Betrayed

by Rosie Lewis

  She fled the room and ran upstairs, though she was so light-footed that she barely made a sound. Staring at her unfinished muesli, I sighed, wondering whether it had been a mistake to confront her over breakfast, particularly as she had been making a rare effort to eat. But in some ways I felt reassured by her distress. At least we were making some progress in getting to know each other.

  After clearing away the breakfast things, I decided to take advantage of the time alone by calling Peggy. I picked up the telephone and dialled her number. She needed to be told about last night.

  Around 11 a.m. I managed to persuade three reluctant children to come into town to buy some new clothes. Emily, despite her age, still had no interest in fashion but her ever depleting wardrobe was in desperate need of replenishment. Zadie, I was beginning to suspect, was suffering from mild agoraphobia, and Jamie would rather visit the dentist than trawl around the shops. My suggestion was met with a chorus of sighs and it took the promise of a hot chocolate and a doughnut with all the trimmings to get them all moving.

  Leaving the car in the multi-storey car park on the outskirts of town, we walked along the riverside and then through a network of grass-lined streets of Victorian terraces, towards the main shopping centre. Jamie walked beside me chatting animatedly and the two girls followed behind, both reserved and silent. I was willing one of them to strike up a conversation but I knew Zadie was far too shy to make the first move and Emily was still unusually subdued.

  Despite nearing the end of May it was a damp, cold day. The grey pavements mirrored the leaden sky and so it was a relief when we reached the brightly lit department store with its colourful displays of beach and bridal wear. Standing one behind the other, we rode the escalator up to the clothing department. When we reached the third floor Emily surged ahead and within five minutes she was zigzagging her way back to us through the dense aisles, several items of casual clothing draped over her bent arm.

  ‘Aren’t you going to try them on?’ I asked. Desperate to end her shopping torture, Emily always chose blindly, barely glancing to check whether she even had hold of the right size.

  ‘They’ll be fine,’ she said with a wave of her free arm. ‘Are you ready to go?’

  I scanned the aisles one more time, trying to see if there was anything suitable for Zadie. ‘Seen anything yet, Zadie?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve got these,’ she said, giving her robe a tug. ‘I don’t need anything else.’

  In some ways it was nice that she was so easily pleased but I had been through her clothes and she only had four robes, a few headscarves and two ropey cardigans. I had pointed out a rack of modest, ankle-length skirts that I thought she might go for but her eyes widened in horror at the very thought of wearing them.

  ‘Hmm, we need to get some more robes then,’ I said, tapping my chin. A young sales assistant dressed in a smart black trouser suit gave us a quizzical look as she slipped empty hangers on the end of a rack. Moments later she arrived at our sides in a fragrant cloud of strong perfume. ‘Can I help?’ she asked.

  ‘Hmmm, possibly. Do you sell robes?’

  ‘There’s a shop on the other side of town that sells stuff like that,’ she said, her eyes running quizzically over Zadie. ‘Near the station.’ The girl went on to point out some long flowing skirts and dark linen trousers. She was making an effort to be helpful and I was grateful but she seemed oblivious to Zadie’s discomfort. The teenager’s face was as benign as ever but I was getting better at reading her and I could see she was withering under all the attention. Sinking her hands deep into the pockets of her cardigan, she straightened her arms and raised it like a tent around herself. I got the feeling she would have liked to pull it right over her head.

  As we rode the escalator to the ground floor, I was more convinced than ever that Zadie wouldn’t have run away over some minor, teenage disagreement. She seemed so gentle and mild mannered. When I had called Peggy earlier that morning to tell her about the blood on Zadie’s pyjamas, the social worker had said that time was running out. Since Zadie had been taken into police protection, social services were technically only allowed to keep her for 72 hours. Zadie’s father was seeking legal advice, although he had reluctantly agreed to a Section 20, meaning that Zadie would stay with us voluntarily. Peggy told me that a decision would soon have to be made about reuniting her with her family. Fearing that Zadie would clam up even more if she knew that, I had kept the conversation to myself, but as the morning went on the clock in my head ticked that little bit louder.

