by Rosie Lewis
She looked at me, chewing her lip. With the line of her elegant neck visible she seemed so much more vulnerable. ‘I’d sleep on my tummy if they weren’t there.’
I held them in front of me, staring. ‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘I’m supposed to lie on my back.’
I shook my head as I passed them to her, still confused. ‘Why?’
‘Prophets sleep with their bellies facing upwards,’ she explained, clutching them to her chest and lowering her chin into the soft material. ‘I might be sent to hell if I sleep badly, so Chit sewed them in.’
I didn’t know how to respond so I stood clutching her door handle for a moment before saying goodnight.
Downstairs, I picked up a book and slumped on the sofa. Holding it open, I ran my eyes over the first page then realised I had no idea what I’d just read. I tried again but gave up after the second paragraph, too preoccupied to take anything in.
And so, the night before the real problems began to emerge, I lay in bed feeling generally puzzled. I was a bit concerned about Emily. From the moment she was born she had been a textbook baby. She slept when I laid her down, like one of those dollies with the closing eyelids, smiling and cooing whenever she was awake; she skipped her way through the ‘terrible twos’, and even as a teenager she was rarely moody or difficult. I resolved to leave it a few days before pressing her any further. Emily tended to think things through for herself before blurting out what was worrying her.
Unlike Zadie. I knew that she would need lots of encouragement if she was to open up. My thoughts turned to our earlier conversation and I felt a flicker of unease. Funnily enough it wasn’t the pebbled pyjamas that worried me. It seemed a bit of a draconian measure to me but it sounded like her family were doing what they could to keep her spiritually safe. All religions had their own special ways of negotiating their followers through an unpredictable world, I reasoned. I could see the logic.
When I was young, my father had a rigid routine of Bible study in place for when I got home from school. There was no relaxing in front of Grange Hill with milk and a biscuit for me. It was a case of working my way through the books of the Bible and memorising important texts to repeat to him when he got home from work. I had a feeling that Zadie’s experiences were magnified tenfold on a scale of severity, but I could certainly relate to them.
What really unsettled me was the control her brother seemed to exert over her. Zadie said it was Chit who had taken it upon himself to correct her for sleeping on her back. It struck me as strange that a brother should involve himself in disciplining his sister so harshly, but then a little girl, Freya, tugged at my memory. Even though she wasn’t quite five years old when she came to stay with me, she was well used to caring for her younger siblings. She knew how to prepare a bottle of formula milk for her baby brother and was so protective of her role as their carer that she became distressed when I tried to release her from it. I wanted her to learn to be a little girl again but she found it hard to relinquish what she saw as her responsibilities. Without his mother around, perhaps it was natural for Chit to take a more active role in caring for younger siblings, I reasoned.
And then there was Des. Usually so quick to comfort and calm, there was something in the way his eyes shadowed when he told me that changes were on the way that stirred up anxiety in me. I had a feeling that I wasn’t going to like what he had to say.
Chapter 6
On Thursday morning I must have woken midway through a dream because when I opened my eyes I sensed the vestiges of something incomplete. I don’t often recall dreams but this one was so vivid that it stayed with me as I went downstairs to make coffee. While the kettle boiled I leaned back against the worktop and closed my eyes. Flickers of black and white played across my eyelids as the dream came back to me, with Zadie and me back in the forest.
Dreary swirls of grey moved across a brooding sky, following us at a pace as we ventured further along a narrowing path. Driven deeper into the woods by a high wind and squally rain, I noticed that my feet were sinking into the sodden earth while Zadie’s seemed to glide above it, like a character in a film that has been switched to fast forward. As I struggled to get free, a shadowy figure emerged from the labyrinth of trees surrounding us and hurried after Zadie.
Beginning to panic, I clawed my way out of my shoes and stumbled off in pursuit. Every so often I caught a glimpse of Zadie’s billowing robes and the faceless stranger following her but, shapeless and fluid, it would float away in a wisp of black smoke whenever I drew near. Soon the undergrowth was too dense for me to follow and all I could do was watch helplessly as the shadowed outline rose up in front of Zadie and blocked her way.
