by Rosie Lewis
He looked directly at me, his face rippling with a curious fragility. ‘It’s not been easy.’
I felt sorry for him then, despite myself. He looked suddenly old, his eyes tired. Tilting my head, I gave him a mild smile.
‘What is it you do, Mr Hassan?’ Peggy asked.
‘I run a fuel station. My brothers are involved as well. When they were little Zadie and her brothers played in the back room while I served customers. It wasn’t ideal but I’ve always made sure they’re in clean clothes and well fed.’ There was an angry undertone to his voice; aggressive defensiveness.
I nodded again, this time with an openly sympathetic smile. I understood how difficult it could be to feel solely responsible for earning a living alongside caring for the family.
‘Well, we’ll see what support we can put in place if Zadie returns home. It’s a shame you didn’t ask for help before now. There is a lot we can do to help families going through –’
‘If she returns home? What do you mean, if?’ Mr Hassan cut in sharply, rising to his feet. ‘She’s my daughter. I’m not allowing this to go on much longer, especially with where she’s been placed.’ His eyes flicked in my direction. ‘With all due respect, you’ve sent her to a most unconventional home.’
I felt my cheeks pinkening up. Peggy had been reading through her notes but she glanced up at that comment and our eyes met. She raised an eyebrow minutely. Mr Hassan continued, ‘I was having trouble with Zadie before. What’s it going to be like after she’s been exposed to such different values?’
Embarrassed, I searched my mind for a response. What sort of people did he think we were? Peggy gave an impatient snicker. ‘Zadie comes from a one-parent household, Mr Hassan, and she’s been placed in another one. I don’t see the difference, quite frankly.’
I felt a swell of gratitude towards her. There was something honest and child-like in her manner, despite being middle-aged. It was reassuring to be in the company of someone who had no pretentions, no inhibitions. Mr Hassan remained silent for the rest of the meeting. He stood stiff-shouldered at the window and stared out at the grounds, although as it was wrapping up and Diane asked if there was anything he wanted to add, he reiterated his wish for Zadie to return home as soon as possible.
On the way home I told Zadie most of what had been said, though I held back on her father’s insistence that she go back. When we arrived home she drifted up to her room and soon after dinner she showered and went straight to bed. I read a crime novel into the early hours that night, trying to overwrite the now ever-present nagging in my mind.
I fell asleep with the book still clutched in my hand and when I woke to the sound of screaming at first I thought I was dreaming about the protagonist in the story who realised she was being followed as she returned home after a night out. I sat up with a jerk, blinking in the inky blackness. Emily and Jamie emerged from their rooms, their faces white and confused, as I blundered along the hall trying to find the arm of my dressing gown. ‘It’s all right,’ I said, giving their arms a quick squeeze. ‘You go back to bed.’
The expression on Zadie’s face was a shock to witness. Her mouth was gaping in horror and her skin was a pasty grey. I crouched beside her bed and ran my hand over her forehead and down through her thick hair, whispering gently. She turned and stared directly at me, clamping a clammy palm around my wrist. ‘What have you done with Nady?’ she asked in a raspy voice.
My stomach rolled. I leaned away from her and let my hand fall from her hair to rest on the duvet. My hand clenched tightly. ‘Who’s Nady?’ I asked, unsettled by her glassy, vacant stare and the urgency in her tone.
Her eyes clamped tightly closed and she began to whimper. ‘Nady,’ she repeated, as if there was someone hovering just out of her reach. ‘Nady, Nady …’
I sat beside her until she fell quiet, then returned to my own room, filled with a feeling of disquiet. Picking up my book, I tried to continue where I’d left off but I found it difficult to concentrate. I just couldn’t help wondering what was going on in the Hassan family, what had led to Zadie’s night terrors and just who on earth was Nady?
