The Silent Witness

by Casey Watson

  Then my thoughts naturally moved to the girl we were receiving. John had managed to speak at greater length with Bella’s social worker’s line manager, and was able to give me a fuller account of the events that had led to Bella being in care.

  It seemed her mother, Laura Daniels, and her stepfather, Adam Cummings, had always had a volatile relationship. Together since Bella was three or four (with the stepdad acting very much as Bella’s father, apparently), they were already known to social services and had been for some years, following numerous complaints to police and social services, mostly with regard to their frequent noisy rows. Screaming episodes, fighting in the garden, bouts of drunken brawling; incidents like these had seen them visited by those in officialdom on numerous occasions. It had apparently been a regular occurrence.

  Yet on every occasion, it seemed, there was little in the way of follow-up. Which was not to say anything should have been done (all too easy to think you know better with the benefit of hindsight) but there was obviously a pattern: the mother always trying to calm the situation down and the stepfather, once questioned, always taking full responsibility, saying he had a drink problem which he was anxious to address.

  I had heard it all before. Who hadn’t? The cycle of drinking, drying out and then, down the line, the almost inevitable relapse was one that, sadly, was familiar to many. Yet it seemed there was a genuine desire to stop drinking in Adam Cummings, which was presumably why his luckless partner kept sticking by him. Which she clearly had, and, that being so, social services had taken a back seat, and their input had become minimal; at the time of this potentially lethal bout of violence they were down to twice-yearly visits. And all had been well. Well, up until a week ago, that was.

  I wondered what had changed. What had finally broken her.

  The one positive (in a situation where it looked like there was a distinct lack of positives) was that, by all accounts, Adam Cummings had never once laid a hand on Bella. That was also borne out by the observations of both the neighbours and successive social workers; Bella had always been found to be well looked after, well spoken, well turned out and clearly loved by both parents. Mum had always been apparently reasonably hands-on at Bella’s primary school, too. And from discussions with the wider family, which apparently included the maternal grandparents (no mention of any family on his side), it was evident that Adam only ever lashed out when under the influence, and as Bella had apparently confirmed herself, never towards her. There was also a footnote – at the time of writing, which had been in early autumn, Adam had apparently been going to AA meetings regularly.

  Ah, but Christmas. Bringer of joy, but also bringer-on of family tensions. And now a man lay in ITU and a woman in a prison cell. And in the midst of it all was their child, now all alone.

  I heard the door open and close then. Time to ponder some more later. In the meantime there were presents to wrap. Hopefully.

  My husband had done pretty well. ‘Ah, brilliant,’ I said repeatedly, as he produced gifts one by one from the supermarket carrier bag, like a conjuror pulling a rabbit from a hat. ‘I’m sure she’ll love that. And that. Oh, and that one, for definite.’

  ‘And definitely these,’ Tyler contributed, having wrenched himself from the TV to lend his considered opinion of Mike’s choice of music CDs.

  CDs were still something of a staple in our fostering lives, as we still had two elderly CD players; one in what was now Tyler’s room – he didn’t use it but wouldn’t part with it – and the other in the spare, fostering, bedroom. Yes, very old-school, and often the subject of amusement among the young (‘CD player? Isn’t that, like, an antique?’ or, in one memorable case, ‘What is that?’) but while music was universal, the modern kit on which to play it was often not – not for some of the kids who had passed through our doors down the years; some barely had shoes, let alone iPods and iPhones. We also – old school again – still had two DVD players.

  ‘Not sure about that, though,’ Tyler sniffed, catching the fluffy pink rabbit Mike now did, in fact, produce from the bag and throw at him.

  ‘It’s to put on her bed, stoopid,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to learn how girls operate, mate. Stuff on beds. That’s their thing. Totally pointless, but completely indispensable. Am I not right, oh noble Cushion Queen? Isn’t that exactly what girls do?’

  I laughed. ‘It’s exactly what girls do,’ I said.

