by Rosie Lewis
Emily and Jamie tore down the path together at just gone 4 o’clock, their faces eager and hopeful. I greeted them with a small shake of the head and they grimaced, their shoulders sinking as they dropped their bags slowly to the floor.
That night I dozed fitfully on the sofa again. I couldn’t go to bed: it would have felt like an abandonment of Zadie. Fully dressed, I arranged some pillows in an upside down ‘V’ and leaned against them, keeping my mobile close to my side. As my eyelids began to flicker I hoped with all my heart that, wherever Zadie was, she was confident that, no matter what, I would do my best for Nailah. And at least I was sure of one thing; whatever she was doing, she would know in her heart that we were all rooting for her.
Each morning I woke with a sweeping roll in my stomach and a tight feeling in my chest. I tried to remain hopeful, remembering what Sergeant Nicholls had said about leaving no stone unturned in the hunt for Zadie, but with the arrival of May, after a week of no positive news, it was becoming increasingly difficult to visualise a happy ending to it all.
A week after her disappearance, Emily got up, pensive and tired looking. I made her a cup of tea and then left her watching Megan. It was a little after half past six and Nailah was still asleep. I reckoned on little more than five or ten minutes before she woke so I undressed quickly and stepped into the shower. Even before I had rinsed the shampoo from my hair I heard heavy footsteps thumping up the stairs, Jamie shouting as he came. My heart flew into my mouth.
‘Mum! You’ve missed a call,’ Jamie shouted through the door.
‘Pass it through,’ I said breathlessly as I stood dripping over the bath mat. Leaning over, I unlocked the door, opened it a crack and snatched the phone as soon as Jamie slipped it through the gap. From Zadie’s room I could hear a weak cry – Nailah was waking up. Fumbling to unlock the keypad, I scrolled down to ‘Missed calls’, my pulse rising when I saw the words ‘Private number’. A faint blue light in the top right-hand corner of the screen was flashing – someone had left me a message.
Hurrying into the bedroom, I picked Nailah up then laid her down on Zadie’s bed. She beamed up at me as I sat beside her, cooing and tickling her tummy while dialling to pick up the voice message with my free hand. Jamie, standing in the doorway, started to say something but I waved my hand to shush him, frowning as I listened to the message.
‘I don’t believe it,’ I said as I turned to Jamie, the phone still clamped to my ear even though Sergeant Nicholls’s recorded voice had fallen silent. ‘My spoons set off the bleeper! Zadie’s been found at the airport.’
After a check-up at the local hospital, Sergeant Nicholls dropped Zadie home. When we heard the squad car pull up on the drive I rushed to pick Nailah up and then Jamie, Emily and I ran to the front door. Zadie looked pale and drawn as she climbed out of the back of the panda car. She was dressed in a robe that was crumpled and much too small, her feet and ankles visible below the uneven hem and the cuffs barely touching her wrists. Her old rucksack rested on her shoulder, the base covered in dark watermarks, as if at some point it had rested in a puddle.
She turned, her eyes lighting up as soon as she caught sight of us. Gathering her robe up in her hands, she charged towards us and, taking Nailah gently into her arms, she planted rapid kisses all over her soft hair. The three of us encircled them in a group hug and then Zadie and the others went into the house, Emily and Jamie firing rapid questions at her, as if she’d just returned from a holiday. I hung back to have a quiet word with Sergeant Nicholls. Eyes shining, he was leaning over the open driver’s door, his craggy, square jaw softened in a tender smile.
‘So, what exactly happened?’ I asked in a hushed tone when the others had disappeared from view.
He walked around the door and perched on the boot, crossing his feet at the ankles and folding his bulky arms. ‘Well, it seems they’d been planning their little operation for weeks. Zadie was moved around after she was snatched to avoid detection and when their fake passports were ready she was escorted to the airport by an uncle and cousin. We found flight tickets on them for Egypt but Zadie was held up at the body scanner; she kept setting the alarm off. When security staff took her aside she told them she had been kidnapped.’ He levelled his gaze, smiling. ‘I have to say, Rosie, those spoons were a stroke of genius. How did you …’
I cut him short with a hand brushed through the air. ‘I can’t take the credit for that, I’m afraid. I was following advice from Sofia.’
