by Cathy Glass
‘Hi,’ Paula said, glancing at them both.
‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ Zeena said quietly. ‘Thank you for letting me stay in your home.’
I could see Paula was as touched as I was by Zeena’s politeness.
‘Do you think Paula could wait here with Zeena while we go and have a chat?’ Tara now asked me.
‘Sure,’ Paula said easily.
‘Thanks, love,’ I said. ‘We’ll be in the front room if we’re needed.’
Tara stood and Zeena returned to the sofa. Paula sat next to her. Both girls looked a little uncomfortable and self-conscious, but then teenagers often do when meeting someone new.
In the front room Tara closed the door so we couldn’t be overheard, and we sat opposite each other. Now she no longer needed to put on a brave and professional face for Zeena’s sake, she looked very worried indeed.
‘I don’t know what’s been going on at home,’ she began, with a small sigh. ‘But I’m very concerned. Zeena’s father and another man went to her school today. They were shouting and demanding to see Zeena. They only left when the headmistress threatened to call the police. Zeena was so scared she hid in a cupboard in the stockroom. It took a lot of persuading to get her to come out after they’d gone.’
‘What did they want?’ I asked, equally concerned.
‘I don’t know,’ Tara said. ‘But they’d come for Zeena. There was no sign of them when I arrived at the school, but Zeena begged me to take her out the back entrance in case they were still waiting at the front. As soon as we were in my car she insisted I put all the locks down and drive away fast. She phoned her mother from the car. It was a very heated discussion with raised voices, although I don’t know what was said as Zeena spoke in Bengali. She was distressed after the call but wouldn’t tell me what her mother had said. I’m going to have to take an interpreter with me when I visit Zeena’s parents.’
‘And Zeena won’t tell you why she’s so scared?’ I asked. ‘Or why she thinks her family want to kill her?’
‘No. I’m hoping the child protection police officer will have more success. She’s very good.’
‘The poor child,’ I said again. ‘She looks petrified. It’s making me nervous too.’
‘I know. I’m sorry to have to put you and your family through this. It seems to be escalating. But don’t hesitate to call the police if you need to.’ Which only heightened my unease.
‘Perhaps her parents will calm down once they accept Zeena is in care,’ I suggested, which often happened when a child was fostered.
‘Hopefully,’ Tara said. ‘Zeena told me in the car that she needed to see a doctor.’
‘Why? Is she hurt?’ I asked, concerned.
‘No. I asked her if it was an emergency – I would have taken her straight to the hospital, but she said she could wait for an appointment. Can you arrange for her to see a doctor as soon as possible, please?’
‘Yes, of course. Will she want to see her own doctor, or shall I register her with mine?’
‘We’ll ask her. When we stopped off to get her clothes her mother had the suitcase ready in the hall. She wouldn’t let Zeena into the house and was angry, although again I couldn’t understand what she was saying to Zeena. Eventually she dumped the case on the pavement and slammed the door in our faces. Zeena pressed the bell a few times, but her mother wouldn’t open the door again. When we got in the car Zeena told me she had asked her mother if she could say goodbye to her younger brothers and sisters, but her mother had refused and called her a slut and a whore.’
I flinched. ‘What a dreadful thing for a mother to say to her daughter.’
‘I know,’ Tara said, her brow furrowing. ‘And it raises concerns about the other children at home. I shall be checking on them.’
‘Will Zeena be going to school tomorrow?’ I thought to ask.
‘We’ll see how she feels and ask her in a moment.’ Tara glanced at her watch. ‘I think I’ve told you everything I know. Let’s go into the living room and talk to Zeena. Then I need to get back to the office and make some phone calls. At least Zeena has some clothes with her.’
‘Yes. That will help,’ I said. Often the children I looked after arrived in what they stood up in, which meant they had to make do from my supply of spares until I had the chance to go to the shops and buy them new clothes.
Paula and Zeena were sitting on the sofa, still looking self-conscious, but at least talking a little.