  As well as the CDs and the fluffy bunny, and some appropriately pink festive toiletries, there was also a dressing gown – also pink and fluffy – a pair of butterfly-strewn pyjamas, a set of various hair bobbles and clips, and what I’d thought was the latest Harry Potter book – The Order of the Phoenix – which, according to a laughing Tyler, wasn’t very ‘latest’ these days, but was a bargain, apparently, and would definitely double up as a doorstop if she’d already read it.

  I reached for the wrapping paper, and handed scissors and ribbon to Tyler. ‘I’ll wrap, you garnish,’ I said, which always made him giggle. ‘Remember the way I showed you how to curl the ribbon?’

  ‘Course,’ he said. (In fact he was something of a natural.) ‘But I swear to God, don’t ever tell any of my mates I do stuff like this. Especially Denver. I’d never live it down.’

  Denver was Tyler’s best friend – had been for a few years now. He was a lovely boy and, from the start, he had been so good for Ty, particularly during the early days when he so missed his younger brother, who was still with his father and (to my mind) wicked stepmother. Ty and Denver had a bond now that I’d stake my life would prove unbreakable. And despite their endless quest to create some kind of hard-man image in public, they were both very similar in nature: kind-hearted and loving kids.

  ‘I swear on everything swearable on that your secret is safe with me,’ I told him. ‘Just like I’ve never told him you still have your bedtime milk in a plastic Spiderman cup.’

  ‘Mother!’ Tyler yelled, making me smile even more. The longer he was with us, the more he became just like us. A natural phenomenon, of course, but still thrilling even so. Not least because he sounded so like our Kieron at that age. Our Kieron who was now a fully grown, fully wise twenty-seven-year-old with a toddler. One of the joys of fostering, without a doubt, was the privilege (which was what it felt like to me) to live so many special parenting moments again.

  But a great deal of what we did was about the bad times rather than the good times, and, the presents wrapped and the clock ticking – it was by now after 10 p.m. – it was at the front of my mind that our young visitor still hadn’t arrived yet.

  By ten o’clock I was getting more than a bit antsy. Bella still hadn’t arrived and though I knew everything would change as a consequence of her coming to us, we still had to eat, and we still had to celebrate Christmas, albeit in perhaps a less OTT, more thoughtful fashion. Which meant I still had lots of preparation to do for the next day’s big celebratory dinner. I had the turkey to sort out, the vegetables to peel and the stuffing to make. The more I thought about it, the more panicked I was getting, not least because we still hadn’t made a firm plan for the morning either. Yes, I’d texted Riley, but we’d settled on a ‘we’ll see’ scenario, which left an item not ticked off my mental to-do list – always a recipe for ants in the pants.

  But such is human nature. Despite the momentous events that had happened in the life of the girl who was on her way to us, which, by any yardstick, made worries about having the stuffing ready ridiculous, it was human nature for me to focus on the practical. What was the saying? Not ‘don’t sweat the small stuff’ – I couldn’t help doing that. No, the one about not worrying about the things you couldn’t control, and sticking to the ones that you could.

  So it was that I had both hands in a bowl of sausage meat and breadcrumbs when my mobile went again. It was getting on for eleven – and it was John, despite his assurance that he’d clocked off hours ago.

  Mike was in the living room watching TV and Tyler was now in bed, so I picked it up gingerly
with my greasy hands.

  ‘John, honestly,’ I berated him. ‘You are supposed to be off duty.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘And the wife’s probably busy plotting ways to kill me. But I had to ring; didn’t think you’d be logging on to read your email.’

  ‘No, you’re right,’ I said. ‘I actually had my hands in the stuffing. Hang on for ten seconds, can you, while I scrape them clean?’

  That job done, we returned to the matter in hand. And the news that Bella had been delayed by the need for a whopping diversion, to collect the presents that had apparently already been bought and wrapped for her and were stashed at the family home in her parents’ wardrobe.

  ‘Bit eleventh hour,’ I remarked. ‘How come that hadn’t happened in the first place?’

  ‘Message only just got through from Laura Daniels’s lawyer,’ John explained. ‘So the whole thing has turned into something of an epic journey. Latest ETA is still an hour or so from now. So Christmas Day, in fact. What a game this is, eh? Had to be done, though.’

