by Rosie Lewis
I told her more about Zadie’s self-harming and my suspicion that her brother was sending her violent and pornographic material to watch. When I mentioned the online clips of FGM she merely sighed and bobbed her head. Clearly she’d heard it all before. I spoke for over half an hour. Sofia chipped in occasionally to ask a question but apart from that she listened and sipped her coffee. It felt so good to share my fears for Zadie with such an insightful, knowledgeable woman.
‘So how do you know all of this?’
‘It’s just what I’ve managed to piece together from Zadie. She’s been reluctant to talk and I get the feeling she hasn’t opened up fully yet but we’re getting there’ – I gave her a rueful smile – ‘slowly.’
Sofia raised her thickly defined brows. ‘I think you’ve done very well. Many women and girls from Zadie’s background are terribly suspicious, mistrustful of everyone. I know that some people consider Asian women a bit aloof and uncommunicative,’ Sofia pursed her lips and rested her hands on the table. ‘Often they’re just scared.’
I nodded. Zadie was scared all right. Scared of everyone.
‘I’m guessing that’s why Zadie’s sister ran away. Because of what they did to her. Although Zadie’s social worker thinks there may be more to it. She’s worried that she may have been forced into a marriage and sent away.’
‘It’s possible. Forced marriage is not illegal at the moment in the UK, although there are high-level talks about making it so in the near future. It’s something we’ve been campaigning for since 2005. Child marriage goes against Islamic teaching, just as FGM does. The Qur’an is clear that intellectual maturity is the basis for deciding age of marriage, not puberty. Attitudes towards the abuse of children changed during Victorian times over here, but in many societies marriage to a child is still seen as a badge of honour. Like the Catholics did until recently, many Muslim societies sweep the issue under the carpet. If Zadie’s sister was sent away to be married, it’s unlikely anyone in the community would come forward and report it.’
We sat in silence for a moment, both of us lost in thought. I wondered how Zadie managed to cope so well, having to bear the weight of two unresolved losses – her mother and her sister.
‘Social services have no idea what happened to the sister?’
‘No, they don’t have any information at all. It’s almost as if she never existed. You’d think that school would have reported her missing or –’
‘Does Zadie attend school, then?’
‘Actually, no. Good point,’ I said, realising that there was probably no one to miss her sister, apart from close family, and they were never going to say anything. ‘She was keen to continue studying but her father pulled her out.’
‘Sadly that’s often what happens. Many Muslim families value education but they feel that the benefits of going to school are outweighed by the risk of being corrupted by lax western values. We have so many teachers contacting us about pupils who literally seem to vanish from the face of the earth once they hit puberty. It’s a phenomenon that’s rarely acknowledged openly. The British are so fearful of being accused of racism.’
‘What about the police? Isn’t it reported?’
‘All the families have to say is that their daughters have been sent to study abroad. That’s often the end of it. The police are so desperate to maintain good race relations that they put political correctness before justice.’
‘So what really happens to these girls?’
‘Some spend the rest of their days at home, like Zadie. Cooking, cleaning, looking after the men and then being married off at an early age to live a life full of regret. Some are sent abroad in early puberty for marriage to someone they’ve never met.’ Sofia topped up her mug with more coffee. Its rich scent drifted across the table. ‘You know, I’m very concerned, Rosie.’ She looked at me with quiet intensity. ‘There’s no way Zadie’s whereabouts have been compromised, is there?’
‘No, the family don’t have my address.’
‘Good. On no account must it be disclosed. You will make sure of that?’
‘I will do my best. Zadie’s social worker was going to let her brother have contact with her at my home. I didn’t feel comfortable with it so I refused, but –’
Sofia groaned, interrupting me. ‘That makes me so cross,’ she snapped. ‘There have been so many cases of families executing their daughters for the slightest of misdemeanours. The authorities know this and yet they’re still reluctant to acknowledge the dangers in case they offend anyone.’ She made a fist and tapped it on the table. ‘Listen, Rosie, please. On no account must Zadie be allowed home. Tell her social worker. She would be sent abroad within a matter of days, I’m almost certain of this. Her family will be desperate to put things right. To atone for all the shame.’