‘Thanks, love,’ I said to Paula, who now stood.
‘Is it OK if I go to my room?’ she asked. ‘Or do you still need me?’
‘No, do as you like,’ I said. ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘Thank you for sitting with me,’ Zeena said politely.
‘You’re welcome,’ Paula said, smiling at Zeena. ‘Catch up with you later.’ She left the room.
Tara returned to sit on the sofa and I took the easy chair.
‘I’ve explained to Cathy what happened at school this morning,’ Tara said to Zeena. ‘Also that you need to see a doctor.’
Zeena gave a small nod and looked down.
‘Would you like to see your own family doctor?’ Tara now asked her.
‘No!’ Zeena said, sitting bolt upright and staring at Tara. ‘No. You mustn’t take me there. Please don’t make me see him. I won’t go.’
‘All right,’ Tara said, placing a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘I won’t force you to see him, of course not. You can see Cathy’s doctor. I just wanted to hear your views. You may have preferred to see the doctor you knew.’
‘No!’ Zeena cried again, shaking her head.
‘I’ll arrange for you to see my doctor then,’ I said quickly, for clearly this was causing Zeena a lot of distress. ‘There are two doctors in the practice I use, a man and a woman. They are both lovely people and good doctors.’
Zeena looked at me. ‘Are they white?’ she asked.
‘Yes. But I can arrange for you to see an Asian doctor if you prefer. There is another practice not far from here.’
‘No!’ Zeena cried again. ‘I can’t see an Asian doctor.’
‘All right, love,’ I said. ‘Don’t upset yourself. But can I ask you why you want a white doctor? Tara told me you asked for a white foster carer. Is there a reason?’ I was starting to wonder if this was a form of racism, in which case I would find Zeena’s views wholly unacceptable.
She was looking down and chewing her bottom lip as she struggled to find the right words. Tara was waiting for her reply too.
‘It’s difficult for you to understand,’ she began, glancing at me. ‘But the Asian network is huge. Families, friends and even distant cousins all know each other and they talk. They gossip and tell each other everything, even what they are not supposed to. There is little confidentiality in the Asian community. If I had an Asian social worker or carer my family would know where I was within an hour. I have brought shame on my family and my community. They hate me.’
Zeena’s eyes had filled and a tear now escaped and ran down her cheek. Tara passed her the box of tissues I kept on the coffee table, while I looked at her, stunned. The obvious question was: what had she done to bring so much shame on her family and community? I couldn’t imagine this polite, self-effacing child perpetrating any crime, let alone one so heinous that she’d brought shame on a whole community. But now wasn’t the time to ask. Zeena was upset and needed comforting. Tara was lightly rubbing her arm.
‘Don’t upset yourself,’ I said. ‘I’ll make an appointment for you to see my doctor.’
She nodded and wiped her eyes. ‘Thank you. I’m sorry to cause you so much trouble when you are being so kind to me, but can I ask you something?’
‘Yes, of course, love,’ I said.
‘Do you have any Asian friends from Bangladesh?’
‘I have some Asian friends,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think any of them are from Bangladesh.’
‘Please don’t tell your Asian friends I’m here,’ she s
aid.
‘I won’t,’ I said, as Tara reached into her bag and took out a notepad and pen. However, it occurred to me that Zeena could still be seen with me or spotted entering or leaving my house, and I thought it might have been safer to place her with a foster carer right out of the area, unless she was overreacting, as teenagers can sometimes.
Tara was taking her concerns seriously. ‘Remember to keep your phone with you and charged up,’ she said to Zeena as she wrote. ‘Do you have your phone charger with you?’
‘Yes, it’s in my school bag in the hall,’ Zeena said.
‘Will you feel like going to school tomorrow?’ I now asked – given what had happened at school today I thought it was highly unlikely.
To my surprise Zeena said, ‘Yes. The only friends I have are at school. They’ll be worried about me.’