  It began to drizzle soon after we left the department store. Hurriedly, we made our way across the town square and then through the network of narrow cobbled streets that led to the station. As we left the shelter of the tightly knit lanes and turned into the main road, sharp gusts of wind drove the rain horizontally so that our coats were soon wet through. Drivers switched their headlights on, raindrops shimmering in their cones of light.

  Shouts from behind muffled the whooshing sounds of tyres on wet tarmac. We turned to see a crocodile of delighted children behind us, flanked by some rather harassed looking adults. Smiling, we stood to one side on the kerb to let them pass by, listening to their excited gasps as a bus sped by. Its wheel skimmed the kerb, whipping grey water into an arch above our heads. Emily caught the worst of it. She gasped, her arms flailing at her sides. Jamie shrieked with laughter at the sight of his sister, water dripping from her sodden hair and down her face.

  Next to the station I noticed a café. ‘In there,’ I shouted, pointing at the sign. The rain was pouring so heavily that we could hardly see. Emily squinted, then grabbed the carrier bag with her new clothes in and ran ahead.

  Up close I could see that the outside of Jim’s Café was shabby. Dirt clung to the corners of the windows where, in picture postcards, snow would gather, but with Emily soaked through and in the absence of one of the many quaint little tea shops that lined the river, it was a case of any port in a storm.

  Inside was dim, partly down to the grimy plastic covering the strip lights. I wasn’t sure if the Food Standards Agency ever issued negative scores but, if they did, Jim’s Café would probably be right down there among the worst the town had to offer. It was a relief to be out of the rain, though, if nothing else, and Emily was already using the facilities to get changed, so I decided to order some drinks.

  Leaving Jamie and Zadie to find a table, I went up to the counter. Standing third from the front in a queue, I turned and noticed a group of teenage girls sitting at a table in the corner, pointing and laughing at passers-by through the almost opaque windows. There was a hard edge to their banter that seemed more than high spirits and so I was relieved to see that Jamie had settled himself several metres away from them. Zadie hovered between tables, probably too shy to sit at the table with Jamie alone.

  My heart sank when I saw that one of the teenagers, an overweight girl with long hair on one side and shaved around her ear on the other, had turned her attention to Zadie. Feeling a prickle of heat creeping up my spine, I found myself clenching my hands and willing Zadie to move away. She seemed terribly vulnerable standing there, and Jamie, leafing through a grubby plastic menu, was completely oblivious. Zadie’s shoulders sagged a little under the scrutiny but she was doing her best to ignore it. Her expression, as usual, was impassive.

  The elderly lady in front of me dropped some change and I stepped back, kneeling to help her pick it up. Angling my head, I took another glance across the café, noticing that the plump girl was nudging her friends, tilting her head in Zadie’s direction. Their chins simultaneously dropped over the top of their frothy milkshakes. Still gathering coins, I heard loud scrapes as the group angled their chairs to get a better view. By the time I straightened there were smirks all around as the girls goaded Zadie with their eyes.

  ‘Thanks so much, dear,’ the elderly woman said. ‘I’m all fingers and thumbs this morning. Everything’s so damp I can’t get a grip on anything. Awful out there, isn’t it?�
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  ‘Yes, terrible,’ I answered, glancing back over my shoulder and straining to hear what the girls were saying.

  ‘Where did you get your dress from? We love it,’ the girl sitting next to the overweight one said in mock praise. A smirk twitched on her upper lip.

  Zadie froze. Her serene expression evaded her and an agonised one took its place. Feeling a pang of pity, I flapped my hand through the air, trying to get her to move away from them. She didn’t notice: she was busy pinging a band against her wrist. My heart tugged unbearably and a flush of anger burnt my cheeks. My feet were tingling with the urge to charge over and give them a piece of my mind but I wavered, wondering whether my interference would increase Zadie’s embarrassment and make more of a scene.