Towering over her, the figure turned and whispered something in a low, mocking voice before reaching out its hand. With one touch Zadie shattered into a hundred tiny pieces, the fragments falling to the soil and rolling beneath tightly interwoven tree roots.
When the figure slipped away the undergrowth parted and I was freed. I ran to the spot where Zadie had been attacked and sank to my knees, scraping at the soil and calling her name. When my hands were too sore to continue I sank back and watched as droplets of blood sprang to colour my palms. Suddenly the dark clouds overhead scuttled away and a shaft of pale blue light pierced through a crack in the overhanging branches. A pathway opened up in front of me and at the end stood Zadie, beckoning. Somehow I knew that she was ready to give up her secrets.
My dream had ended there but in the kitchen I kept my eyes closed, convinced that if I had followed the path Zadie would have offered me the insight I craved. Nothing but ominous grey clouds danced against the backdrop of my eyelids and so, as I drank my coffee, a feeling of frustration lingered.
The house was so quiet that I realised Zadie must have gone back to bed after dawn prayers. It was something of a relief to be alone while I turned things over in my mind. Since her arrival, days earlier, I had found my tension increasing. In some ways, Zadie was the easiest placement I had ever had. Well behaved, courteous and helpful, there seemed to be no great challenges for me to overcome. I also got the sense that she was relieved to be in foster care, something I hadn’t experienced before. Most of the children I have looked after crave their own home; they want to be with their parents, no matter what they’ve been through. They seem to spend their first few weeks in a suspended state, always waiting – waiting for news from the courts, counting down the sleeps until their next contact or passing the time until their forever parents came to claim them. With Zadie it was different. There was no resistance to being a looked-after child. Caring for her should have been a doddle.
And yet every time I looked at her I couldn’t shake the nagging worry that she was in trouble and I should be doing something about it. I couldn’t put my finger on why I felt that way; she was safe with us and we were taking good care of her. She wasn’t eating much but she was hardly wasting away and I was sure her appetite would pick up once she felt more at home.
So why did I feel such a sense of urgency? Somewhere in my head was the sound of a clock, ticking rhythmically. I just couldn’t figure out why, and my dream, rather than resolving anything, only made it worse.
Still bleary-eyed, I crept upstairs and checked myself in the bathroom mirror. My skin was a pasty tone and I noticed that my expression was pinched with anxiety. Bunching a handful of blonde curls on top of my head, I fixed the bundle into place with a large grip, hoping to reduce the hassled look that often besieges foster carers. We were to meet Zadie’s brother in a few hours and I wanted to give the impression that I was a decent, responsible woman, especially since the family had reservations about the placement.
Splashing some water on my face and patting my skin vigorously with a towel to get the blood flowing, I took another hopeful look. A tired, middle-aged woman with eye bags and curly blonde hair stared back at me, but my ever-present optimistic air remained, and, though I tend towards self-deprecation, a definite kindness. When combined
with a reassuring smile, I hoped that Chit would see that his sister was safe in my care.
In my bedroom, I ran my hands through the clothes in my wardrobe, opting for a smart dark-blue shift dress and tailored cardigan rather than my default jumper and jeans. An hour later the residual anxiety from my dream was displaced by the bustle of breakfast time. Jamie sat at the table pouring a generous portion of Cheerios into his bowl and Emily, still in her dressing gown, was quietly making herself a cup of tea, a faraway look in her eyes.
‘How was your night, honey?’ I asked.
‘Fine,’ she said, forcing a smile. She looked tired, no trace of her usual exuberant good humour. ‘Yours?’
‘Not bad,’ I said. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Yes, why do you ask?’ she asked, returning the milk to the fridge.
‘You seemed preoccupied yesterday.’
Emily dropped a teaspoon into the sink. ‘Don’t start, Mum, please,’ she sighed.
‘I’m not starting. I just want to know –’
‘Whether I’m all right,’ she interrupted, closing a cupboard door with her hip. ‘And yes, I am, so you can stop going on about it.’
‘Emily,’ I said, gently chiding. It was only the second time I’d asked her.
