by Rosie Lewis
‘What is it, Ems? What have I said?’
‘Nothing,’ she said instantly, though she kept her eyes averted.
‘She’s upset about Dad,’ Jamie blurted out. ‘You mentioning the holidays probably reminded her about it.’
‘What about Dad?’ I asked, stirred with curiosity.
The change in pitch around the table seemed to cut through Zadie’s mental fog and I noticed that her eyes were now darting between Emily and Jamie with the same intensity as mine.
Jamie eyed Emily hesitantly. Colour rose to her cheeks and she gave him a sharp look.
I felt my pulse quicken. ‘What is it?’ I repeated, running my fingers over the latticework arm of my chair. My tone was demanding, though I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear whatever they had to say. ‘Tell me, one of you. What’s wrong with Dad?’
‘He and Debbie are getting married in July,’ Jamie said, eyeing Emily with a touch of defiance. ‘He told us last week.’
I felt a twinge low down in my stomach as I looked at Emily. Her mouth was pinched closed and there was both embarrassment and sadness in her eyes. A ripple ran through my throat. Swallowing it down, I reached for her hand. ‘Why didn’t you tell me, honey? Is that why you’ve been quiet lately?’
She shrugged.
‘Jamie?’
‘She told me not to tell,’ he said, thumbing Emily over his shoulder and helping himself to some toast.
Emily shot her brother another sharp look. ‘I didn’t exactly say that.’
‘She did, Mum.’
‘Shut up, Jamie,’ Emily hissed.
‘You shut up,’ he returned.
‘Be quiet, not shut up,’ I said, realising that I sounded like I was talking to a couple of toddlers. My gaze slipped across to Zadie, wondering what she must think of us. She cleared her throat and lowered her gaze.
‘I didn’t want to upset you,’ Emily said, her eyes misted over.
‘Honey, I’m not upset,’ I said airily, managing a wan smile. ‘I think it’s nice.’ I must admit that I had to concentrate to get the words out without clenching my teeth.
‘Really? Well, I don’t,’ Emily said, twisting her face into a grimace. ‘I think it’s weird. He’s a bit past it for all that romance stuff, isn’t he?’
I laughed. ‘He’s only a couple of years older than me.’
‘Exactly,’ she said with disdain.
I stroked her cheek. ‘You’ll get used to the idea, honey.’
Emily swiped at her damp eyes briskly and glanced around the table. Zadie, who had been watching our exchange with interest, offered Emily a tender smile. It was a simple act but one born of kindness and Emily smiled gratefully back. It was touching that Zadie, with all she had to cope with and the changes in her life, took the time to consider the feelings of Emily. Not for the first time, I got the sense that her gentle presence would help to solidify her place in the family.
We left home at 1.30 p.m. and by that time the sun was shining so brightly through the windscreen that I lowered the sunshields and rolled the windows down. The warm breeze floated through the interior of the car laden with a twin scent of exhaust fumes and freshly cut grass. In the rear-view mirror I could see Zadie bobbing nervously up and down, lifting her arms every few seconds to adjust her headscarf. By the time we reached the outskirts of town she had pulled it down so far that it resembled a hoodie and was almost touching her eyebrows.
I was actually surprised that I had managed to get her into the car at all. Besides the review, Zadie was overdue for her LAC medical, a compulsory health assessment for looked-after children that was supposed to take place within 28 days of coming into care. In the last three weeks I had booked two appointments but had to cancel both at the last minute because Zadie had worked herself up into such a tizzy, physically sick with nerves. I was beginning to suspect that fear had been the narrative of her life so far, to such an extent that it would take a long time to overwrite.
Pulling up at a red light, I stretched in my seat and gave a heavy sigh, wondering for the umpteenth time why she was so afraid. Still, I thought, at least the mystery over Emily’s recent doldrums was finally solved. I pictured her troubled expression at breakfast with a twist of sadness but I reminded myself that children manage to adjust to all sorts of situations. I had seen it many times and Emily and Jamie were, on the whole, happy and well-adjusted individuals with strong moral compasses. I tried to tell myself that I couldn’t really ask for more than that.