Tara looked at her anxiously ‘Are you sure you want to go back there?’ We can find you a new school.’
‘I want to see my friends.’
‘I’ll tell the school to expect you then,’ Tara said, making another note.
‘I’ll take and collect you in the car,’ I said.
‘It’s all right. I can use the bus,’ Zeena said. ‘They won’t hurt me in a public place. It would bring shame on them and the community.’
I wasn’t reassured, and neither was Tara.
‘I’d feel happier if you went in Cathy’s car,’ Tara said.
‘If I’m seen in her car they will tell my family the registration number and trace me to here.’
Whatever had happened to make this young girl so wary and fearful, I wondered.
‘Use the bus, then,’ Tara said, doubtfully. ‘But promise me you’ll phone if there’s a problem.’
Zeena nodded. ‘I promise.’
‘I’ll give you my mobile number,’ I said. ‘I’d like you to text me when you reach school.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ Tara said.
There was a small silence as Tara wrote, and I took the opportunity to ask: ‘Zeena, do you have any special dietary needs? What do you like to eat?’
‘I eat most things, but not pork,’ she said.
‘Is the meat I buy from our local butchers all right?’
‘Yes, that’s fine. I don’t eat much meat.’
‘Do you need a prayer mat?’ Tara now asked her.
Zeena gave a small shrug. ‘We didn’t pray much in my family, and I don’t think I have the right to pray now.’ Her eyes filled again.
‘I’m sure you have the right to pray,’ I said. ‘Nothing you’ve done is that bad.’
Zeena didn’t reply.
‘Can you think of anything else you may need here?’ Tara asked her.
‘When you visit my parents could you tell them I’m very sorry, and ask them if I can see my brothers and sisters, please?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Tara said. ‘Is there anything you want me to bring from home?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘If you think of anything, phone me and I’ll try to get it when I visit,’ Tara said.
‘Thank you,’ Zeena said, and wiped her eyes. She appeared so vulnerable and sad, my heart went out to her.
Tara put away her notepad and pen and then gave Zeena a hug. ‘We’ll go and have a look at your room now before I leave.’
We stood and I led the way upstairs and into Zeena’s bedroom. It was usual practice for the social worker to see the child’s bedroom.
‘This is nice,’ Tara said, while Zeena looked around, clearly amazed.
‘Is this room just for me?’ she asked.
‘Yes. You have your own room here,’ I said
‘Do you share a bedroom at home?’ Tara asked her.
‘Yes.’ Her gaze went to the door. ‘Can I lock the door?’ she asked me.
‘We don’t have locks on any of the bedroom doors,’ I said. ‘But no one will come into your room. We always knock on each other’s bedroom doors if we want the person.’ Foster carers are advised not to fit locks on children’s bedroom doors in case they lock themselves in when they are upset. ‘You will be safe, I promise you,’ I added.
Zeena gave a small nod.
Tara was satisfied the room was suitable and we went downstairs and into the living room where Tara collected her bag.
‘Tell Cathy or phone me if you need anything or are worried,’ she said to Zeena. I could see she felt as protective of Zeena as I did.
‘I will,’ Zeena said.
‘Good girl. Take care, and try not to worry.’
Zeena gave a small, unconvincing nod and perched on the sofa while I went with Tara to the front door.
‘Keep a close eye on her,’ she said quietly to me so Zeena couldn’t hear. ‘I’m very worried about her.’
‘I will,’ I said. ‘She’s very frightened and anxious. I’ll phone you when I’ve made the doctor’s appointment.’
‘Thank you. I’ll be in touch.’
I closed the front door and returned to the living room where Zeena was on the sofa, bent slightly forward and staring at the floor. It was nearly five o’clock and Lucy would be home soon, so I thought I should warn Zeena so she wasn’t startled again when the front door opened.
‘You’ve met my daughter Paula,’ I said, sitting next to her. ‘Soon my other daughter, Lucy, will be home from work. Don’t worry if you hear a key in the front door; it will be her. Adrian won’t be home until about eight o’clock; he’s working a late shift today.’