  ‘Would you mind helping me, dear?’ the old lady asked, pressing her soggy purse into my hands. It seemed that her glasses were buried deep in her handbag and she couldn’t find the correct change to give the assistant who, bored and unhelpful, was staring into the middle distance, avidly chewing on some gum. With her greasy hair and sludgy eye make-up, she looked at home in her surroundings.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, hurriedly counting out the right money so that I could keep an eye on whatever was unfolding across the room. Handing the coins to the assistant, I turned to watch the group.

  ‘Is it a Victoria Beckham design?’ the girl who had been silent asked in an exaggeratedly sweet tone.

  Jamie raised his head, half-studying the menu, half-watching the girls. He frowned in puzzlement.

  ‘I think you can buy them from the council recycling department,’ a girl with blonde hair trilled. Her false eyelashes were so long that one of her eyelids hung lower than the other with the weight. Her voice was deep and raspy, her tone sickly sweet.

  Zadie scratched her arm through her sleeve, her slender fingers digging at her skin. She looked so cowed, standing with her fingers knotted up in her robe. Having reached the point where I felt I needed to intervene, I turned to abandon my place at the front of the queue and was about to walk over when Jamie stood up and went to Zadie’s side.

  ‘Do you want to come and sit over here, Zadie?’ he asked gently, shooting a quick glance towards the group.

  I took my place back at the counter, relieved to see Emily coming out of the toilets just as Jamie and Zadie began navigating their way through the maze of tables. Buoyed by their attempt to retreat and no doubt disappointed to be losing such easy prey, the overweight girl stood up and blocked their path. ‘Aren’t you gonna tell us where we can get one then?’ she asked, slipping her thumbs into the pockets of her jeans and resting her fingers casually on bulging hips.

  My heart began to pound. Emily, narrowing her eyes, quickened her step.

  ‘What can I get you?’ the girl behind the counter asked between slurpy, open-mouthed chews.

  ‘One tea,’ I said, twisting my head to keep the group in view, ‘and three hot chocolates, please.’

  ‘I think she must have forgotten to take the towel off ’er head after ’er bath, don’t you?’ the one with the raspy, smoker’s voice asked, her tone now openly cold.

  Jamie was several metres away from where I was standing but his voice carried over, loud and firm. ‘Leave her alone,’ he said, his courage galvanised by his approaching sister. It was more of a command than a shout but the café fell silent. Some customers averted their eyes but most turned to stare at him.

  Paying for the drinks as quickly as I could, I turned and saw, with a surge of grateful relief, that Emily had positioned herself at Zadie’s other side. It was as if both she and Jamie were closing in protectively, cushioning Zadie.

  ‘Move out of our way, please,’ Emily said. ‘Go and find someone else to annoy.’ I was amazed at the authority in her voice. I knew that both Emily and Jamie possessed a strong sense of justice but my daughter also tended towards shyness and hated being the centre of attention. Her cheeks were flushed but she stood her ground, giving the teenagers an unflinching, steely glare.

  The plump girl swallowed then glanced at the others, as if sizing up their support before deciding whether to have another dig. Her friends shifted uneasily in their seats and angled themselves away from her, feigning boredom. Shooting Emily a look with her lip curled in a sneer, the plump girl grabbed her coat and shuffled towards the door. The girl with the raspy voice shouted ‘Arseholes’ in a parting shot before following her friends out and slamming the door with a flourish. Emily rolled her eyes and put her arm around Zadie’s shoulders, gently guiding her to a table. Zadie glanced sideways, a tenderly grateful look on her face.

  As we sat with our drinks, I tried to make light of the episode, writing it off by telling Zadie that the girls were probably having a bad day and being indiscriminately rude to everyone. Our town had its share of problems, much like any other, but on the whole there seemed to be harmony between different cultures and the younger generation were even more tolerant. I didn’t want to believe it was the colour of Zadie’s skin that had provoked the girls into confrontation. I convinced myself that it was the way she was dressed. Ignorance was easier to swallow than outright malice and the foster carer in me couldn’t help but pity the girls, wondering what experiences might have led to having such a short supply of kindness.

