The Child Bride

by Cathy Glass

  It didn’t sound as though her mother was very ill, and Zeena didn’t appear too worried about her. I was pleased she was talking to me. It was important we got to know each other. The more I knew about her, the more I should be able to help her.

  ‘Shall we take your case up to your room now?’ I suggested. ‘You’ll feel more settled once you’re unpacked and have your things around you.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry I’m such a burden. It’s kind of you to let me stay.’

  ‘You’re not a burden, far from it,’ I said, placing my hand lightly on her arm. ‘I foster children because I want to. We’re all happy to have you stay.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’ She was so unassuming and grateful I was deeply touched.

  We stood, but as we left the living room to go down the hall a key sounded in the front door. Zeena froze before she remembered. ‘Is that your other daughter?’

  ‘Yes, it’s Lucy. Come and say hello.’

  We continued down the hall as Lucy let herself in.

  ‘This is Zeena,’ I said.

  ‘Hi, good to meet you,’ Lucy said easily, closing the door behind her. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘I’m well, thank you,’ Zeena said politely. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Good.’

  I kissed Lucy’s cheek as I always did when she returned home from work. ‘I’m taking Zeena’s case up to her room,’ I said. ‘Then I’ll start dinner.’

  ‘Is Paula back?’ Lucy asked, kicking off her shoes.

  ‘She’s in her room.’

  ‘Great! She’ll be pleased. I’ve got tickets for the concert!’

  Lucy flew up the stairs excitedly, banged on Paula’s door and went in. ‘Guess what!’ we heard her shout. ‘The tickets are booked! We’re going!’ There were whoops of joy and squeals of delight from both girls.

  ‘They’re going to see a boy-band concert,’ I explained to Zeena.

  She smiled politely.

  ‘They go a couple of times a year, when there is a group on they want to see. If you’re still here with us, you could go with them next time,’ I suggested.

  ‘My father won’t allow me to go to concerts,’ she said. ‘Some of my friends at school go, but I can’t.’

  ‘Maybe when you are older he’ll let you go,’ I said cheerfully, and picked up her case.

  Zeena gave a small shrug but didn’t reply, and I led the way upstairs and into her room.

  ‘I’m pleased you’ve got some of your clothes with you,’ I said, positively. ‘I’ve plenty of spare towels and toiletries if you need them.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Zeena set the case on her bed, but then struggled to open the sliding lock. It wasn’t locked but the old metal fastener was corroded. I helped her and between us we succeeded in releasing the catch. She lifted the lid on the case and cried out in alarm. ‘Oh no! Mum has packed the wrong clothes.’ The colour drained from her face.

  I looked into the open case. On top was what appeared to be a long red beaded skirt in a see-through chiffon material. As Zeena pushed this to one side and rummaged beneath, I saw some short belly tops in silky materials, glittering with sequins. I also saw other skirts and what looked like pantaloons, all similarly embroidered with sequins and beads, similar to the clothes Turkish belly-dancers wear. Zeena dug to the bottom of the case and then closed the lid.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. She was clearly upset.

  ‘Mum hasn’t packed my jeans or any of my ordinary clothes,’ she said, flustered and close to tears.

  ‘What are these clothes for, then?’ I asked, puzzled.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘They’re not mine.’

  I looked at her, confused. ‘What do you wear when you’re not in your school uniform?’ I asked.

  ‘Jeans, leggings, T-shirts – normal stuff.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, no less confused but wanting to reassure Zeena. ‘Don’t worry, I keep spares. I can find you something to wear until we can get your own clothes from home. I guess your mother made a mistake.’

  Zeena’s bottom lip trembled. ‘She did it on purpose,’ she said.

  ‘But why would your mother give you the wrong clothes on purpose?’ I asked.

  Zeena shook her head. ‘I can’t explain.’

  I’d no idea what was going on, but my first priority was to reassure Zeena. She was visibly shaking. ‘Don’t worry, love,’ I said. ‘I’ve got plenty of spares that will fit you. I can wash and dry your school uniform tonight and it will be ready for tomorrow.’

