by Casey Watson
The wait for a reaction from her felt like for ever, but slowly, under the onslaught of words, presumably, Bella raised her little face from the nest of fur, revealing a pair of beautiful, wide blue eyes. She glanced at my hand nervously, but then – yes! – she took it, and allowed me to guide her, holding her tea in my free hand, past Sophie, past Mike, into the hall. ‘Top of the stairs and turn left,’ I said as she started up the stairs before me. ‘I don’t know what you like, Bella, but I’m forewarning you, it’s very pink. You have any sunglasses?’
I was rewarded again then by a brief backwards glance, and though the fur was very thick and I didn’t know if I’d raised a smile, it was at least an acknowledgement that I’d spoken. Progress of some sort at least.
Bella waited at the top of the stairs, head tucked back into her nest of fake fur, so I reached past her and opened the bedroom door for her. ‘Go on in, love,’ I said. ‘All yours. I promise I won’t pester you.’ I then flicked on the light switch to illuminate where everything was and was pleased to watch Bella’s chin inching out of the collar, as she turned her head and began taking it all in.
‘So,’ I said, since she clearly wasn’t about to say anything. ‘I’ll leave you up here for a bit, shall I? The remote for the TV is on the dressing table, if you’d like to put it on. Though quietly’ – I gestured back out towards the landing – ‘because Tyler, our son, our foster son,’ I qualified, thinking it might help reassure her, ‘is in the room right over there. He’s fifteen,’ I added, realising she was finally looking at me. ‘And a bit of a light sleeper. He can’t wait to meet you.’ I smiled and pointed to the little backpack she’d been clutching. ‘Do you have your nightwear in that, or should I get something out for you? There are pyjamas in the chest of drawers over there.’
In answer, she shook her head and lifted the bag slightly. Which, again, was progress, even if not very much.
‘Well, you get sorted then,’ I said, stepping back out onto the landing. ‘Bathroom’s just over there, see? And it really is up to you. If you want to go to bed, then that’s fine, but if you want to come back down again that’s fine too. No sweat either way, sweetie. You do what you like tonight, all right?’ I nodded towards the bedside table. ‘And get that tea down you before it gets cold.’
A nod this time. I closed the door softly behind me.
I decided not to hang about, either. I suspected she’d need to hear I was actually back downstairs before she could properly relax, get undressed, use the bathroom or whatever, so I made a bit of a stomp about going back down so that she’d know she was safe to move around.
Back in the living room the mood, despite the light show, was darker.
‘She’s not spoken a word hardly,’ Mike told me as soon as I entered. ‘I was just asking Sophie about the post-traumatic stress thing, and apparently she’s barely spoken since they took her.’
‘I thought she might be, by now,’ Sophie said, ‘you know, since being with the other carers, but there’s no change, not while we were there, not while we were waiting, not in the car. Not a single word, nothing. It’s like she’s mute.’
I had some experience with mutism from back during my days as a school behaviour manager. Not this kind of mutism, as in an extreme response to a trauma – the girl in my care had longstanding selective mutism, which only manifested itself while in school. But this kind – the ‘response to severe stress’ kind of mutism was, I’d read, a great deal more common. And it wasn’t just that it had only been a matter of days, either – it was ongoing; she’d witnessed something no child should witness, and, to compound it, she was now being told what to do by complete strangers while her dad was in hospital and mum was in jail. It was a miracle she wasn’t hysterical. She may yet be. These things could be episodic, ebbing and flowing, triggered by all sorts of things.
‘It’s understandable,’ I said. ‘It’s a nightmare, all this, isn’t it? And now, to compound it, she’s been moved here, so it’s like she’s back to square one. And for who knows how long?’
‘Mike was just asking me about that,’ Sophie said. ‘And the honest truth is that we have no idea.’ She flicked her hair, which was long and dark, back across her shoulders. ‘It’s all so sad, isn’t it? And no guessing what the outcome’s going to be either. Still, soon as Christmas is over, we’re arranging for Bella to see a counsellor. Which might help. We hope. There’s no question of her being returned to her previous placement, by the way – John might have told you?’
‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘What’s happened? Have there been complications with the baby?’
Sophie shook her head. ‘No, no – well, not as far as I know. No, they just don’t have any idea when they’ll return right now. And to be honest, even when they do they’ve already said they’d rather not have her back. They said they were struggling with her, to be honest – not sure they were the right couple for her. Just the three of them in the house, rattling around, Bella so silent. They feel she’d be better placed with a younger, busier family …’
‘We’ll we’re certainly busy,’ Mike said.
‘Excuse me? And young …’ I couldn’t help adding.
‘Exactly,’ Sophie said. ‘Which is why it’s so great that you’ve said you’ll have her. Big noisy family. Lots of distractions. Your other child – Tyler? It is Tyler, isn’t it?’ We both nodded. ‘Let’s hope they bond, eh? Oh, and that reminds me. I’ve already spoken to her about keeping off of social media. I don’t know how much she uses it, because it’s impossible to get anything out of her. But she’s got an account – I checked – though I have no idea how much she uses it. Parents do too. So I’ve explained how it’s important that she should avoid it – all the chitter-chatter and idle gossip and so on – and that if she wants to get in touch with friends, she needs to do it the old-fashioned way: putting pen to paper, through you. But you’ll know all that anyway, of course. Sorry.’ She gave an apologetic little grimace. I was really beginning to warm to her. ‘Anyway, we really are incredibly grateful,’ she finished. ‘And I’m here, of course – well, I say “here”, I need my bed now, as I’m sure you do. But you know, as a port of call – I’m on call right through Christmas. You know, if there are any problems that you need me for and so on … And I’m a constant,’ she said. ‘I’ve been assigned full time to Bella’s case, so at least there’s that.’
‘That’s good news,’ I said, because it really was. I knew all too well that, in their early days in care, children often went through many different social workers. It was no one’s fault. It was just that, often, there was simply no one free to take them on as a long-term commitment; caseloads were huge, always, and there was also the problem that a lot of the time no one knew how long a child was even going to be in the system. So it was often a case of filling in, helping out, the child being passed hither and thither, between social workers who already had way too much to do. And at Christmas, of course, all these problems were compounded. So, yes, it was indeed good that Bella already had that continuity in her social worker, even if Sophie might not be the most experienced one in the world.
But, arguably, she was at least the brightest.
‘I’ve got to say, Casey,’ she said, once she’d drained her mug and put her coat back on, ‘your Christmas tree is magical.’
Which made me smile. At least till we waved Sophie off, and the reality set in. That I didn’t have a magic wand to go with it.
Chapter 4
As far as I knew, Bella slept soundly through the night. Perhaps she was just as physically exhausted as she was emotionally, but on both occasions I checked on her – I couldn’t sleep a wink, of course – I was actually surprised to find her dead to the world, star-fished on her back, snoring, one arm cradling a large and surprisingly ugly-looking soft toy – not one of ours – that looked a bit like a gremlin. Each to their own, I thought.
And both times I tiptoed in there it occurred to me that for the majority of kids, and the majority of the Western
world, this was supposed to be a night of an excess of excitement, and of waking disgruntled parents long before dawn. Not so Bella. Not for many other hidden-from-view, desperate children. No happy family Christmas for them come the morning. I wondered where her mother was. What she was feeling. What a mess.
It was a far from normal Christmas morning in our house as well. Despite the lack of sleep, I’d left my alarm set for six thirty, knowing the hours ahead were going to be fraught, unknown territory. I was therefore anxious to steal a march on the day. And when it roused me – from one of those deep sleeps the sleepless always seem to fall into just before waking-up time – it was down to a cold, silent kitchen that I tiptoed, so I could get ahead with all the tasks I invariably had to do, before anyone else was awake.
Not that I expected Tyler to be that far behind me. He might be fifteen now and in theory too old to get over-excited about such childish pleasures, but, of course, many of his Christmas childhoods had been exercises in pure misery, as his father capitulated and let his stepmother bully him, while lavishing love and gifts on his younger half-brother. No, I didn’t think he’d ever outgrow such a simple, precious pleasure. And, if I had any say in it, nor would he.
