by Cathy Glass
‘I see. So you think she’s trying to protect him? I’ve explained how important it is that he is tested.’
‘I think so,’ Tara said. ‘I’ll talk to Zeena. I need to see her as soon as possible. It’s a child-protection matter.’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘She’s having the rest of the day off school.’
‘I can’t come today; I’m in court later with another family. Can we make it tomorrow after school? It will give me a chance to speak to Norma.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m very worried. I really don’t know what to say to Zeena to help.’
‘It’s difficult if she won’t engage,’ Tara said sympathetically. ‘But if she has been seeing a man it helps make sense of her parents’ reaction. They’re very strict, and to discover that their eldest daughter has been seeing a man behind their backs would be devastating. Do we know if he’s Asian?’
‘I don’t know. Zeena’s not saying anything about him. Why?’
‘If he’s not, it could be even worse. Some traditional Asian families, even now in this country, want their children to marry within their culture, despite their children being born here and integrating into the British culture.’
‘I see,’ I said again. ‘Zeena went home on Monday after school,’ I said, now updating Tara.
‘Yes, she was going to try to collect her clothes.’
‘She got some of her belongings, but her mother refused to let her see her brothers and sisters. She locked them all in the front bedroom. She told Zeena that if they got close to her they might get infected with her evil.’
I heard Tara gasp.
‘She gave Zeena five minutes to get her belongings and get out or she said she’d call her father,’ I said. That frightened Zeena. Her mother told her never to set foot in the house again. As you can imagine, Zeena arrived home very upset. She said her parents had disowned her, and she’d never see her brothers and sisters again. She also said she should have stayed quiet and not said anything.’
Tara was quiet again and then said, ‘I visited her parents yesterday, but they didn’t mention Zeena’s visit. I talked to them about contact, but they are refusing to let Zeena see her brothers and sisters at present. I asked if there was a photograph of them Zeena could have, but they said there wasn’t, although there were plenty in the display cabinet – though none of Zeena. When I asked her mother about this she said she’d had to remove the photographs of Zeena because she had dishonoured them.’
‘Really?’ I said, in disbelief.
‘I took an interpreter with me, although the father speaks English. Zeena’s mother spoke in Bengali and answered my questions through her husband. The interpreter said he was giving an accurate translation, although all her replies were stilted and possibly inhibited by his presence. I asked her about the clothes she’d sent for Zeena and she said that as Zeena was behaving like a tart, she could dress like one. It appeared they’d removed all trace of her from the house, and they made it clear Zeena is no longer a member of their family.’
‘Because she had a boyfriend?’ I asked, amazed.
‘Apparently so.’
‘That’s shocking,’ I said. ‘I appreciate why they think she’s too young to be in a sexual relationship, but their reaction is draconian. And to be honest, if they’d talked to her about sex and boyfriends Zeena would have been better informed and might not be in this position now. They surely can’t exclude her from the family for ever because of one mistake?’
‘Honour and pride can mean everything in a traditional Asian family,’ Tara said. ‘Girls have died as a result of dishonouring their families.’
I was stunned. ‘I have great respect for the Asian culture,’ I said. ‘And some of my good friends are Asian. I’m sure they’d be appalled by this.’
‘Attitudes vary,’ Tara said. ‘Which reminds me, the foster carer at the training you gave, Mrs Parvin –’
‘Yes?’
‘Her supervising social worker has spoken to her and told her that she must make sure she doesn’t break confidentiality to anyone, and that includes the Asian community, where she might feel conflicting loyalties. Her supervising social worker said she’d taken on board what was said. She’s an excellent carer and they don’t want to lose her. So it’s been dealt with.’
‘Good. That’s one less thing to worry about,’ I said. ‘Tara, I think you or I should have a chat with Zeena about sex and boyfriends as her parents haven’t, so she doesn’t make the same mistake again.’
‘Agreed,’ Tara said. ‘I could, although I think it would be better coming from you – at home and in a relaxed atmosphere.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll choose my moment.’