‘Ahhh.’ He lifted his chin. ‘Well, Sofia quite probably saved that girl’s life.’
We fell silent for a moment and I wondered whether his mind was marvelling at the sheer randomness of life, as mine was. Decisions made in a heartbeat had the potency to ripple outwards, changing the course of a whole lifetime. If Sofia hadn’t taken the time to talk to me, Zadie might not even be here. It was a disturbing thought, and as I thanked Paul and walked back into the house I resolved to make the most of every day and put all the petty worries that sometimes got me down firmly aside.
One evening, about three weeks after Zadie had returned to us, Sergeant Nicholls rang. At first when I heard his voice he sounded so jovial that I thought he was just making a courtesy call to make sure all was well with Zadie or to update us on the prosecution of the family members who had snatched Zadie and tried to smuggle her out of the country. As I listened to what he had to say I sank down on the sofa, my free hand rising to cover my cheek. ‘I don’t believe it,’ I half-whispered. Emily, Jamie and Zadie migrated from their seats to gather round, their faces full of concern.
After thanking the police officer, I lowered my phone to the cushion beside me and looked at Zadie. Her expression was grave, no doubt wondering what else could possibly go wrong for her.
‘Zadie,’ I said, reaching out to grip her hands, holding them tight. ‘You’re not going to believe this, darling. They’ve found your mum.’
Her eyes grew wide. She let out a breath. ‘Really?’ she asked, a stream of tears rolling down her face.
‘Really,’ I replied, smiling through my own mist of tears.
And then the two of us were laughing and crying all at once. Behind us, Emily and Jamie raised their hands in a high five.
It took a while to decide on a meeting place for the reunion. Nailah Hassan was more than welcome in our home but I worried that she might feel a little intimidated by the prospect of meeting her daughters after so many years in the house of a stranger. Peggy had suggested the neutral territory of a local café but the event was so momentous that it seemed fitting to choose a grand setting; somewhere with enough nooks and crannies for me to drift into the background and allow the family some privacy.
We eventually agreed on Chatsworth House in Derbyshire, one of Emily’s suggestions. The stately home was a bit of a trek from us but the journey was straightforward, and Nailah, having flown into East Midlands Airport from Egypt, was staying in a B&B in nearby Chesterfield.
And so early one Friday morning at the beginning of June we left the babies in the care of my mother and set off for Derbyshire. Zadie and Nadeen sat quietly in the back of the car, each so absorbed in their own thoughts that they barely uttered a word during the whole two-hour journey. As we neared our meeting place the roads narrowed, the trees arched overhead shading us from the emerging sun. Surrounded by parkland and nestled between low, rocky hills and the River Derwent, Chatsworth House was stunning.
We arrived with plenty of time to spare and so ambled slowly through the heather moorland leading to formal gardens. Cows dipped their heads in a distant meadow and a pair of squirrels scrambled down the trunk of a nearby tree, the bark crackling under their claws. Down on the grass they raised themselves up on their hind legs, craned their necks and then, as if startled by an inaudible noise, simultaneously darted beneath some neatly clipped bushes. All of these things I pointed out to the girls and they bobbed their heads in acknowledgement, both too far away to respond with any more than a vague smile. When we reached the
Emperor Fountain, our pre-arranged meeting place, the two sisters stood motionless, each holding the other’s trembling hand.
A roux of pine and freshly dug earth clung to the light breeze and I breathed it in deeply, trying to reign in my own nervous protectiveness – I had no idea what their mother would be like and they had both been through so much; I hoped the reunion would be all they expected it to be. In the distance I could see a woman walking towards us. She was wearing a long black skirt and a plain dark top but her head was uncovered so, assuming that Nailah would be wearing a headscarf, I quickly dismissed her, my eyes scanning the landscape for other possibilities.