Riverdene School for Girls was screened from view of the road by a sweeping line of tall fir trees and so it was only as we pulled into the narrow drive that its full finery was revealed. The main school was a building caught in time with high turrets, ivy-covered stone walls and an ancient-looking clock tower. Surrounded by impressive lawns with meadows beyond and bordered by woods, it was an idyllic place and I thought what a joy the school run must be for Riverdene parents, knowing their children were passing their childhood days in such a beautiful place.
I nudged my car into a space at the bottom end of the car park between one of the school minibuses and a row of tennis courts, watching as a group of girls about Zadie’s age, dressed in white shorts and polo shirts, bobbed lightly around the astroturf practising their serves. ‘Come on then,’ I said cheerily. ‘Let’s go and find Peggy.’ The fresh air and beautiful surroundings had lightened my mood, so much so that I’d almost forgotten my dislike of formal meetings.
When I opened the door for Zadie and caught the look of anguish on her face my own stomach performed a lazy half-roll. As she climbed out she made a little noise and then, straightening, she rubbed her hands roughly up and down her face. She looked a little queasy and drew in a shaky lungful of air but it didn’t seem to help. I draped a steadying arm around her shoulder. ‘I’m here for you, honey,’ I told her. She gave me a wan smile and smoothed her robe in that way she always did.
We made our way around the sprawl of other buildings, the windows of each echoing those of the main school with tall arches and glass of leaded light. Across the grounds I could see a cricket pavilion surrounded by neat flower beds and, beyond that, a chapel. The air was softly fragrant, alive with the faint buzz of insects and distant, excited chatter. Zadie gazed around in awe and I felt a sudden pang of pity for her – an intelligent girl with a thirst for learning, and yet even our local comprehensive was forbidden ground. ‘What a place,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ she breathed, ‘it’s like Hogwarts.’
I smiled at that, remembering what Emily had said about Zadie probably being too sheltered to have even heard of Harry Potter. She spoke without a trace of resentment – she just didn’t have it in her.
Eventually we found what we were looking for: a building known as the Dene, where Peggy said the meeting was to be held. The interior of the Dene itself wasn’t quite as impressive as its surroundings; paint was peeling from the walls of the narrow stairway we climbed and the floors creaked beneath our feet, but the crumbling brickwork and dead flies collecting along the windowsills seemed to add to its enchantment.
On the second floor the dusty oak boards seemed to sag a little, so much so that I found myself tiptoeing, as if that would lighten the load. Our footsteps echoed around the place and I felt a twitch of anticipation, imagining what stories the old building had to tell. Standing beside Zadie on the landing, a large space about ten feet square with large boxes stacked high against the walls and several doors on three sides, I turned one way and then the other, unsure where to go.
I crept across the hall and opened one of the scarred doors, aware of Zadie’s reticence; I got the sense she would have liked nothing more than to turn tail and run back to the sanctuary of the car; a feeling I could sympathise with. A combination of mustiness and damp drifted from the room, the stale hot air spilling into the corridor. Against the far wall stood an ancient photocopier with one of the little white doors hanging on its hinges and, behind, the ornate window was cracked in several places. To my
surprise, in the middle of the next room was a large Victorian bath and I guessed that at some point the Dene would have housed dormitories for borders.
‘Look, Zadie,’ I said. ‘A bathroom.’
Zadie leaned around me. Peering in, she made a rising noise of surprise.
‘Tempting to lock ourselves in there and skip the scary meeting, isn’t it?’
She shot her head around and took in a sharp breath, her eyes widened with hope. ‘Can we?’
‘I’m afraid not, sweetie. As much as I’d like to.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘Don’t you want to go either then?’
I shook my head. ‘Not really. I don’t like meetings. When it comes round to my turn to speak my tongue swells.’
‘Your tongue?’
I nodded. ‘When all the attention is on me my tongue feels too big for my mouth, then it won’t bend. It gets so stiff that I can’t talk properly.’