My pulse quickened. I was beginning to realise just how precarious the situation was. I chewed my lip. ‘Zadie’s social worker said that her father is pushing very hard for contact. Because she’s in voluntary care I’ll be the one supervising it.’
‘I tell you what you need to do.’ Sofia swallowed and looked at me with gravitas. ‘When you get home you must sew something metal into the hem of Zadie’s clothes.’
Confused, I frowned and gave her a half-smile.
‘I’m serious. If they manage to abduct her – and believe me, they will try – the metal in her clothes will set off the detector at the airport. This will give her enough time to alert the security staff. Rosie, believe me when I say these people will stop at nothing to preserve their honour.’
I felt the blood drain from my face.
‘So the authorities can’t tell you any more about her mother?’ she asked, her deep, smoky voice interrupting my thoughts.
I threw my hands into the air. ‘They don’t seem to know anything about her either. Do you have any idea what I can do to find out about her or Zadie’s sister? I think it would really help her to find out what happened to them. Even if it’s bad news.’
Sofia nodded. ‘I’ll make a few discreet enquiries if you give me their names and anything else you know about them. But, Rosie,’ Sofia wrapped her hands around her mug, interlocking her fingers, ‘we must tread very carefully. If her sister ran away she may not want to be found. We mustn’t compromise her safety in any way, and you’d be amazed just how strong the community is. A few months ago I was visited by a woman terrified for her life. Her husband became convinced that she was having an affair and had made threats against her. I convinced her to report it to the authorities and the next day she walked into a police station 50 miles from home. One of the officers called an interpreter in, and do you know what happened?’
I shook my head.
‘The interpreter was a distant relative. The woman nearly died of shock when he walked into the room and sat opposite her.’
I gasped and my hand flew to my mouth. ‘So what happened?’
‘The officers removed him, but of course her husband discovered where she was and so the police had to make urgent arrangements for her to be moved. These families have all-seeing eyes – amazing networks enabling them to keep control. It’s not unusual for male family members to become interpreters for that very reason.’
I stayed with Sofia for nearly four hours and, though I was tired, I was sorry to leave; she was a woman cut from different cloth. After the meeting, rather than catching the first train home, I took a ride on the Tube to Victoria and then headed on foot towards Oxford Street on the lookout for a café or sandwich bar. Usually my day is circumscribed by children and so it felt slightly hedonistic to walk past Pizza Hut and McDonald’s without a backward glance. I ended up in a little café down in the crypt of Westminster Cathedral where I sat in peaceful silence, amazed to find that, despite the flock of people milling around above ground, the place was almost deserted.
What Sofia had said about Zadie being in danger resonated with me as I made my way back to King’s Cross. I kept playing her warnings over and over in my mind during
the train journey home and began to feel increasingly edgy. So much so that when my mobile rang I started violently and the woman sitting opposite leaned over to ask if I was all right. It was Peggy. As soon as I heard her voice I took a deep breath, ready to repeat some of Sofia’s dire warnings.
‘It’s all right, Rosie,’ she said quickly, before I had a chance to speak. ‘We’ve had our meeting. I’m taking this to court in the morning and I’m certain we’ll secure an Interim Care Order.’
‘Oh thank goodness,’ I said, releasing the tight hold on my handset and sinking further into the seat.
‘It’s the pornography that worries us – I think that’s what will secure it, rather than anything else. We’ve had a surge in the number of cases where teens have become reliant on it, with some disturbing consequences. I won’t go into it on the phone but I’m sure you can imagine. Anyway, I’ll let you know the outcome in the morning.’
