they were snuggled on my lap ready for a bedtime story. There were times when I missed those intimate moments that come so few and far between once children reach adolescence.

‘How about we have some time together this evening?’ I suggested, following Emily through the living room.

‘Sure, OK.’

In the dining room Zadie was fully dressed in a beige-coloured robe, matching headscarf and the same baggy cardigan that she had worn every day since she arrived. She stood at the table, pulling at the front of her threadbare robe as if it was damp and sticking to her skin. Resolving to take her shopping to get some new clothes, I reached for a plate from the centre of the table and helped myself to the toast I had prepared earlier. I sat next to Jamie, and Zadie, finally finding the courage, sat opposite, though she ate very little.

After Emily and Jamie had left for school I sat beside Zadie on the sofa and asked what she had planned for the morning. We weren’t due to meet her brother until two o’clock so I suggested that we go shopping and buy her some new clothes. ‘We’ll be back in time for prayers before we have to leave for contact.’

‘I’d rather stay home, if that’s …’ she said quietly. She rarely seemed to finish a whole sentence. It was as if the sound of her own voice was so embarrassing to herself that she couldn’t bear to continue.

‘OK?’ I offered. When she nodded I agreed, though I didn’t like the thought of her drifting aimlessly through the morning and I had some chores to catch up on. ‘So, what would you like to do?’ I asked, knowing what she was going to say before I had even finished the sentence.

‘May I use the computer?’ she asked softly.

‘Erm …,’ I hesitated, knowing the grim task of confronting her about what she had been looking up couldn’t be delayed any longer. ‘You can,’ I said slowly, ‘but first we need a chat.’

Her face flushed crimson.

I felt immediately sorry for her. She knew exactly what I was going to say. ‘The internet is great,’ I said, tempering my serious tone with a touch of gentleness. She still looked mortified, though, so much so that it was actually uncomfortable to watch. ‘But there are some horrible sites on there that I wouldn’t want children to look at.’ She kept her gaze averted so I went on to explain to the side of her headscarf that, as a foster carer, I would be struck off if offensive material was found in my home, whether I was aware of it or not. Zadie nodded the whole time, but continued to study the wall beside her. I patted my knees, thinking here goes, then took a breath and said, ‘I was a bit concerned about what you were looking up when you last went online, honey.’

Zadie covered her face with her hands and made a small noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh, then let her hands drop to cover her mouth. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,’ she said, her voice muffled. ‘It just popped up and I kept clicking on the cross but …’ Her voice was wobbling. She sounded close to tears.

‘But you must have entered some strange keywords for that to come up, surely?’

She shook her head emphatically, her fingers knotting over themselves ten to the dozen. ‘Someone emailed me the link,’ she admitted eventually. ‘I shouldn’t have clicked on it. I’m sorry, Rosie.’

‘Who would email something like that to you? One of your friends?’

‘I don’t have any friends,’ she said quietly. ‘It was spam.’

She spoke without self-pity but what she said tugged at my heart, throwing me off-kilter so that I accepted her explanation even though I didn’t believe it. I realise now that I probably shouldn’t have, but being a foster carer is much like being a mother; many mistakes are made along the way.

I hardly saw anything of Zadie for the next couple of hours. When she wasn’t reading in her room she sat at the computer. I leaned my head into the dining area every now and again, partly to make sure she was OK but also to let her know that I was keeping an eye on her. Blue light from the screen flickered across her serious face as she stared in utter concentration.

About 11 a.m., just as I was putting a wash on, I heard the printer juddering into action. A few minutes later Zadie came into the kitchen and shyly offered me a wad of paper.

‘What’s this?’ I said, taking it from her. On the top page there was a chart. The left-hand column, highlighted in blue, listed the names of markets in the local area. The next one, in yellow, showed the cost of hiring a stall and the days available. Across the top, underlined, was the title ‘WEPH – Project Congo’. I was so moved that for a moment I couldn’t speak. Leafing through the pages, I saw that she had researched the telephone numbers needed for booking a sales tent and had even included directions for each location.

I remembered blathering on about the quilt making to Zadie on the day we went for a walk. She had shown a glimmer of interest at the time but I had no idea she had taken so much in.

‘Zadie, how lovely of you!’ I exclaimed, wanting to reach out and catch hold of her hand, though from her stiff demeanour I sensed she wouldn’t want me to. ‘Thank you so much.’

I could hardly believe it. It was the first time I noticed another dimension to Zadie, layers of warmth behind the unbreakable wall, but I was about to get an even bigger surprise. Shifting the weight from one foot to another and fumbling beneath her long sleeve, she produced a ten-pound note and handed it to me.

I frowned. ‘What’s this for?’

‘To put towards the collection for the school desks,’ she said, turning on her heel and scampering off before I had time to react. I stared at the money, my heart opening with a sudden rush of affection. I had given her some pocket money a few days after her arrival, her part of the weekly allowance that foster carers are paid by the local authority. Not wanting to discourage her generosity, I slipped the note into a side pocket in my bag with the intention of adding it to the savings account I was going to open for her.