She softened. ‘Really, Mum. I’m fine,’ she assured me. ‘I’m just tired, and we’re getting stacks of homework at the moment. But there’s nothing wrong.’ She pecked me on the cheek. ‘It’s all good,’ she said, grabbing a bowl from the draining board and turning to leave.
I gave an internal sigh. It had been so easy when Emily and Jamie were small. If something was worrying them it would usually come tumbling out as I gave them a bath, or when they were snuggled on my lap ready for a bedtime story. There were times when I missed those intimate moments that come so few and far between once children reach adolescence.
‘How about we have some time together this evening?’ I suggested, following Emily through the living room.
‘Sure, OK.’
In the dining room Zadie was fully dressed in a beige-coloured robe, matching headscarf and the same baggy cardigan that she had worn every day since she arrived. She stood at the table, pulling at the front of her threadbare robe as if it was damp and sticking to her skin. Resolving to take her shopping to get some new clothes, I reached for a plate from the centre of the table and helped myself to the toast I had prepared earlier. I sat next to Jamie, and Zadie, finally finding the courage, sat opposite, though she ate very little.
After Emily and Jamie had left for school I sat beside Zadie on the sofa and asked what she had planned for the morning. We weren’t due to meet her brother until two o’clock so I suggested that we go shopping and buy her some new clothes. ‘We’ll be back in time for prayers before we have to leave for contact.’
‘I’d rather stay home, if that’s …’ she said quietly. She rarely seemed to finish a whole sentence. It was as if the sound of her own voice was so embarrassing to herself that she couldn’t bear to continue.
‘OK?’ I offered. When she nodded I agreed, though I didn’t like the thought of her drifting aimlessly through the morning and I had some chores to catch up on. ‘So, what would you like to do?’ I asked, knowing what she was going to say before I had even finished the sentence.
‘May I use the computer?’ she asked softly.
‘Erm …,’ I hesitated, knowing the grim task of confronting her about what she had been looking up couldn’t be delayed any longer. ‘You can,’ I said slowly, ‘but first we need a chat.’
Her face flushed crimson.
I felt immediately sorry for her. She knew exactly what I was going to say. ‘The internet is great,’ I said, tempering my serious tone with a touch of gentleness. She still looked mortified, though, so much so that it was actually uncomfortable to watch. ‘But there are some horrible sites on there that I wouldn’t want children to look at.’ She kept her gaze averted so I went on to explain to the side of her headscarf that, as a foster carer, I would be struck off if offensive material was found in my home, whether I was aware of it or not. Zadie nodded the whole time, but continued to study the wall beside her. I patted my knees, thinking here goes, then took a breath and said, ‘I was a bit concerned about what you were looking up when you last went online, honey.’
Zadie covered her face with her hands and made a small noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh, then let her hands drop to cover her mouth. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,’ she said, her voice muffled. ‘It just popped up and I kept clicking on the cross but …’ Her voice was wobbling. She sounded close to tears.
‘But you must have entered some strange keywords for that to come up, surely?’
She shook her head emphatically, her fingers knotting over themselves ten to the dozen. ‘Someone emailed me the link,’ she admitted eventually. ‘I shouldn’t have clicked on it. I’m sorry, Rosie.’
‘Who would email something like that to you? One of your friends?’
‘I don’t have any friends,’ she said quietly. ‘It was spam.’
She spoke without self-pity but what she said tugged at my heart, throwing me off-kilter so that I accepted her explanation even though I didn’t believe it. I realise now that I probably shouldn’t have, but being a foster carer is much like being a mother; many mistakes are made along the way.
I hardly saw anything of Zadie for the next couple of hours. When she wasn’t reading in her room she sat at the computer. I leaned my head into the dining area every now and again, partly to make sure she was OK but also to let her know that I was keeping an eye on her. Blue light from the screen flickered across her serious face as she stared in utter concentration.
About 11 a.m., just as I was putting a wash on, I heard the printer juddering into action. A few minutes later Zadie came into the kitchen and shyly offered me a wad of paper.