For a moment she just stared at me, her eyes shining. And then she convulsed, her whole body racked with laughter. It was a real belly giggle, the loudest noise I had ever heard her make, and it tickled me so much that I burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter as well. For the next half a minute or so we couldn’t stop, both of us doubled over and convulsing, our arms clutched to our tummies. Every time I straightened, gasping as I tried to catch my breath, she looked at me and we dissolved into fresh paroxysms. The sound of scraping chairs from inside the room at the far end of the hall finally sobered us and we looked at each other, a little surprised and disorientated, as if we’d forgotten where we were and why we were there. A low hum of conversation from inside the room drew me over and Zadie followed, both of us exchanging smirks and trembling with suppressed giggles, like chastised schoolgirls. I rapped softly on the door before opening it, noticing that Zadie was wiping her fingers beneath her eyes – she had been crying with laughter.
Peggy was sitting on one of a group of half a dozen hard-backed chairs that had been arranged in a semi-circle in the small room. She smiled and stood up as we entered, tucking a wad of papers into her armpit and clamping them there with her arm. ‘Hello, Rosie. You found it then? Bit of a rabbit warren, isn’t it?’
‘Certainly is. What an amazing place, though,’ I replied, my jaw stiff and eyes watery from our laughing fit. Zadie hung her head low, hiding the vestiges of a smile. I looked from Peggy to the gentleman sitting two seats away from her own chair. Unmistakably Zadie’s father, his eyes were the same deep brown but slightly sunken, surrounded by dark circles. A thick beard covered his cheeks and chin but the area above his lip was closely shaven. He was wearing a long beige-coloured robe that reached his ankles, shiny black shoes visible beneath and a round hat on the top of his head. He was staring at a point beyond my shoulder where his daughter hovered, using me as a human shield. Parents are often unsure how to behave towards their child’s foster carer and, not wanting to appear partisan, I smiled, even though he wasn’t quite looking at me.
‘Yes, marvellous, isn’t it?’ Peggy said, her breath rattling as she turned and gestured to her right. ‘This is Diane Howell, our Independent Reviewing Officer.’ A woman dressed in a smart black trouser suit nodded towards me, her auburn hair spun into a high bun. She smiled warmly.
‘And this is Mr Hassan, Zadie’s father.’ The gentleman stood and shuffled a few paces towards me, giving me the once-over then, for the first time. The expression he wore echoed that of his son when we met at the Lavender Fields and I folded my arms, my smile freezing awkwardly on my face. His scrutiny got me wondering how I must look to others and I suddenly wished that I wasn’t such a low-maintenance woman. Vowing to replace the low lighting with a 100 watt bulb that would force me to face reality and conduct a complete overhaul, I wrapped my arms further around myself; at least with them entwined I couldn’t make the same mistake as I had with Chit by offering a friendly hand to shake. ‘Hello. Nice to meet you,’ I said, feeling myself shrink a little under a current of unease.
‘Hello,’ he said with a stiff nod before removing his hat and shuffling sideways to confront his daughter. His face was heavily lined and there were deep crevices running vertically from the downturned corners of his mouth to his chin, giving him a sad look that I imagined would remain, even if he were feeling happy. ‘Zadie,’ he mumbled.
‘Papa,’ Zadie whispered. I half-turned, discreetly offering them some space. Zadie kept her eyes downcast, her whole body trembling.
‘What is this nonsense about?’ he asked gruffly. I tried telling myself that any parent would feel a mixture of emotions if their child ran away, and anger was bound to be one of them, but there was a fury in his eyes that I found extremely unsettling; it wasn’t surprising that Zadie looked intimidated.
She parted her lips as if to reply but then she made a gasping noise instead, casting a beseeching look in my direction.
I rested my arm on her back. ‘Are you OK, honey?’ Her eyes flicked to her father and then back to me. A tiny twitch near her eye gave me the feeling that tears weren’t too far away.
‘I feel a bit sick,’ she said, her voice wobbling.
‘Sit down,’ Mr Hassan barked, though his features remained serene.
Zadie looked startled and shuffled towards a chair, but Peggy held up her hand. ‘You don’t have to stay if you don’t feel up to it, Zadie,’ she said firmly, her eyes flicking to Mr Hassan. I got the feeling she was daring him to challenge her. He didn’t.
Zadie’s eyes flitted from Peggy to her father. She stood frozen, petrified. ‘Would you prefer to wait outside?’ Peggy was nodding as she spoke as if underlining Zadie’s right to make her own decision. It was a sensitive gesture that I hadn’t expected. I was beginning to realise she wasn’t as unfeeling as I’d first thought.