It was gone ten o’clock when I finally arrived home and the children were already in bed. Mum and I sat together on the sofa, both of us clasping a hot drink in our hands. ‘So how was your day?’ she asked, leaning back into the cushions. I told her what a revelation it was to meet someone like Sofia. Usually a good listener, Mum seemed a little distracted as if she was only half-listening. ‘What is it, Mum? Have they worn you out?’
‘No, love, I’m all right. It’s just, well, I worry, that’s all. What with you here on your own and all this going on. What if –’
‘Mum,’ I held up my hand, feeling more than a little guilty about my thoughtlessness. Mum was so energetic that it was easy to forget she was nearly 70. I was relieved I hadn’t yet told her about Sofia’s concerns. ‘There’s no need to worry,’ I said, sounding much more confident than I felt. ‘There’s no way they can find out where we are. It’s all absolutely fine.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, let’s hope so,’ she said with a sighing yawn, removing her glasses and pinching the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. ‘But this is social services we’re talking about.’
By the time we’d finished talking it was getting late so Mum took my bed and I settled myself on the sofa with a spare duvet and my sewing box. There was nothing like taking practical action to soothe the mind, and so, with a DVD of Pride and Prejudice playing in the background, I sat up until nearly 3 a.m. sewing tiny spoons into the hems of Zadie’s robes.
Chapter 15
Towards mid-July, after Zadie had been with us for over two months, I realised that I was growing used to her silent soundtrack. Despite her restless fingers endlessly twirling the bands on her wrist, she was a gentle presence and our days passed companionably. I always hesitated to use the ‘Q’ word but things were so quiet that I agreed to cover the out-of-hours rota for zero to ten-year-olds. It was strange, then, that I still wasn’t feeling relaxed around Zadie. With the threat of her imminent return home removed by the Interim Care Order there was no reason for tension, but I was still dogged by the same sense of urgency, the clock in my head gaining momentum with each passing day. All I could think of were missed opportunities, as if I was ignoring something vital.
For her part, Zadie finally seemed to register that we all wanted her around. She apologised less and sat with us in the evenings to read or watch television, becoming obsessed with one film in particular – The Parent Trap. It’s a film about identical twin girls who plot to reunite their estranged parents and it had been a firm favourite with all the children I fostered. The twins in the story sought what children covet most, a loving and united family, and Zadie watched it at every opportunity, perhaps because it appealed to her longing for the family she had lost.
There were still days when she seemed far away, her sadness keeping her distanced from our everyday banter, but physically she looked much better. Despite her poor appetite and frequent nervy tummy, her cheeks were filling out and her skin had lost its sallow tone. In the middle of the third week of July and the arrival of Ramadan, Zadie was only allowed to eat two meals: one before sunrise and the other after sunset. Determined that she should keep her strength up, I got up with her at 4.30 a.m. each morning to make sure she ate a decent breakfast, secretly willing the month to pass quickly.
Sofia kept in touch, calling every few days to see how Zadie was and updating me on the moves she was making to try and find her sister. About six weeks after my visit to the Women’s Centre Sofia rang to tell me that they were making some progress; it seemed that a Nadeen Hassan had signed a petition against forced marriage that was organised by another women’s centre south of the river. I didn’t mention anything about it to Zadie in case it turned out to be a dead end but I felt my own hope rising.
Sofia also told me about a school not too far from where we lived that had a high Muslim intake and special provisions respecting the Islamic faith; single-sex sports, segregated changing and prayer rooms with washing facilities. It sounded ideal for Zadie and, if she did go back home, was somewhere that her father was unlikely to object to. I thanked Sofia for her help and immediately gave them a call. The admissions secretary told me that there were no places available immediately but the summer holidays were fast approaching. She was almost certain that some of the children in Zadie’s year would not return for the autumn term and so there was likely to be a vacancy for Zadie to start in September.