‘Thank you. Is there anything else?’
I quickly looked down my log notes. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Norma has visited Zeena’s parents but they didn’t say much. I’ll need to update her on this. As it appears it’s the boyfriend who’s abused Zeena there won’t be the same concerns about her siblings, as he has never been near them. I think that’s all. Can I have a quick word with Zeena now, please?’
‘Yes, of course. She’s in her room. I’ll fetch her.’
I set down the handset, closed my folder and went upstairs where I knocked on Zeena’s bedroom door. ‘Tara’s on the telephone,’ I called. ‘She’d like to talk to you.’
The door slowly opened and Zeena came out. She’d obviously been crying. I went with her downstairs and into the living room, and then came out and closed the door. The conversation she had with her social worker was between the two of them, and I’d be told what I needed to know. Zeena was on the phone for less than five minutes and when she came into the kitchen to find me she said, ‘Tara said to say goodbye and she’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. Zeena looked so sad and lost.
‘I’m going to my room,’ she said quietly.
‘Don’t sit up there by yourself if you’re upset,’ I said. ‘Come down here. I’ll make us some lunch and then we can go shopping this afternoon, if you like. Or for a walk?’
She shook her head despondently. ‘I’d rather stay in. I’ll go to my room and come down later.’
‘All right, love.’ I’d tried my best.
She was in her room for twenty minutes while I made lunch, then when it was ready I went upstairs to fetch her. I knocked on her bedroom door and she called, ‘Come in.’ She was sitting on the bed with the older phone – the ex-boyfriend’s phone – beside her. The screen hadn’t dimmed yet from the last call, so it was clear she’d phoned or texted him, presumably having reconsidered and decided to tell him what the clinic had said. I didn’t say anything. She’d tell me if she wanted me to know.
‘Lunch is ready,’ I said.
‘I’ll be down in five minutes. I need to make another phone call.’
‘All right, love.’ I came out and returned downstairs.
After ten minutes, when Zeena still hadn’t appeared, I went upstairs again and, knocking on her door, I opened it slightly and stuck my head round. She quickly cut the call and pushed the phone under her pillow. ‘Lunch is ready,’ I reminded her.
‘Sorry,’ she said. Standing, she came downstairs with me, leaving the phone in her room.
Zeena was very preoccupied, understandably, and my attempts at drawing her into conversation didn’t work. I switched on the radio for background music so we didn’t have to eat in an uncomfortable silence. Zeena did eat a little, and once we’d finished she helped me clear away the dishes and then insisted on washing up. After that she said she was going to have a salt bath – it was her second of the day – and then she’d come down. She went upstairs and I heard her run the bath. When she’d finished she went into her bedroom. She hadn’t reappeared after half an hour, so I went up to make sure she was all right. As I approached her bedroom door I could hear her talking loudly on the phone. ‘I’ve told you! I can’t,’ she said, clearly distressed. ‘I’m ill
!’ There was silence, then she said, ‘No! I can’t. Just leave me alone, will you?’
I knocked on the door and went in. The mobile phone was still in her hand and she looked close to tears. ‘What’s the matter, love?’ I asked, going over. ‘Are you having problems with your boyfriend?’
She looked at me in abject despair, and I sat next to her on the bed. ‘Zeena, love, I wish you could talk to me,’ I said gently. ‘Tara and I are both very concerned about you. You’re fourteen and have had so much to deal with. We don’t blame you for what has happened, so please don’t feel guilty. We just want to help. Can we talk? Maybe about boyfriends?’
Was this a good time? The opportunity I needed to have that chat? I didn’t know, but I took a chance and continued.