But then I noticed a movement behind me; a stiffening in Nadeen’s posture, a quickly inhaled breath from Zadie. The girls released their hands and froze, watching as the woman in the long skirt quickened her step. When she was about ten feet away she stopped and stared, raising her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. Her other hand flew to her mouth and she began to shake. I found myself holding my breath as I glanced back at the girls, the agony of anticipation so intense on their young faces.
‘Girls?’ the woman said in a querulous voice, the word sounding like a question, as if she couldn’t quite believe they were really there in front of her.
Nadeen held out her free hand and smiled, offering a bridge across all the years that they had been separated. Zadie laughed a little hysterically and followed suit. Their mother flew to them, locking them both in a tight embrace. She was talking between sobs, her foreign words tumbling into their hair. Every so often she pulled away, cupping each of their faces in a trembling hand.
Tears were pouring down Zadie’s cheeks. ‘I’ve missed you, Mama.’
The three of them closed arms around each other and I circled, first a few feet away and then further, keeping them within my sight. After a few minutes Nailah pulled away from her daughters and reached her hand out towards me. Zadie and Nadeen turned to look at me, smiling through their tears. I crossed the path and walked towards them. When I reached the group Nailah took hold of my hand and kissed it, repeating soft-sounding words over and over as she enclosed it between her palms.
Zadie’s departure was as her arrival had been – quiet and understated. It was July, just four weeks after the reunion with her mother, when we packed up her and little Nailah’s things and carried them downstairs to the hall. Nadeen, who had just turned 18, was staying in a small flat above a women’s centre in east London, working as their administrator to cover the cost of her rent. After checking with them, she invited Zadie to join her.
Their mother, Nailah, hoping that asylum would be granted by the British government, was also staying in the flat and was more than happy to help out, promising to look after the baby so that her youngest daughter could continue her education. There were the usual nerves in the air on the morning before Zadie’s departure, each of us dreading the moment of saying goodbye. I think the babies sensed from our subdued moods that changes were afoot; their usual excited babble was muted, their expressions quizzical.
Even Peggy seemed reserved when she arrived at just after 10 a.m. to pick Zadie up. There was no booming greeting or impatient chivvying, just a brief, sympathetic glance thrown in my direction. Emily and Jamie helped Peggy and me as we loaded the cases into the boot of her car, Zadie keeping an eye on the babies as they tumbled around the living-room floor. With everything in place, I strapped Megan into her buggy and wheeled her one-handed onto the drive, Nailah balanced on my hip. Peggy smiled at me, nodded to Emily and Jamie and then climbed into the driver’s seat with a creak from her hip and a small groan, leaving us to our goodbyes. Emily, already weeping, threw her arms around Zadie in a bear hug and stole my usual line, reminding her that we could be contacted by email, phone or text (at any time, day or night!).
When they pulled apart Emily covered her face with her hands, softly sobbing. Zadie brushed her eyes on her forearm then turned shyly to Jamie. He jogged awkwardly on the spot for a moment and then held his arms out at a stiff angle. They leaned towards each other, touched opposite shoulders and then straightened, both laughing and exchanging bashful glances.
Watching from behind, I leaned down to brush a kiss on little Nailah’s perfect brow. She gazed up at me, smiling quizzically. ‘Goodbye, my little angel,’ I whispered, stroking her soft cheek. Zadie walked over and stood in front of me, her arms outstretched. Twisting Nailah around, I planted her into her mother’s loving arms with a little pinch in my chest.
I looked at Zadie. ‘You look after yourself,’ I said, my voice cracking as I squeezed her arm.
‘Oh, Rosie,’ she cried, bursting into tears. ‘How can I ever thank you?’
‘You have nothing to thank me for,’ I said, my eyes misting over as I pulled her into a sideways-on cuddle. ‘Just look after each other,’ I said, planting a kiss first on Nailah’s and then on Zadie’s head.
Knowing how happy the family were to be reunited would make it easier not to dwell on the loss of Zadie, I was certain of that, but as I tipped Megan’s buggy up the steps and followed Emily and Jamie back into the house I knew that we would all miss her gentle presence.
