Читать книгу The Little Princess: The shocking true story of a little girl imprisoned in her own home - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 7

Mike and Tyler were back within half an hour and, to at least stem the tide of typical Tyler-questions (which was totally reasonable, as he’d come to us as a traumatised child himself) we told him just a little – just enough to satisfy his curiosity. We told him Darby had been abused by her parents, that it was physical rather than just mental, but we left it at that. We were of one mind, Mike and I – and it had never been any different. No child should have to know about such things – that such things went on in apparently normal families. Not until they had to, at any rate. Of course, the hardest thing when Darby came to us would be to ensure that remained the case, but as Tyler, now off school for Christmas, had a packed programme of football and various teenage gatherings, I hoped we’d be able to achieve that much at least.

‘So what do you think?’ I asked Mike as we all trooped up to the bedroom, their presence required to relocate some of the junk from landing to loft.

‘It’s fine,’ Mike reassured me, while Tyler pulled down the loft ladder. Then, ‘Love, stop fretting about the décor. More important is how we’re going to play this. You know, I hate this. And it seems to be the way more often than not now. Going in blind. Nothing to go on … not knowing how to deal with her.’

I could see what we’d been told was still weighing heavily on him, and I got that. How could it not? He was a father. And, more specifically, of a daughter – not to mention two granddaughters. Though you’d have to be naïve not to be well aware that it could equally have been a little boy.

‘I think there’s a car pulling up,’ Tyler shouted down from the loft, being blessed with superhuman hearing.

And indeed there was. A swift glance out between the spare bedroom curtains confirmed it. The headlights snapped off and I could see the car door opening. ‘Well, here goes nothing,’ I said, as Mike followed me down the stairs, Tyler clattering down the ladder and close behind.

The social worker, whom I’d not come across before, was as grim-faced and stressed-looking as John had been. She introduced herself as Katy Morris, and gently touched the shoulder of the little girl by her side. ‘And this,’ she said, smiling down at the tiny child, ‘is Darby.’ She leaned down slightly. ‘Are you going to say hello, Darby?’ she said gently. ‘This is Casey, and that’s Mike. Remember, I told you all about them in the car?’

‘And this is our son Tyler,’ I added, conscious of how the little girl kept her head down, unwilling to look at us, but sufficiently interested to briefly look up at the sound of my voice. Her gaze flickered past us and I imagined Tyler beaming his mega-wattage smile. He could be a handful – he was a teenager – but I don’t think he’d ever forget what it felt like to be dumped on a stranger’s doorstep.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Katy Morris said. ‘I literally had about ten minutes to read your file.’

She looked so apologetic that I felt like patting her reassuringly on the shoulder too. She must have been on call. What festive delights had she been dragged away from? She was also quite young. No more than late twenties, I reckoned. Though with a reassuring air of quiet confidence.

Even so, this would have been a grim day for her too. ‘No apologies necessary,’ I reassured her, liking her immediately. ‘Come on. Come on in. Follow me,’ I chirped, leading the small procession into the living room, where it still looked as if a small typhoon had recently passed through. ‘Grab a seat anywhere you like,’ I added, willing myself not to start straightening cushions. ‘How about a hot drink? It’s so cold out, isn’t it?’

She nodded. ‘Can I?’ she answered. ‘I’d love a quick one. It’s been manic, as you can imagine.’ She put her bag down on the floor and started unbuttoning Darby’s coat, talking to her all the time in soothing tones. It was an old coat and cheap-looking, and I belatedly realised it was the only thing she had with her. Had they not even had the chance to gather up some familiar clothes and toys? Evidently not.

Mike, ever practical, put the TV back on, flicking from DVD player to the channels as he did so. ‘How about some cartoons?’ he suggested to the girl, as he navigated the remote for something child-friendly. ‘Would you like that, Darby? While the grown-ups have a quick chat? And a biscuit, perhaps? And a drink of juice or milk?’

At the mention of food and drink, Darby finally properly looked at us, and I was immediately struck by the arresting nature of her looks. She had the sort of dirty-blonde hair that young actresses paid a fortune for, shoulder length, fine, with a messy, choppy fringe that looked like it had been done with kitchen scissors. Behind it, I could now see a hauntingly beautiful little face. She had clearly been crying a lot – her cheeks were streaked with tear stains and very grubby, but those eyes! They were an amazing, almost luminous electric blue. Wide set and almond shaped, they were framed by thick lashes. Of the kind young actresses probably paid good money to have stuck on, too. It was a face that could stop you in your tracks, and, along with an appreciation of her gorgeous elfin looks, came the same sense of revulsion as had come earlier. People had