Chapter 12
Having finally managed to submerge myself in the complicated plot of my book, I couldn’t remember dropping off and even slept through Zadie’s early morning wash, only waking when my alarm went off at 6 a.m. When I came down to make coffee, the answering machine was flashing with four messages. I went through to the kitchen to flick the kettle on then came back to the hall and pressed ‘play’. The first message began with the words, ‘Have you been mis-sold …’ so I quickly hit the delete button. The next sounded robotic so I gave that one short shrift as well. And then a woman’s voice floated through the hall, brisk and firm: ‘Something has come up, Rosie. I need to come and see you urgently. Tomorrow if possible.’ It was Peggy.
The message had been left at 10.32 p.m. I felt a stab of pity for the social worker, so overloaded with cases that she had to work late into the evening. The last message was from Des, saying sorry that he hadn’t checked in with me since the ball and asking whether everything was going well. I played the message again, listening to the hesitancy in his tone. It was unusual for him to call so late in the day. Unsettled, I pressed delete and walked slowly back to the kitchen, the name Nady playing over and over in my mind.
Two coffees and one shower later I felt more relaxed and a little after 10 a.m. Zadie was standing beside me in the kitchen, ready to make a honey-drizzled farina cake, one of the specialities that she used to make at home. It had been tempting to ask about her night terror as we ate our breakfast but I resisted the urge, unwilling to distract her from eating. Now, as I took a pack of eggs from the fridge and handed them to her, she seemed so tired and far away that I asked her, for the third time that morning, how she was instead.
‘Well, thank you,’ she answered with habitual politeness.
I leaned my hip against the worktop and let her words float in the air. After a moment she asked, ‘How about you?’
My thoughts flicked back to breakfast, Emily singing as she danced around the kitchen with a piece of toast in her hand. She seemed to have adjusted to the news of her father’s remarriage, perhaps partly relieved by my own mild acceptance. I think that seeing how fearful Zadie was about meeting her own father helped to give Emily some perspective, grateful – as we all were when reminded how unsettled some lives can be – for the steadying certainties of a warm bed and loving family. So, with Emily back to her usual effervescent self and Jamie ticking along cheerfully, albeit with a touch more sarcasm than ever before, the only one for me to worry about was Zadie.
‘Oh, you know me, always the same. If my little brood are happy then I’m happy.’
She gave me a long assessing look, breaking into a smile when I started jigging from foot to foot and singing ‘The Kids Are Alright’.
‘You’re a little mad, Rosie,’ she said, giggling freely as she reached for the scales. My heart swelled at the wonderful sound, as delicious as the abandoned chuckle of a young baby. She didn’t have a recipe to hand; she seemed to know all the measures and ingredients by heart.
‘That’s what they tell me,’ I said, pulling a large glass bowl from the low cupboard in front of me. She gave me another genuine smile. We worked side by side for the next half an hour or so. She didn’t join in the conversation much after that but I could tell she was enjoying herself, or was, at least, content.
When the mixture was ready and she was scraping the golden thick liquid into greased tins I decided to start up a conversation about her disturbed nights in what I thought would be a gentle opener. ‘I know what I’ve been meaning to ask you. Who is Nady?’
I hadn’t realised just how pale dark skin can fade to when the blood runs out of it. Zadie froze, her skin blanching to resemble the washed-out tone of the cake mixture in the bowl still balanced between her fingertips. My heart quickened at her reaction.
‘How do you know about Nadeen?’
> I stared at her for a moment before answering, still taken aback by her instant mortification. ‘Well,’ I said slowly, ‘it’s just that you kept saying “Nady” over and over when I came to your room last night.’
She said nothing, her eyes fixed on me with a mixture of wariness and irritation.
I put my hand on her shoulder. She was trembling. ‘You were calling out. I came up to see what was wrong.’ I fell silent for a moment and then said, ‘Who is Nadeen, honey?’
She swallowed loudly and licked her lips. ‘My sister,’ she answered eventually, lowering the spatula and bowl to the worktop with an air of finality, as if it was all over for her; she’d finally been caught out.
‘Your sister?’ I exclaimed, louder than I had intended. ‘I had no idea you had a sister. Why have you never mentioned her before? Why did your father not say anything about her? Does Peggy know? Where is she then, this sister?’