‘I’ve got three grown-up children of my own, and I’ve fostered teenagers, so I know some of what you must be feeling,’ I said. ‘Also, I was a teenager once myself and I can remember the conflicting emotions I felt that made me feel very sad or very happy. I can also remember some of the difficult decisions I had to make, especially in respect of boys. Attitudes have changed since I was a teenager, but I think it is still true today that sex is much better in a loving and committed relationship. That has been my advice to Adrian, Lucy and Paula, and the teenagers I’ve fostered. However, sometimes us girls can be put in a difficult position when it comes to deciding what’s best, and we may feel pressurized into agreeing to something that we later regret, because we wanted to please the boy. I don’t know what sort of relationship you had with your boyfriend, but I think you may be trying to protect him now. Or possibly you’re worried about what his reaction will be?’
Zeena remained very quiet, her head lowered, with her fingers knitted together in her lap.
‘What I do know’, I said, ‘is that any problem is worse if you keep it to yourself. It’s at times like these we need all the support we can get. Have you confided in anyone? Maybe one of your friends at school?’
Zeena shook her head. ‘No. My friends know I’ve got problems at home, but that’s all.’
There was a small silence and I felt we might be getting somewhere. Zeena hadn’t said much, and I didn’t know what was causing her so much sadness and pain, but I had the feeling I’d broken down some of the barriers and we’d taken a step closer.
I looked at her. ‘Am I right in thinking you weren’t in a committed relationship with your ex-boyfriend, and maybe it was more casual?’ I asked – for this was the impression I’d formed.
Zeena nodded and was about to say something when suddenly her mobile rang from under the pillow, making us both start. She immediately pulled it out and, glancing at the caller’s number, said, ‘Sorry, I need to answer this. Can you go, please? I’ll be down soon.’
I stood as Zeena pressed to answer the call, but she didn’t speak until I’d left the room. I didn’t listen at the door; that would have been a huge breach of trust and would break the fragile bond I’d established. I went downstairs and waited in the living room, hoping that when she’d finished on the phone we might be able to continue our conversation where we’d left off. But ten minutes later when Zeena appeared – without either of her phones – the moment had gone. ‘Can I watch some television?’ she asked. ‘I’m OK now.’
She did look a bit brighter, and I wondered if her ex-boyfriend was possibly offering her some support, or maybe they were back together again. I didn’t know and I didn’t press her. As a parent and a carer I’d learned that there is a time to talk to teenagers and a time to stay silent in order to keep the lines of communication open.
Zeena watched television for about half an hour while I was in the front room, working at the computer. Then she went upstairs to her room. Paula arrived home just before four o’clock and when she knew Zeena was already in she joined her in her bedroom. The door was open and I could hear them chatting and then laughing. It was lovely to hear Zeena laugh. Again, she had managed to switch off from her sorrow and was enjoying her time with Paula, but I knew this was only temporary. Until all the reasons for her suffering and unhappiness were uncovered and properly addressed, they would continue to torment her – for I felt there was more to this than a boyfriend problem or an embarrassing disease.
We all ate together that evening, Adrian having finished work earlier than usual, and it was a very pleasant meal. Zeena joined in the conversation about bands and fashion with Lucy and Paula, and when Adrian teased them about their taste in music Zeena gave as good as she got. There was a relaxed family atmosphere, and Zeena, having lost some of her reserve, was like any teenager expressing her likes and dislikes. When we finished eating we all cleared away the dishes and then Zeena asked if she could make us a dessert.
She and I checked the cupboards for ingredients and from what I had she said she could make a type of shemai. I left the three girls in the kitchen and went to the living room to read the newspaper, while Adrian went up to his room. I could hear the girls chatting and laughing as they worked. About half an hour later Lucy called, ‘It’s ready, Mum!’ Then she yelled upstairs to Adrian that pudding was ready and he immediately came down.
We sat around the table again where they’d set out individual dessert glasses with a spoon each. Zeena then proudly carried over the large glass serving dish containing the shemai, which she placed in the centre of the table. ‘I hope you like it. Help yourselves,’ she said.