The teenager gave the tiniest nod. ‘Very well,’ Peggy said in a clipped tone as she turned to open the door. Zadie dived outside, her face yellowish and sickly looking. At least there was a bathroom out there for her, I thought. She looked like she might need it at any moment.
‘Right, shall we get started?’ the IRO said, opening the manila folder balanced on her knees. And when we were seated she said, ‘If you could give us an overview of things so far please, Peggy.’
Peggy walked her fingers over the wad of papers on her lap, finally settling on one with a little ‘hmph’ in her throat. ‘Zadie was found by police on the Tuesday 3 May,’ Peggy began, giving the few scant details she knew about the days when Zadie went missing. When she told the IRO that Zadie had pleaded not to go home Mr Hassan’s expression didn’t change but I noticed his hands gripping the brim of his hat so that his fingernails glowed white. ‘And that’s all we know at the moment. Mr Hassan has kindly agreed for Zadie to remain with Rosie under a Section 20 but Zadie herself hasn’t given us much to go on, as yet.’
‘She’s playing games and you’re indulging her,’ he said in a low voice, agitatedly feeding the brim of his hat through his hands. ‘She’s mentally unstable and manipulative. What she needs is discipline and –’
‘Sorry, Mr Hassan.’ Diane held her pen in mid-air. ‘We will move on to your thoughts in a moment but I’d like to hear how Zadie is coping in placement first.’ Mr Hassan sniffed and I noticed that the whites of his eyes were bloodshot. I was surprised by his words. I didn’t recognise her in his description, not Zadie. Even so, this wasn’t easy for him, I realised, not at all. Unlike some of the parents I had met before, he did seem to care, very much; he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Diane turned to me. ‘Rosie? Would you mind?’
I thought about how Zadie had cried when she told me about her early memories and tried to push my growing sympathy aside. It was good that Mr Hassan was showing a thread of discomfort, I told myself. His daughter was sad and he needed to react, to feel something.
‘Well, she’s very quiet but she’s coping well on the whole,’ I said, then went on to tell them about Zadie’s night terror. When I mentioned the cuts on her tummy I paused for a moment to register
their reaction. Diane winced but Mr Hassan wore the same mask of serenity as Zadie had in her early days with us, his face marbleised except for the smallest of twitches at the corner of his mouth. Outside, I could hear the stilted conversations of girls as they passed by and, trying to gather myself to continue, I held on to the sound for a moment. It’s never easy to confront parents, especially for someone like myself who, as a girl, would feign a nosebleed if called upon by a teacher to read out in class. Feeling steadier after a moment’s pause, I went on to explain that Zadie was reluctant to tell me why she ran away out of loyalty to her family. Mr Hassan made a steeple with his fingers and raised his hands to his lips, his gaze growing more intent.
‘And she’s mentioned her mother a few times. I know she misses her,’ I said, angling my knees towards Mr Hassan before continuing. ‘She doesn’t seem to know what happened to her.’
His chin slackened with surprise and his eyes grew darker. I hesitated for a moment, unsure how he would react if I continued.
‘I think it would really help her if she knew more about what happened to her,’ I ventured, noticing Mr Hassan’s raised eyebrows, the vein pulsing at the side of his neck.
‘I agree,’ Peggy jumped in. ‘I know you say it’s a private matter, Mr Hassan, but the girl needs to know her background, however painful you feel it might be. Children usually find the truth easier to deal with than the unknown.’
A flash of shame passed over his face and he swallowed loudly. ‘I’ve tried to do my best with her,’ he said, nodding in my direction as if he suspected me to be the one who was most likely to agree with him. ‘I’ve had to bring up four children alone. Their mother …’ He paused, licking his lips.
I took the opportunity to interrupt. ‘Don’t you mean three?’
He frowned. ‘What?’
‘You said four. Four children. Don’t you mean three?’
He gave a small flick of the wrist. ‘Yes, yes. Three. But four with my young nephew. He’s around most of the time. Anyway, their mother, she walked out before Zadie started school. I had to work and keep a roof over our heads.’