Zadie, probably not expecting such a barrage of questions, looked at me with alarm. I could have kicked myself for not being gentler. ‘I don’t know,’ she answered with a wail. And then she burst into tears.
Some time later, when she had recovered a little, we sat side by side on the sofa. Zadie, a tissue clutched in each hand, was still regarding me warily, as if she thought she might be punished for revealing the existence of her own flesh and blood.
‘Zadie, you do trust me don’t you?’
‘Of course I do,’ she said, her voice still nasal from crying.
‘So you must know that all I want is to help you?’
She nodded, then dabbed her nose with a bunched-up tissue.
‘Do you think you could tell me about Nadeen? I won’t say anything to anyone else except Peggy, if you don’t want me to.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Well,’ I said, trying to organise the dozens of questions floating around in my head into some sort of rational order, prioritising them too in case she clammed up before I got to the end of the list. ‘How old is she, for a start?’
‘Three years older than me,’ she replied economically.
My head bobbed involuntarily. ‘So that would make her 16?’
Zadie shook her head. ‘She’s actually nearly four years older. So she’s 17.’
‘When did you last see her?’
‘Last year.’
‘Did she run away too?’
She sniffed. ‘I woke up one morning and she was gone, just like with Ma.’ Tears began to spill from her eyes again and she clamped them tightly shut, bunching the tissue in front of her eyes with both hands. ‘That’s what I try to do when I use the computer,’ she choked out, her voice thick with tears. ‘I’ve tried Facebook and all the networking sites but there’s just no sign of her anywhere.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, honey,’ I said, placing my hand gently on her knee.
Peggy arrived a little after 4 p.m., just as Emily was raiding the cupboard for chocolate biscuits and offering some to Zadie. Rather than hiding away when they came home, Zadie now seemed to look forward to their company, moving towards the hall as soon as she heard their key in the lock. Zadie had said nothing more about her sister. After our conversation she had drifted to her room and spent most of the afternoon there, quietly reading. Jamie had brought two of his friends back with him so the hallway floor was littered with rucksacks, PE bags and trainers. I have always told my own children and those I foster that their friends are welcome any time, but today really wasn’t a good day for unannounced visitors. I made a mental note to add a caveat to my open invitation so that they checked with me first.
‘I’m gasping,’ Peggy said wheezily, wrapping her fingers around the door jamb for purchase as she tackled the front step. ‘Oh, I didn’t realise you had someone else in placement,’ she puffed, walking through the living room. She withdrew a tissue from her sleeve and blew her nose loudly. ‘I should have been informed of that.’
‘This is my son, Jamie,’ I said as he crossed in front of me, heading for the kitchen. ‘And these are his friends.’ I waved a hand over the two teenage boys lolling back on the sofa. They glanced up with blank expressions before returning their attention to the gadgets clasped in their hands. It always puzzled me why they bothered to spend time with each other after school when the majority of it was spent staring at their phones and texting absent friends.
‘You only just met me,’ Jamie called out over his shoulder as he retrieved several bags of crisps from one of the cupboards. ‘Can we have these, Mum?’ he asked, popping several bags open before I even managed a nod. My son’s capacity for diplomacy knows no bounds. Since fostering I have found myself increasingly unsettled by the layers of deception that people hide beneath and so I’ve learnt to appreciate Jamie’s unflinching honesty, but there were times when it lost its charm.
Peggy’s jaw dropped in her customary way and then she smiled, perhaps appreciative of someone as straight talking as herself.
‘So I did. Well,’ she said, her chest heaving, ‘that certainly put me right. Rosie, can we go somewhere private to have a chat?’
The girls, armed with snacks, had gone into the dining room, Zadie at the computer and Emily with her school books spread over the table. ‘There’s only the garden,’ I said, ‘unless you want to sit on my bed?’
‘I wouldn’t trust myself not to drop off,’ Peggy said, hammering towards the garden. ‘It’s been mad, these past few weeks. Not that it’s ever much different. I’ll need a drink if I’m to make it to that swing, Rosie.’