For now, though, I worked silently, with only the radio on low for company; doing all the jobs I’d generally be doing with the radio blaring (singing along, sometimes dancing, a small sherry at my elbow) knowing that across the hallway, in the living room, whatever collection of kids, foster kids and grandkids we had with us, there would be happy, wrapping-paper-strewn mayhem.
I could have almost become maudlin, thinking about the girl who had parachuted into our lives so unexpectedly, so it was a blessing that Mike and Tyler joined me a scant half hour later, both whispering about the new house guest and what might be going through her head, and wondering if she’d come down or if I should go and wake her.
Eventually – and after promising they’d help with any outstanding preparations – they bullied me into going up and bringing her downstairs. Which made sense. She was going to be a huge part of our lives over the coming days, and for who knew how much longer? So the sooner we settled her in with us, and she became familiar with all our little ways – and us hers – the better those few days would be for everyone.
Bella’s bedroom door was shut when I got up to the landing, so I assumed she must have woken and perhaps used the bathroom, but when I knocked there wasn’t any reply. I waited a moment or two, wondering if she might be in the middle of dressing, but when an ear to the door produced only silence, I knocked again, and this time I opened the door slightly as well.
‘You awake, sweetie?’ I asked her, popping my head around the jamb.
Evidently. Because she wasn’t even in bed. In fact, it had already been neatly made, the weird soft toy I’d seen the night before sitting propped in front of the pillows.
‘So who’s this?’ I went on brightly, the answer to my first question now being evident. ‘Should we be formally introduced?’
Bella’s only response was to give me a tight, if polite, smile. She was sitting at the dressing table, in the pink pyjamas and dressing gown she had presumably taken from her backpack, brushing her hair with a pink polka-dotted hairbrush (tick to me, regarding the pink, then). The hair itself was thick and blonde. And much longer than I’d realised. The sort of hair that in the future would be the envy of her friends. Friends. I made a mental note to ask Bella about them. Friends who could provide support and continuity. Some much-needed sense of normality. But perhaps not just yet. Though it occurred to me to find her some paper and pens, just in case. She might like to write to friends, at least. Not to mention her parents – and grandparents? I made a mental note to ask John about that.
‘Anyway!’ I said. ‘Merry Christmas. Shall we go down so you can open your presents? Tyler’s already down there,’ I added, smiling relentlessly in the face of her scared, wary expression. ‘Come on, poppet. Let’s head downstairs, shall we? He’s dying to meet you.’
Bella reddened slightly, whether in response to the mention of Tyler or just because she felt scrutinised I didn’t know. She hadn’t responded, much less moved – well, apart from the repetitive hair-brushing – so I went into the bedroom properly, then squatted down on my haunches beside the dressing table so I was on her level. Even below it, slightly – I’m not the tallest of people, and I was now almost looking up at her. And was also close enough to see the grey smudges of tiredness bruising the skin beneath her pale, frightened eyes.
‘I know this is all very strange for you,’ I said gently. ‘And you must be feeling wretched, sweetheart. And scared, too. How could you be feeling anything else? But one thing I can tell you is that you have nothing to be frightened of here, okay? No one will make you do anything you don’t want to, I promise. So, then. How about it? Shall we head down? Go downstairs and just see how it goes for a bit?’ Silence. Just her face looking ahead, fixed firmly on her reflection, accompanied by the rhythmic strokes of the hairbrush. ‘And, if it’s all too much,’ I went on, ‘you can come back up for a bit, I promise.’ I stood up again, and held my hand out, as I’d done the night before. ‘What do you reckon, Bella? Is that a plan?’
Again that endless wait, but again, finally, it worked. She stood up, went across to the bed and grabbed the gremlin, then slipped, to my delight, her small, hot hand into mine. I squeezed it reassuringly, then led her straight down into the living room, and immediately across to the twinkling tree, where the presents we’d got her were all wrapped and had her name on – though, given how on edge (not to mention the edge) she probably was currently, I felt it probably prudent to let her make the running where it came to the gifts retrieved from her own home, and which were still in the corner, in the carrier bag they’d arrived in. I suspected that she might well prefer to open those ones in the privacy of her bedroom. Or, indeed, not open them at all.
