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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.