  ‘I can’t believe she’d do that!’ Zeena said, staring at the case.

  Clearly there was more to this than her mother simply packing the wrong clothes, but I couldn’t guess what message was contained in those clothes, and Zeena wasn’t ready to talk about it now.

  ‘I’ll phone my mother and tell her I’ll go tomorrow and collect my proper clothes,’ Zeena said anxiously.

  ‘Do you think that’s wise?’ I asked, concerned. ‘Perhaps we should wait, and ask your social worker to speak to your mother?’

  ‘No. Mum won’t talk to her. My phone and charger are in my school bag in the hall. Is it all right if I get them?’

  ‘Yes, of course, love. You don’t have to ask.’

  As Zeena went downstairs to fetch her school bag I went round the landing to my bedroom where I kept an ottoman full of freshly laundered and new clothes for emergencies. I knew I needed to tell Tara the problem with the clothes and that Zeena was going to see her mother. I would also note it in my fostering log. All foster carers keep a daily log of the child or children they are looking after. It includes appointments, the child’s health and well-being, significant events and any disclosures the child may make about their past. When the child leaves, this record is placed on file at the social services and can be looked at by the child when they are an adult.

  I lifted the lid on the ottoman and looked in. Zeena was more like a twelve-year-old in stature, and I soon found a pair of leggings and a long shirt that would fit her to change into now, and a night shirt and new underwear. Closing the lid I returned to her room. She had moved her suitcase onto the floor and was now sitting on her bed with her phone plugged into the charger, and texting. In this, at least, she appeared quite comfortable.

  ‘I think these will fit,’ I said, placing the clothes on her bed. ‘Come down when you’re ready, love.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said absently, concentrating on the text message.

  I went into Paula’s room where she and Lucy were still excitedly discussing the boy-band concert, although it wasn’t for some months yet.

  ‘When you have a moment could you look in on Zeena, please?’ I asked them. ‘She’s feeling a bit lost at present. I’m going to make dinner.’

  ‘Sure will,’ Lucy said.

  ‘She seems nice,’ Paula said.

  ‘She is. Very nice,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll look after her,’ Lucy added. Lucy had come to me as a foster child eight years before and therefore knew what if felt like to be in care. She was now my adopted daughter.

  I left the girls and went downstairs. I was worried about Zeena and also very confused. I thought the clothes in the case were hers, although they seemed rather revealing and immodest, considering her father appeared to be so strict. But why had her mother sent them if Zeena couldn’t wear them? It didn’t make sense. Hopefully, in time, Zeena would be able to explain.

  Downstairs in the kitchen I began the preparation of dinner. I was making a pasta and vegetable bake. Zeena had said she ate most foods but not a lot of meat. I’d found in the past with other children and young people I’d fostered that pasta was a safe bet to begin with.

  After a while I heard footsteps on the stairs, and then Zeena appeared in the kitchen. She was dressed in the leggings and shirt and was carrying her school uniform.

  ‘They fit you well,’ I sai
d, pleased.

  ‘Yes, thank you. Where shall I wash these?’ she asked.

  ‘Just put them in the washing machine,’ I said, nodding to the machine. ‘I’ll see to them.’

  Zeena loaded her clothes into the machine and then began studying the dials. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s different from the one we have at home. Can you show me how it works, please?’

  ‘Do you do the washing at home, then?’ I asked as I left what I was doing and went over.

  ‘Yes. My little brothers and sisters get very messy,’ Zeena said. ‘Mother likes them looking nice. I don’t mind the washing – we have a machine. I wish it ironed the clothes as well.’ For the first time since she’d arrived, a small smile flicked across her face.

  I smiled too. ‘Agreed!’ I said as I tipped some powder into the dispenser, and set the dial. ‘Although many of our clothes are non-crease, and Lucy and Paula usually iron their own clothes.’

  ‘And your son?’ Zeena asked, looking at me. ‘He doesn’t iron his clothes, surely?’