  ‘Yes, had to be done,’ I agreed. And despite the late arrival, I was glad for her. She would at least have that connection to her parents to hang on to; however things panned out – and, knowing the odds when it came to head injuries bad enough to warrant a bed in ITU, it was probably all going to pan out pretty wretchedly – that connection to those closest to her was still important. And who knew how important it would be in the coming days and weeks? There was no guarantee her stepfather would even live, after all.

  ‘And something else,’ John said, pulling me back from my reverie. ‘The main reason I called, actually. Another snippet of information. I’ve been able to chat to Sophie’s line manager, Kathy –’

  ‘Sophie?’ I’d not come across a Sophie in the line of duty before.

  ‘Sophie is Bella’s social worker. Sorry – didn’t I say? You’ll like her. Anyway, it seems the first port of call when this whole thing blew up was the grandparents – Laura Daniels’s parents, that is – who were happy to take Bella in.’

  ‘But obviously didn’t.’

  ‘Exactly. Because Bella wouldn’t hear of it. I mean, seriously wouldn’t hear of it, by all accounts. To the point of becoming hysterical. Said she’d rather go to strangers than have to live with her granddad.’

  My antennae started twitching immediately. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, too frightened of him. She was apparently quite open about it, too. No allegations of anything inappropriate – nothing like that’s been suggested, and he’s not known to social services or anything. But all’s clearly not well where the family is concerned. She’s close enough to the grandmother to spend time with her reasonably regularly, but neither Bella nor her mother see anything of the grandfather. Never go to the house. There’s obviously some kind of rift there. Course, it might not have any bearing on anything, but I thought it worth you knowing. It’s another piece of the jigsaw at least, isn’t it?’

  I agreed that it was. And he was right. It was definitely worth us knowing. How it affected anything I didn’t know, but it all added to the picture. And one thing I’d learned a very long time ago was that there was rarely smoke without at least a small hint of a fire. Time would tell. I signed off with a ‘Don’t you dare ring me again till at least the 27th,’ then put my head round the kitchen door and summoned my husband. I needed a kitchen hand, a confidant and coffee.

  Chapter 3

  It was almost midnight when we heard the car pull up and both Mike and I hurried to peek out of the window.

  Mike whistled, long and low. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Social workers must be on some good pay these days. I’d give anything for a car like that.’

  He then fell silent – out of respect – as the black BMW convertible finished its manoeuvre into the just-big-enough space under the street lamp outside our frost-bitten front garden.

  I tutted and pulled a face at him, as I often had to do, if only in support of our own elderly car, which was sitting hunched on the driveway, and no doubt feeling very inadequate in the face of so much beauty. ‘Nothing wrong with our old reliable,’ I reminded him. ‘It gets us from A to B, and it suits me just fine, thank you very much.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But a man can dream, can’t he?’

  We had to dart backwards then, sharpish, as the driver door opened and a woman stepped out. ‘Honestly, Mike,’ I hissed. ‘Look at us! We’re like a pair of nosey old neighbours. Come on.’ I yanked on his arm, and we hurried out into the hall, putting our best welcoming smiles on to greet our visitors.

  The social worker was young, and very pretty. Even more so in the glow of my twinkling archway of outside fairy lights, which I’d agonised about leaving on or switching off out of respect for the gravity of our house guest’s situation. It wasn’t like me to dither, but I couldn’t stop thinking that the poor girl’s stepfather might die at any moment. (Lights on, Mike had decreed. Let’s keep everything normal.)

  ‘Hi,’ I said, offering my hand to the social worker, who was carrying a supermarket ‘bag for life’ which presumably held Bella’s presents. I then moved my gaze to the girl at her side, who was wearing a heavy winter coat, with the hood up. She looked slight for her age, with what looked like long, dark blonde hair – difficult to say how long, given the hood. She too had a bag – a black backpack, which she held at her side. ‘And you must be Bella,’ I said brightly. ‘I’m Casey, and this is Mike. Come on in. You must be freezing, not to mention exhausted.’