‘Do all your children have front-door keys?’ Zeena asked, turning slightly to look at me.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not allowed to have a key to my house,’ she said.
I nodded. Different families have different policies on this type of responsibility; however, by Zeena’s age most of the teenagers I knew had their own front-door key, as had my children.
‘What age will you have a key?’ I asked out of interest, and trying to make conversation to put her at ease.
‘Never,’ she said stoically. ‘The girls in my family don’t have keys to the house. The boys are given keys when they are old enough, but the girls have to wait until they are married. Then they may have a key to their husband’s house, if their husband wishes.’
Zeena had said this without criticism, having accepted her parents’ rules. I appreciated that hers was a different culture with slightly different customs. I had little background information on Zeena, so as she’d mentioned her siblings I thought I’d ask about them.
‘How many brothers and sisters do you have?’
‘Four,’ she said. ‘Two brothers and two sisters.’
‘How lovely. I think Tara told me they’re all younger than you?’
‘Yes, I am the eldest. The boys are aged ten and eight, and my sisters are five and three. They’ll miss me. I’m like a mother to them.’ Her eyes filled again and I gently touched her arm.
‘Tara said she’d speak to your parents about you seeing your brothers and sisters,’ I reassured her. ‘Do you have any photographs of them?’
‘Not with me; they’re at home.’
‘We could ask Tara to get some when she visits your parents?’ I suggested. I usually tried to obtain a few photographs of the child’s natural family, as it helped them to settle and also kept the bond going while they were separated. ‘Shall I phone Tara and ask her?’
‘I can text her,’ Zeena said.
She now drank some of her water and finally allowed her gaze to wander around the room and out through the patio windows to the garden beyond.
‘You have a nice home,’ she said, delicately holding the glass in her hands.
‘Thank you, love. I want you to feel at home here. I know it’s probably very different from your house, and our routines will be different too, so you must tell me if there is anything you need.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, and set her glass on the coffee table. ‘I expect I’ll have to ask you lots of questions,’ she added quietly.
�
�That’s fine. Do you have any questions now?’
She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Yes. What time would you like me to serve you dinner?’
Chapter Three
Good Influence
‘Serve dinner?’ I asked, thinking I’d misheard. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What time shall I make your evening meal?’ Zeena said, rephrasing the question.
‘You won’t make our evening meal,’ I said. ‘Do you mean you’d like to make your own?’ This seemed the most likely explanation.
‘No. I have to cook for you and your family,’ Zeena said.
‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ I asked.
‘I cook for my family at home,’ she said. ‘So I thought it would be the same here.’
‘No, love,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t expect you or any child I looked after to cook for us. You can certainly help me, if you wish, and if there’s something I can’t make that you like, then tell me. I’ll buy the ingredients and we can cook it together.’
Zeena looked at me, bemused. ‘Do your daughters do the cooking?’ she asked.
‘Sometimes, but Lucy’s at work and Paula is at sixth form. They help at weekends. Adrian does too.’
‘But Adrian is a man,’ she said, surprised.
‘Yes, but there’s nothing wrong in men cooking. Many of the best chefs are men. How often do you cook at home?’
‘Every day,’ Zeena said.
‘The evening meal?’
‘Yes, and breakfast. At weekends I cook lunch too. In the evenings during the week I also make lunch for my youngest sister who doesn’t go to school, and my mother heats it up for her.’
While I respected that individual cultures did things in their own way and had different expectations of their children, this seemed a lot for a fourteen-year-old to do every day. ‘Does your mother go out to work?’ I asked, feeling this might be the explanation.
‘No!’ Zeena said, shocked. ‘My father wouldn’t allow her to go out to work. Sometimes she sews at home, but sometimes she is ill and has to stay in bed.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said. ‘I hope she fully recovers soon.’
Zeena gave a small shrug. ‘She has headaches. They come and go.’