  ‘Not yet,’ I said lightly. ‘But I’m working on it.’

  Zeena smiled again. She was a beautiful child and when she smiled her whole face lit up and radiated warmth and serenity.

  ‘There’s a laundry basket in the bathroom,’ I said. ‘In future, you can put your clothes in that and I’ll do all our washing together.’

  ‘Thank you. I don’t want to be any trouble.’

  ‘You’re no trouble,’ I said.

  Zeena hesitated as if about to add something, but then changed her mind. ‘I tried to phone my mother,’ she said a moment later. ‘But she didn’t answer. I’ll try again now.’

  ‘All right, love.’

  She left the kitchen and I heard her go upstairs and into her bedroom. I finished preparing the pasta bake, put it into the oven and then laid the table. A short while later I heard movement upstairs and then the low hum of the girls’ voices as the three of them talked. I was pleased they were getting to know each other. I’d found in the past that often the child or young person I was fostering relaxed and got to know my children before they did me.

  Presently I called them all down for dinner and they arrived together.

  ‘Zeena phoned her mum,’ Lucy said. ‘She’s going to collect her clothes tomorrow.’

  ‘And your mum was all right with you?’ I asked Zeena.

  She gave a small nod but couldn’t meet my eyes, so I guessed her mother hadn’t been all right with her but she didn’t want to tell me.

  ‘Does she always speak in Bengali?’ Lucy asked, sitting at the table.

  ‘Yes,’ Zeena said.

  ‘Can she speak English?’ Paula asked, also sitting at the table.

  ‘A little,’ Zeena said. ‘But my father insists we speak Bengali in the house, so Mum doesn’t get much chance to practise her English.’

  ‘You’re very clever speaking two languages fluently,’ Paula said. ‘I struggled with French at school.’

  ‘It’s easy if you are brought up speaking two languages,’ Zeena said.

  While Paula and Lucy had sat at the table ready for dinner, Zeena was still hovering. ‘Sit down, love,’ I called from the kitchen.

  ‘I should help you bring in the meal first,’ Zeena said.

  Lucy and Paula looked at each other guiltily. ‘So should we,’ Lucy said.

  ‘It’s OK. The dish is very hot,’ I said. ‘You sit down, pet.’

  Zeena sat beside Paula and opposite Lucy. Using the oven gloves I carried in the dish of pasta bake and set in on the pad in the centre of the table, next to the bowl of salad. I returned to the kitchen for the crusty French bread, which I’d warmed in the oven, and set that on the table too.

  ‘Mmm, yummy,’ Paula said, while Lucy began serving herself.

  ‘It’s just pasta, vegetables and cheese,’ I said to Zeena. ‘Help yourself. I hope you like it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m sure I will.’

  When a child first arrives, mealtimes can be awkward for them. Having to sit close to people they don’t know and eat can be quite intimidating, although I do all I can to make them feel at ease. Some children who’ve never had proper mealtimes at home may have never sat at a dining table or used cutlery, so it’s a whole new learning experience for them. However, this wasn’t true of Zeena. As we ate I could see that Lucy and Paula were as impressed as I was by her table manners. She sat upright at the table and ate slowly and delicately, chewing every mouthful, and never spoke and ate at the same time. Every so often she would delicately dab her lips with her napkin. All her movements were so smooth and graceful they reminded me of a beautiful swan in flight or a ballet dancer.

  When she’d finished she paired her cutlery noiselessly in the centre of her plate and sipped her water. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s such a treat to be cooked for.’

  ‘Good. I’m pleased.’ I smiled.

  We just had fruit and yoghurt for dessert and Zeena thanked me again. Then we stayed at the table and talked for a while. Lucy did most of the talking and kept us entertained with anecdotes about the children she looked after at the nursery. A couple of times Zeena joined in with reminiscences about one of her younger siblings, but she looked sad when she spoke of them, and said she missed them and they would miss her. I reassured her again that Tara would try to arrange for her to see them as soon as possible. Zeena’s mobile phone had been on her lap during dinner and while I didn’t usually allow phones, game consoles or toys at the meal table, it was Zeena’s first night and I hadn’t said anything. It now rang.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, standing, and left the room to take the call.