About a week after Zadie had moved on I accepted another placement and it was as I prepared our fostering room for the new arrival that I felt the teenager’s absence most keenly. A lump rose to my throat as I moved around the space, my thoughts drifting to the special moments we’d shared and of new beginnings and hope for the future. One of the most important skills foster carers have to learn is the ability to shape themselves around their constantly changing family. By opening our home and hearts to another child, I was trying to move on in the best way I could.
Epilogue
Towards the end of November 2013 the British government granted Nailah Hassan refugee status, allowing her to stay in the UK. Zadie, a regular visitor to our home, told me that her mother was relieved and delighted by the news. I hoped that being part of her granddaughter’s life and watching her grow might go some way to compensating for the years Nailah had missed out on being with her own daughters.
The family live in a small flat in east London but, with little Nailah starting nursery, all three women are now in paid employment and saving for a place of their own. Zadie continues to study in the evenings, still nursing the hope of working with animals one day. Wherever the family eventually settle and whatever they do, I am confident that they have freed themselves from the shackles of the past, their future promising to be a lot brighter than the life they had left behind.
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Chapter 1
What Lies Beneath. That was the name of the film, wasn’t it? The one where the wife thinks she’s seeing things that aren’t there? As titles went, it was a good one for a psychological thriller. But though it would soon strike a chilling chord with me for professional reasons, right now I was oblivious of what lay in store, so it came to mind for more practical ones. I was busy digging – digging deep into my capacious school satchel, to see if what lay beneath in this case was a pen that actually worked.
It was touch and go whether I’d have any success. In fact, it was an action that, at times, put me in mind of one of those celebrities in the jungle plunging a hand into a black hole while being blindfold. It was a very big satchel and there was a great deal of stuff generally at the bottom of it, which was par for the course given the nature of my job. ‘You know what?’ I said to Kelly, my sometime assistant, having turfed out half the contents in order to find one, ‘you would think that after all this time, someone would finally work out how to operate the heating system in this place, wouldn’t you? It’s not exactly rocket science, after all.’
It was mid-morning break and Kelly and I, along with a lot of the other teaching staff, were spending it in the staff-roo
m – not just so we could warm ourselves up a bit with hot drinks, but so we could retrieve any extra clothing we might have in our lockers.
It was only the beginning of March, but it was almost as if all the radiators in the place somehow knew that the weathermen had announced that morning that it was officially the first day of spring. They had then apparently decided in unison that they should break down, quite possibly for the entire season. This in turn meant that the school was already going into the usual ‘cold weather meltdown’, with key staff bustling about the place bearing thermo-meters and recording temperatures, while the children – always quick to sniff an opportunity on the breeze, particularly a chilly one – could already be heard up and down the corridors making plans for a possible early exit, if there were insufficient degrees Celsius for them to be allowed to stay.
‘It’s not boiler science either,’ Kelly told me. ‘Not on this occasion, anyway. I just saw Donald on the way up here and he said it’s not the boilers. Apparently someone turned the whole system off over the weekend by mistake and it’s just taking a long time to kick in again. Still,’ she said, grabbing a biscuit from the half-opened packet on the table in front of us, ‘didn’t Ranulph Fiennes say that when it’s really cold you burn loads of extra calories through shivering? So that’s fine by me. Custard cream?’
Her enthusiasm for trying to force-feed me biscuits aside, Kelly Vickers was a godsend in my working life. One of the school’s 20 or so teaching assistants, she was assigned, first and foremost, to help me as and when required in my role as the school’s Behaviour Manager. Ours was a busy inner-city comprehensive, big enough to have a specialised behaviour unit (well, to us, just ‘the Unit’) where my job was all about helping the various children who, for one reason or another, couldn’t cope effectively in mainstream classes. It was a veritable ‘mixed bag’ of reasons, as well, including children who were in danger of being excluded, those who had problems in school (be they academic and/or social) and kids who were struggling because of problems at home – something that naturally tended to impact on a child’s progress and well-being.