Hurrying upstairs to give Zadie the good news, I knocked on her bedroom door, then froze halfway over the threshold. She was sitting on her bed reading one of my favourite books – Jonathan Livingston Seagull, a spiritual story that I was almost certain her father would disapprove of. She misinterpreted the look of horror on my face. ‘I’m sorry, Rosie,’ she said, her face crimson. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind …’ Her voice trailed away as she held the book aloft.
‘No, of course I don’t mind,’ I said, reasoning that it was hardly offensive material and I hadn’t encouraged her to read it. I walked further into the room and crouched beside her bed. ‘Anyway, I’ve got some good news for you,’ I said, smiling up at her. ‘There’s a school nearby that I think your father would approve of. They’ve got a place for you to start in September, if you’re still with us by then, that is.’
Knowing Zadie as I did, I hadn’t expected cheers or air punches. Those reactions usually came from Jamie. But I watched her face eagerly, expecting her to break into one of her rare smiles. So I was taken aback when she burst into tears and buried her face in her pillow. To say I was bemused was an understatement. I stayed by her side for a while, stroking her back and trying to get her to talk.
After ten minutes I decided to give her some time alone and went downstairs shaking my head.
The phone rang as I reached the bottom stair. ‘How are you fixed at the moment?’ Peggy asked before the receiver reached my ear. ‘Things still peaceful?’
‘Y-es,’ I answered hesitantly. ‘Relatively.’
‘Good. Look, I’m not really supposed to get involved in this but we’ve just had a newborn come in and I’d like to send her in your direction, if that’s OK with you? All of our in-house carers are full and we need someone experienced with this one.’
Peggy went on to explain that baby Megan had been born early that morning with a cleft lip. Her birth mother had recently fled from her violent partner and was living in a refuge but was also suffering from severe depression. Overwhelmed by the prospect of having a baby who would need special care and grieving over her lost relationship, she had reluctantly agreed that her baby daughter could be taken into temporary foster care. ‘So, what do you think?’
I thought about my previous struggles to separate after caring for young babies but my heart was already quickening as I wondered what Megan looked like and anticipating the soft warmth of a newborn in my arms. You’re really never going to be very good at the last bit, I told myself, the most important part where you have to give them back. My head was reminding me of the stark pain of letting go and the heartache of loss. But my heart was already wondering whether
I still had a steriliser tucked away in the loft. ‘Yes, I’d love to,’ I told Peggy, in spite of myself. ‘How soon can we pick her up?’
Remembering Emily and Jamie’s excited reactions whenever I had announced the imminent arrival of a young baby, I rushed back up to Zadie’s room to tell her, hoping that it might be just the distraction she needed.
Zadie paled as soon as I gave her the news, staring at me goggle-eyed as if had told her we were going to share the house with a pack of wild animals. ‘What’s wrong? Don’t you like babies?’ I asked.
Leaning against the headboard, she drew her knees up and tucked her arms beneath them. ‘Yes, I do,’ she whispered.
‘It doesn’t affect your stay here,’ I told her, wondering whether she was worried she might have to move on, as if it was a case of out with the old and in with the new. ‘I was hoping we might look after her together,’ I added, hoping to make her feel included.
She nodded and stretched her face into a sort of panicked smile.
I waited until Emily and Jamie came home to order the equipment I needed. I told Peggy that I still had Sarah’s crib, bedding and baby bath tucked away in the loft, but Peggy insisted that Megan should have everything new. When Emily was born I hadn’t been able to afford anything that wasn’t second-hand and so she and I had a wonderful time, sitting side by side at the computer and flicking through the pages of an online baby superstore.
Zadie eyed us warily, politely declining my invite for her to join us. She was withdrawn for the rest of the evening, joining us for dinner (we all ate after sunset to save the bother of cooking twice) but retreating back to her room as soon as she had helped with the washing up. Even the next day when the delivery arrived, she gave us a wide berth. It was Saturday and so Emily and Jamie were home. They tore into the boxes, helping me to organise everything, but Zadie wouldn’t be coaxed from her room.