We did. It was delicious, although I dread to think how many calories it contained with the cream, sugar, raisins and butter. Not that my family had to worry – they were all very slim – it was just me who seemed a bit ‘cuddlier’ now. As we ate, and then had seconds and finished it all, Zeena explained that she made this pudding (and others) for her brothers and sisters as a treat, and they liked to help her cook. In fact, she talked quite a bit about cooking at home with her siblings, and I could see the nostalgia creep into her eyes and hear the sadness in her voice at these bitter-sweet memories of what she was missing.
After we’d scraped the bowl clean we stayed at the table chatting, and then Adrian made us all coffee. Later, the girls went upstairs and grouped in Lucy’s room, where they remained talking for most of the evening, while I read in the living room and Adrian was on the computer. As bedtime approached Lucy came to me and said in confidence that she hadn’t talked to Zeena about her condition, as she’d said she would. It hadn’t seemed appropriate, as they’d been talking about other things.
‘No worries,’ I said. ‘I’ve had a chat with her, and her social worker is coming tomorrow.’
‘I like Zeena,’ Lucy said. ‘She’s so kind and gentle. I hope they get the people who’ve hurt her.’
‘What makes you say that?’ I asked. ‘Has Zeena said something to you?’
‘No. It’s just a feeling I have that she’s suffered. I can see the sadness in her eyes, even when she’s laughing. I recognize it from when I was very unhappy.’
Lucy had been badly neglected for the first eleven years of her life, before she’d come into care.
‘I feel there’s something too,’ I said. ‘Hopefully Zeena will be able to tell us eventually, so we can help her.’
‘I’m sure she will in time,’ Lucy said. ‘I did.’
I smiled. ‘I know, love. That time seems a long while ago now. Love you.’
‘Love you too, Mum,’ she said, kissing my cheek. ‘At least Zeena seems a bit happier now.’
‘Good. I’m pleased.’
The day was closing on a more positive note, and I was feeling optimistic.
Chapter Eleven
Worries and Worrying
The following morning before Zeena left for school I gave her a front-door key so she could let herself in and wouldn’t have to ring the bell and then wait for one of us to answer. She was responsible and I knew she wouldn’t abuse the privilege as some teenagers I’d looked after had done – truanting from school and returning to the house when I was out, and even having an impromptu drinking party. Zeena
had told me she’d never be allowed to have a key to her house, and as a foster carer I usually upheld the values of the child’s natural parents, unless they were at odds with the child’s best interest. This was one time when I felt justified in implementing my practice rather than the parents’. Zeena was a trustworthy and mature fourteen-year-old living in England, and most of her peers would have a key to their house. It wasn’t just the convenience of Zeena being able to let herself in; it was a statement of the trust I’d placed in her.
She was pleased. ‘I won’t lose it,’ she said, carefully tucking it into her purse.
‘I know you won’t, love. Have a good day. Don’t forget to text me when you arrive at school. And come straight home – Tara will be here at half past four.’
‘OK,’ she said.
I went with her to the garden gate and then I watched her walk up the street. Before she disappeared from view she turned and gave a little wave, as she’d got into the habit of doing. I waved back and then returned indoors. The house was empty now; Adrian, Paula and Lucy had already left – Adrian and Lucy were on early shifts and Paula was going swimming in the school pool before lessons started. I loaded the washing machine and then switched on the computer to answer emails and also begin planning the next training session I was due to give – on the importance of life-story work for the child in care. At 8.55 a.m. Zeena texted to say she’d arrived at school. She also thanked me for going with her to the clinic the day before, which was sweet of her. Midmorning the telephone rang. It was a social worker I didn’t know, asking me if I would mentor a carer who was struggling with the behaviour of an eight-year-old boy she and her partner were fostering. In line with other fostering services, the local authority had a scheme for partnering more experienced carers with new or less experienced carers, to offer them support and guidance. The couple I was being asked to mentor had previously fostered babies and were now struggling with the challenging behaviour of an eight-year-old, to the point where the placement was in danger of breaking down. I said I was happy to do what I could to help the couple. The social worker thanked me and said she’d pass my telephone number to them and they would phone me to arrange a meeting.