‘Go on,’ I urged, as she once again gazed as if transfixed by the sight of the enormous twinkling tree, and the mound of gifts beneath it. ‘Why don’t you sit down on the rug and have a rootle round for the presents we’ve got for you while I go and get you some toast and hot chocolate. You like hot chocolate?’ I added. And was rewarded by a minor miracle. She actually nodded. Yes.
I was just turning round to leave when Mike and Tyler appeared in the doorway. I saw Bella stiffen at the sight of them – or, perhaps, instinct told me, it was just Mike that made her stiffen, given his size, his maleness and the violence she’d so recently witnessed, so I signalled for him to do an about-turn and return to help me in the kitchen. ‘Ah, here you are, Ty,’ I said. ‘This is Bella. Just about to start attacking her presents. You want to get stuck in with her as well? Go on, dig in. Make as much mess as you like.’
I had to smile then, as Tyler sank down onto his knees on the rug and grinned at her. ‘Lols,’ he said, smiling back at me, knowing full well I’d hear him. ‘Hi, Bella. Now let’s make Mum – make Casey – wish she’d never said that. First thing you need to know here. She absolutely hates mess.’
I grinned at him as I left them to it, but Tyler was wrong about that. At least on this particular occasion. On any other day of the year, yes, I’d be the first to admit that mess-management was a major factor in my life. Not an issue, exactly; we hosted all manner of mess-making activities, just like anyone else. It was just that I was a tiny bit obsessive about cleaning before anyone arrived and equally obsessive about tidying up after them once they’d gone, even if the ‘going’ bit took place at three in the morning. No biggie. That was just my little foible.
But Christmas was different. To my mind there were few things more sad and poignant than the sight of a Christmas living room devoid of kids unwrapping presents and throwing paper and packaging all around the place. Call me sentimental but it always seemed to me, at least for the precious couple of hours before they came up for air again, that while they were swimming joyfully in a sea of discarded wrappings I was bobbing on a little sea of happi
ness.
And Tyler made a good fist of making that happen. By the time Mike and I returned with drinks and toast to keep us going till the inevitably late Christmas dinner we were going to be having, given Riley’s breakfast club, he’d wellied into most of the presents we’d allowed him to open without us with great excitement and gay abandon – we’d been able to hear his whoops of joy from the kitchen.
But that was all we heard. Though she was sitting passively and politely on the rug, having by now systematically piled her presents at her side, Bella seemed wedded to the idea of children being seen and not heard; at best she nodded in response to Tyler, offering no more communication than the odd ghost of a smile.
Tyler, for his part, carried gamely on. He seemed to have decided that he’d just fill the conversational gaps with yet more words and, in the absence of any other strategy, we took his lead, treating Bella almost – though without any lack of respect – like an amiable family dog, from whom we didn’t actually expect any response.
We decided the best thing would be if I, and I alone, popped round to Riley’s for an hour, on the basis that it was David’s mum and I who’d be the most closely involved in the wedding preparations, discussion of which was the main reason for going round. It would also give me a chance to prepare the ground before they all descended on us – and Bella – at dinner-time, so that they understood that it would, of necessity, be a different kind of Christmas Day. It would also give me a chance to fill in Kieron and Lauren – also scheduled to come to us for Christmas dinner later.
I’d wavered a bit – another reason for my largely sleepless night – reasoning that one alternative would be to cancel the day altogether, for fear it might make Bella’s emotional state even worse. It wasn’t the first time we’d had a child in over Christmas and I doubted it would be the last, because Christmases are times of great stress and a key time for family breakdowns, but every situation was different, as was every child. Had things been less on a knife-edge – you didn’t get more knife-edge than Dad in ITU and Mum in jail for trying to kill him, I reckoned – it would have been less difficult a decision, and had Bella been younger (say five or six) it would have been a completely different story; younger children, in my experience, were better able to distract themselves from the enormity of the life-change they were experiencing, as they were more able to ‘park’ it and make believe they were just off on some sort of holiday.