After making her a quick cup of tea we sat on the swing. Well out of earshot, I told Peggy what Zadie had said about her sister. This time, her jaw dropped and stayed where it was. ‘Well, I never did.’ Stubborn grey hairs snaked themselves above the rest of her hair and stood defiantly still in the breeze. ‘The father never mentioned anything about a sister. How old is she?’
‘Nearly four years older than Zadie, so around about 17 or so.’
Peggy sucked in a lungful of air and made a whooshing sound. ‘Hmmm, that’s worrying.’
‘I know. To think of a girl that age trying to survive on the streets, it’s –’
Peggy harrumphed. ‘If that’s what she’s doing.’
I frowned, shaking my head.
‘If you knew the number of girls from Zadie’s sort of background who go missing every year.’ Peggy grimaced and looked straight at me. ‘Forced marriage is what I’m worried about.’
‘Ah.’ I nodded slowly. I hadn’t thought of that at all.
‘It just strikes me as odd that I’ve spoken to the father several times and he’s never mentioned a missing daughter. Mind you, he didn’t even report Zadie missing when she ran off. I’ll see if I can do a bit more digging and let you know if I find anything out.’
I thanked her, my mind running over the possibility of forced marriage. It seemed unbelievable that such a thing could happen in the UK in the twenty-first century. I felt a slither of discomfort at the thought of such disturbing secrets lurking underground, out of the radar of the authorities.
Peggy was still frowning, deep in concentration. I could tell that the news had unsettled her. ‘So what did you want to see me about?’ I asked after a moment or two.
She lifted her eyebrows as if making an effort to shift her mind back to the present. ‘Ah, yes,’ she swallowed, licking her lips. ‘There’s been a complaint.’
I closed my eyes and groaned. ‘Oh dear,’ I said wearily, my mind flicking through all the possibilities I could think of. Bracing myself, I asked, ‘What about?’
Peggy sighed. ‘I find it difficult to believe that you would have actually done this but I’m duty bound to ask you about it. It’s been said that you’ve been indoctrinating Zadie, trying to convert her to Christianity.’
I laughed, shaking my head. ‘Who told you that?’
‘The brother. So it’s not true then?’
‘No, of course not.’
Peggy nodded decisively. ‘I didn’t think
so. I know how experienced you are but he claims to have photographic evidence and –’
Gasping, I suddenly remembered the dark car slowing as it passed by the church hall, the unexpected flash of light. I dropped my face into my hands. ‘Oh no, Peggy,’ I groaned, ‘now you come to mention it, there was one time …’
Her jaw dropped in alarm. ‘What do you mean?’
I hesitated. ‘I suppose I did take her to a church, sort of,’ I said slowly, my face flushing.
Peggy’s lips stretched into a thin line and she made a little noise of disbelief. ‘Why would you do a thing like that?’
I explained about Project Congo and the quilt-making group at the church hall. ‘But we just dropped the packages off and then left. There was no service or worship. We didn’t even go into the actual church. I would never have done that. I was just doing a favour to help my mother.’
‘Rosie, I –’
‘I’m not even sure I have a faith of my own,’ I went on, not letting the social worker get a word in edgeways, ‘so why would I try to indoctrinate Zadie when I’m unsure of my own beliefs?’
That’s what really got my goat. I had conflicted feelings towards organised religion, sceptical despite my upbringing. While hopeful that there was someone compassionate watching over us and admiring of the foundations that underpinned many faiths – personal responsibility, humanity and kindness – whether Christianity, Islam or Buddhism, I wasn’t utterly convinced by any of them, certainly not enough to recruit others into sharing my hope. And I hadn’t even taken Zadie into the church. The hall, which was acting as a store room, was a building like any other. That’s the way I saw it anyway.
My stomach churned as I remembered another foster carer from Bright Heights who was disciplined and almost struck off for telling a child whose mother had died that she was in a better place, safe in heaven with Jesus. At the time I had thought it unfair to take action against someone who was only trying, in her own way, to relieve a child’s sorrow.