  By the time we left the café the rain had abated but it didn’t take much persuasion from Jamie to convince me to abandon the idea of more shopping. Watching Zadie cowering under the critical gaze of those girls had left me fuming, although the feeling was tempered by admiration for Emily and Jamie. It was one thing to be offended by injustice but to stand up against it took courage and as we walked together through the watery streets I felt very proud of them.

  Back at the car I swallowed down another rush of anger. I had wanted Zadie to realise that the world around her was a warmer, friendlier place than she imagined it to be, so that she might feel able to reach out and trust us. The scene back at the café was over in less than a minute or two but I suspected that its impact might reverberate far longer than that.

  So I was surprised to find, when we arrived home, that the incident seemed to have had the opposite effect. As soon as we got in Emily dropped her bags in the hall and asked Zadie if she wanted a drink. Zadie, rather than shaking her head and finding a corner to hide in, answered ‘Yes please’ in a voice that was audible enough for me to hear over the click as I closed the front door. Jamie, suspecting his luck might be in, switched the TV on and invited Zadie to play one of his Xbox games. When she agreed he gave a whoop. As I straightened Emily and Jamie’s abandoned shoes, lining them up with Zadie’s neatly positioned ones, I was tempted to give a little cheer of my own, feeling as if we were all a bit closer than when we left the house just a few hours earlier.

  That evening, for the first time since her arrival, instead of taking herself off to her room after dinner, Zadie sat up and watched television with us. I think that by leaping to her defence, Emily and Jamie had fixed themselves as fellow comrades in her mind, showing that there was a place for her in the matrix of our family.

  Chapter 8

  So when I headed off to the foster carers’ ball on Saturday evening, it was with a guarded sense of optimism. We had spent most of the day indoors, and thanks to the weirdly fortuitous encounter in the tea shop the atmosphere was perceptibly lighter. My efforts to include Zadie in our conversations were no longer strained and there had certainly been more interaction between her, Emily and Jamie. It was as if their show of solidarity had opened up a channel of trust.

  After preparing their dinner I had left them to eat together while I got myself ready, and when I stepped out of the shower I could hardly believe the banter that was drifting up the stairs. Changing into the only decent dress that I own, I could hear Emily and Jamie doing most of the talking but Zadie was chipping in occasionally, mostly with quiet giggles. Peering into the living room, I saw that a half-naked, orange girl gyrating across the television was the source of their amusement – they were wa
tching Big Fat Gypsy Weddings.

  ‘Oh no,’ I said, reaching for the remote control. ‘I don’t think this is the best idea. Choose a film to put on instead.’

  ‘What? Why?’ Jamie asked with a frown. Half-expecting him to blurt out that we often sit and watch the programme together, I gave him a quick warning glance. There was a pause then Emily leapt in with a helpful, ‘Oh, yes, OK, let’s download something.’ Jamie seemed to take note, pulling a face but slumping back in his chair without another word. Impressed that he was finally learning the art of diplomacy I pulled some washing from the radiator and walked through to the kitchen, folding it as I went.

  Jamie hurled the grenade once I had disappeared from his line of sight. ‘She thinks you’ll find it offensive because you’re a Muslim,’ he commented casually. I sighed and ran a hand over my brow.

  When I had asked my mother to babysit a few days earlier I had warned her to expect a wooden atmosphere, and so when she arrived, just after six, she raised her eyebrows, as surprised as I was by the genuine camaraderie between the three of them. Closing the door to the sound of laughter that evening was immensely uplifting.

  The ball was to be held at a hotel about five miles from my house and as I pulled into the car park I met Jenny and her husband, Aiden. It was a chilly evening and, with me nestled between them, the three of us walked towards the hotel, our arms interlinked. Tiny lights glittered around the stone-arched entrance to the hotel and as we pulled open the heavy oak door, warmth spilled onto our heads from an overhead heater. In the foyer, a young woman wearing a fitted black dress and white apron with frilled edges smiled and came over, her arms outstretched ready to take our coats.

  ‘We’re here for the Bright Heights do,’ Aiden told the waitress. He was a handsome, well-built man with salt-and-pepper, short hair and kind blue eyes.

  ‘Ah, yes. The Glamorgan Suite. This way please, sir.’