  I led them straight into the living room, a little concerned by the fact that Bella hadn’t even looked up at me when I’d spoken to her, let alone said hello or anything else. She hung on to her backpack, and made no move to take her coat off, and not even a glance towards the enormous, all-singing, all-dazzling tree that currently dominated the room. She was simply afraid, I supposed, on top of everything else. Just as she was settled in one place, here she was being moved again. Shut down. That was what John’s email had said, hadn’t it? Shut down and shut in. I didn’t press it.

  Instead I pointed out the sofa to the social worker, who’d introduced herself as Sophie Taylor, and shrugged off her overcoat to give to Mike, who had already taken the bag. She sat down and Bella immediately sat down next to her, keeping close, head still tucked down like a turtle’s into the neck of her black winter coat. It had a thick collar of grey fur that provided the perfect hideaway for her little face.

  ‘So,’ I said to them both. ‘A hot drink? You’ve had a long journey, haven’t you?’

  Bella’s only response was to glance nervously at Sophie, who then nodded. ‘Coffee would be manna from heaven, trust me. Thanks so much. And how about you, Bella? Cuppa tea?’ She then turned back to me. ‘Cup of tea, please. White, one sugar. Bella is a proper teapot.’

  The girl didn’t so much as move, let alone smile at this. ‘Okay then,’ I said, rubbing my hands together and looking at Mike. ‘Shall you and I go and make some drinks, love, while Sophie and Bella warm up a little?’

  Mike nodded eagerly, clearly feeling the tension too.

  ‘God, she’s young, isn’t she?’ he commented, as I rummaged in the cupboard for matching mugs.

  ‘Who, Bella?’

  ‘No, the social worker. Sophie.’ He didn’t need to add what I imagined he was thinking, which was how someone so young could be in possession of such a flashy car, while he was fifty-something and hadn’t progressed beyond a family hatchback.

  ‘She does look very young,’ I agreed. ‘Maybe she’s very new to the job. Or maybe we’re just losing track. Like policemen, aren’t they? Just keep getting younger and younger.’

  He smiled. ‘Heaven forbid that it’s us getting older, eh?’

  But Sophie Taylor’s youth – and likely lack of experience – didn’t seem to affect her confidence. ‘So,’ she said, when we returned, bearing the designated refreshments, ‘the famous Watsons! I’m so pleased to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.’ She looked towards Bella
, and, smiling, continued, ‘Casey and Mike have been fostering for ever such a long time, Bella. You’re in very good hands, sweetheart. You’ll love it here.’

  It didn’t quite seem the time to be singing our praises, nor being quite so gung-ho. Blasé, almost. After all, Bella was hardly going to ‘love it’. She’d endure it as best she could, possibly even adjust to it eventually. But ‘love it’? Under the circumstances, I didn’t think so.

  But perhaps I was being picky. The poor girl was doing her best to jolly things along. And judging by what I’d so far seen and heard had been doing so since the outset, and today, with all the upheaval, perhaps doing so for a good part of the day and evening. So she’d be tired too.

  ‘You know what,’ I said, once Mike had given Sophie her coffee. ‘It’s beyond silly o’clock now, and I, for one, am bushed. Which means you, Bella, must be absolutely exhausted, and not in the least interested in having to sit here and listen to the adults all blabbering on.’ I stood up then, from where I’d perched on the edge of the adjacent armchair, took two steps and stuck a hand out in Bella’s direction.

  It was one of my tried and tested openers and was surprisingly effective. Not every time, but more than you’d expect given the situation – given that me and whichever child I was offering a hand to were complete strangers. But maybe not so surprising, given children’s natural need for order and security. In some situations, and with some people – people in authority, like head teachers, nurses and foster carers – it was actually quite natural to take the adult’s hand.

  ‘Come on, sweetie,’ I said, nudging the hand towards her, ‘before we get roped into a very long night, let’s me and you go up and see your room, shall we? And leave Mike and Sophie down here to chat.’ I glanced meaningfully at Sophie then, because usual protocol was for the social worker to go up and look at the room initially, and her answering nod indicated she was happy with my suggestion. ‘Then if you want to sneak into your bed,’ I went on, still hoping Bella would put her hand in mine, ‘that would be fine. Or just two minutes’ peace and come back down. Entirely up to you.’