  We could hear her talking in the hall in a mixture of Bengali and English, effortlessly alternating between the languages as bilingual people can do. We didn’t listen but continued our conversation, with Zeena’s voice in the background.

  ‘We were with Zeena when she spoke to her mother before,’ Lucy said. ‘I don’t know what her mother said to her but it wasn’t good.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ I asked.

  ‘Zeena was upset and her mum sounded angry on the phone.’

  ‘Why is she in care?’ Paula asked.

  ‘Zeena asked to come into care,’ I said. ‘She hasn’t told the social worker what happened; only that she’s been abused.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Paula said sadly.

  ‘Zeena needs to start talking about what happened to her,’ Lucy said, speaking from experience.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘If she does tell you anything, remember you need to persuade her to tell me.’

  The girls nodded solemnly. Sometimes the child or young person we were fostering disclosed the abuse they’d suffered to my children first. Lucy, Paula and Adrian knew they had to tell me if this happened so that I could alert the social worker and better protect the child. It was distressing for us all to hear these disclosures, but it was better for the child when they began to unburden themselves and share what had happened to them, as Lucy knew.

  When Zeena had finished her telephone call she didn’t return to sit with us but went straight up to her room. I gave her a few minutes and then I went up to check she was all right. Her door was open so I gave a brief knock and went in. She was sitting on the bed with her phone in her hand, texting. ‘Are you OK?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ She glanced up. ‘I’m texting my friends from school.’

  ‘As long as you are all right,’ I said, and came out.

  I returned downstairs to find Lucy and Paula clearing the table and stacking the dishwasher. ‘We should help you more,’ Paula said.

  ‘Starting from now, we will,’ Lucy added.

  I thought that Zeena’s stay was going to have a very good influence on them!

  Shortly before eight o’clock Adrian arrived home. All three girls and I were in the living room watching some television when we heard a key go in the front-door lock and the door open. ‘It’s my son, Adrian,’ I r
eminded Zeena as she instinctively tensed.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, relieved.

  I went down the hall to greet him and then we returned to the living room so he could meet Zeena. She stood as we entered and Adrian went over and shook her hand. ‘Very pleased to meet you,’ he said.

  ‘And you,’ she said, shyly.

  At twenty-two he was over six feet tall and towered over the rest of us, especially Zeena, who was so petite she looked like a doll beside him.

  ‘I hope you’re settling in,’ he said to her.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said, again shyly.

  Adrian then said hi to Lucy and Paula and went to shower before eating. The girls and I watched the news on television and then Zeena asked me if it was all right if she had an early night.

  ‘Of course, love,’ I said. ‘You must be exhausted. I’ll show you where everything is in the bathroom and get you some fresh towels.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s strange not having to put my little brothers and sisters to bed,’ she said as we went down the hall.

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be fine. Your mum will look after them.’

  ‘I hope so,’ she said, thoughtfully.

  At the foot of the stairs Zeena suddenly put her hand on my arm. ‘Do you lock the back door as well as the front door at night?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘Yes, and bolt it. Don’t worry, you’re safe here.’

  ‘What about the windows?’ she asked. ‘Are those locked too?’

  ‘No, but they can’t be opened from the outside.’

  I looked at her; she was scared, and worried for her safety, but why?

  ‘Trust me, love,’ I said. ‘No one can get in.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll try to remember that,’ she said.

  Chapter Four

  Sobbing

  Zeena slept well that night, although I didn’t. I’m always restless the first few nights after a new child arrives, listening out in case they are out of bed or upset and need reassuring. Nevertheless, I was awake as usual at six o’clock and fell out of bed and into the shower while the rest of the house slept. When I came out, dressed, I was surprised to see Zeena on the landing in her nightshirt and looking very worried.