‘What’s this?’ I said, taking it from her. On the top page there was a chart. The left-hand column, highlighted in blue, listed the names of markets in the local area. The next one, in yellow, showed the cost of hiring a stall and the days available. Across the top, underlined, was the title ‘WEPH – Project Congo’. I was so moved that for a moment I couldn’t speak. Leafing through the pages, I saw that she had researched the telephone numbers needed for booking a sales tent and had even included directions for each location.
I remembered blathering on about the quilt making to Zadie on the day we went for a walk. She had shown a glimmer of interest at the time but I had no idea she had taken so much in.
‘Zadie, how lovely of you!’ I exclaimed, wanting to reach out and catch hold of her hand, though from her stiff demeanour I sensed she wouldn’t want me to. ‘Thank you so much.’
I could hardly believe it. It was the first time I noticed another dimension to Zadie, layers of warmth behind the unbreakable wall, but I was about to get an even bigger surprise. Shifting the weight from one foot to another and fumbling beneath her long sleeve, she produced a ten-pound note and handed it to me.
I frowned. ‘What’s this for?’
‘To put towards the collection for the school desks,’ she said, turning on her heel and scampering off before I had time to react. I stared at the money, my heart opening with a sudden rush of affection. I had given her some pocket money a few days after her arrival, her part of the weekly allowance that foster carers are paid by the local authority. Not wanting to discourage her generosity, I slipped the note into a side pocket in my bag with the intention of adding it to the savings account I was going to open for her.
I finished loading the whites into the washing machine, stunned and deeply touched.
Peggy had arranged for us to meet at the Lavender Fields, a location midway between the Hassan family home and our house. Zadie and I arrived a few minutes early and since there was no sign of her brother we waited in the gift shop. Unable to resist, I began working my way through the entire selection of lotions and aromatherapy essential oils arranged along the shelves of
an ornate white dresser, sniffing at each tester pot then asking Zadie if she would like to try. She recoiled as if she’d been shot, her face quickly turning green.
It was a few minutes after two o’clock when Chit Hassan arrived. Just as Zadie was pointing out a lilac candle that was so highly decorated it looked more like a cake, I spotted his dark head crossing the car park. I nudged her. ‘I think your brother is here.’
Pausing in the doorway, Chit’s eyes swept the aisles of glossy coffee-table books and embroidered lacy cushions, eventually settling on his sister. Zadie immediately froze, morphing once again into a figure carved from granite. Chit was a good-looking young man with a square chin and cheeks so lean they gave the impression he was sucking them in. His hair was the same rich dark brown as his sister’s, though his was tinged with a reddish gold and his expression was alert, assessing. After a brief smile in his sister’s direction his eyes met mine.
I smiled, mouthing hello as we made our way towards him. Dipping his head in acknowledgement, his stare did not waver as I closed the gap between us and held out my hand. His gaze dropped, registered my proffered hand then flicked to his sister, the expression on his face serene. Thrown off-kilter by the rejection, my smile evaporated and my redundant hand flitted to my hair to tuck imaginary loose curls behind my ear.
‘Lovely to meet you, Chit. I’m Rosie. Did you have far to come?’ I asked, aware that I was talking quickly, something I did when trying to recover my equilibrium. It was a futile question; I knew exactly where the family lived. ‘I mean, did you find it OK?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ he said politely, without taking his intense eyes off his sister. Up close I could see that they resembled Zadie’s, as striking, though not quite so thickly lashed. She was facing him but seemed to be staring at a point somewhere between his chin and his chest. I glanced uncertainly from brother to sister, oddly embarrassed by whatever it was passing between them.
‘I thought you two might like to go for a walk,’ I offered, realising suddenly that Chit’s refusal to shake my hand probably had something to do with his culture, rather than a personal rebuttal of me. I remembered reading that non-essential touching between genders is forbidden in Islam and that the avoidance of physical contact is seen as a sign of humility. Chit would probably consider it disrespectful to touch me. ‘I’m sure you have lots to catch up on,’ I said, feeling a little foolish. My mind flicked to earlier that day, as I stood in front of my wardrobe worrying about which outfit I should wear to make a good impression, and yet within 30 seconds of meeting Zadie’s brother I’d already made my first gaffe.
