Читать книгу Crying for Help: The Shocking True Story of a Damaged Girl with a Dark Past - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 10

Levi was beginning to recognise faces now, and it was wonderful to see the big grin he gave me when I swooped towards the pram and lifted him up. Grandchildren, I decided, should be available on the NHS.

‘How’s my little man, then?’ I asked him. ‘As gorgeous as ever? You want a coffee, love?’ I asked Riley. ‘Sophia’s still upstairs getting ready, so we’ve got time.’

Riley nodded, and went to flick the switch on the kettle. She then nodded towards the hallway. ‘How’s it going?’ she whispered. ‘What’s she like?’

I raised my eyebrows a touch. ‘You’ll see!’ I whispered.

As if on cue, Sophia clattered down the stairs, and came into the kitchen smiling, but looking (well, as far as I could tell on our few days’ acquaintance) uncharacteristically shy around Riley. Which was interesting. Riley had a big, big personality, but she definitely wasn’t the intimidating type. Not unless she needed to be, anyway. In fact, where my and Mike’s fostering was concerned, she was a godsend. She really cared about what we were doing, and wanted to help wherever she could. In fact, she was already talking about doing fostering herself, once Levi was a little bit older. She smiled broadly.

‘Hi! You must be Sophie, then,’ she said brightly. ‘Nice to meet you!’

‘Sophia,’ she corrected. ‘My name is Sophia. Not Sophie, okay? Just so you know.’ There was a sudden flash of anger in her eyes.

Riley nodded slightly, but didn’t otherwise react. Even though I knew she’d seen it too, bless her. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ she said nicely. ‘I must have heard wrong. Anyway, this little man here is my Levi. D’you want to give him a cuddle?’

The flash subsided just as quickly as it had appeared. And just as she’d intimated to me earlier, Sophia seemed very keen, holding her arms out as I handed him over, and now cooing, ‘Look at you! You’re so sweet! Oh, and look at your beautiful black curls!’ She turned to Riley. ‘He obviously gets his hair from you and your mum!’

Which was true. We all of us had thick, raven locks. ‘You wait till you hear him scream,’ Riley laughed. ‘He gets that from Mum too!’

‘Hey, you!’ I chided. ‘Anyway, let’s do this coffee. Time’s getting on and we need to head out.’

‘Casey,’ said Sophia. ‘Is it okay to put down the baby? I still need to finish getting ready.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I thought you were ready already.’

‘Er, not quite,’ she said, already leaving the kitchen. ‘I still have to do my hair.’

‘She looked pretty ready to me,’ Riley said, once Sophia had run back upstairs.

‘Me too,’ I agreed, puzzled. ‘Oh, well.’

‘So, what’s the lowdown, then?’ Riley asked. ‘How’s things going? She seems sweet enough.’

‘Yes, she is. Well, at least intermittently. But there’s a whole lot going on underneath the surface, obviously. Been a pretty grim time for her, these last couple of years.’ I told Riley about the incident with the nightwear and what had happened at the hospital. ‘I’m not quite sure I have a handle on her yet, to be honest. She seems to swing from mood to mood without any real warning. But, as I say, when you think about her background … well, there are bound to be challenges ahead, aren’t there? Still, she seems to have taken to you, anyway.’

Riley nodded. ‘Well, to Levi, at any rate. Actually …’ She lowered her voice. ‘I did notice she kept looking at me when she thought I couldn’t see. And rather strangely, too. You know? Kind of assessing?’

‘I know what you mean,’ I said. ‘I’ve felt that too. It’s like she has a mask in place most of the time. And it’s only when she lets it slip that you get a glimpse of what’s going on beneath. I’m sure she’s built a very big strong wall to protect herself …’ I handed her her coffee. ‘But I’ll get there.’

‘Well,’ said Riley, ‘if anyone can, you can, Mum, I’m sure!’

‘I appreciate your confidence,’ I said drily.

And speaking of masks, it was a full fifteen minutes before Sophia returned, and when she did we were both open mouthed in shock. She had changed, in that time, out of all recognition. Gone were the perfectly appropriate jogging bottoms and hoodie she’d been wearing, and gone also was the perfectly neat and brushed hair. Instead, she’d curled the latter to within an inch of its life, and changed into skinny jeans and a tight black vest top. But it was her face which was the most arresting thing about her. She had plastered it in make-up; really trowelled it on. Dark foundation, dark lipstick, a swathe of eye shadow, thick mascara – she looked more like an 18-year-old, headed for a night on the town, than a 12-year-old girl going shopping.

It was Riley who found her voice first. ‘Goodness, you look very glamorous!’ she observed diplomatically. ‘But it’s freezing outside. You’ll catch your death! You want to go upstairs and put something thicker over that?’

‘I’ve got a jacket,’ Sophia responded. ‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Sweetheart, isn’t that rather a lot of make-up to be wearing?’ I added gently. ‘You know, they won’t allow you to wear it like that at your new school next week, don’t you?’

‘That’s fine,’ she said airily. ‘I just like to make an effort.’ She turned to Riley then and smiled sweetly. ‘Don’t you wear make-up, Riley?’

If it was intended as a barb, it was a sharp one. But Riley didn’t flinch. ‘Not much, during the day,’ she said mildly. ‘I do when I go out, but when it’s light, in the daytime, I prefer to keep it looking natural. I could show you some tricks of the trade, if you like.’

Bless her, I thought. She was doing the same as I was. Remembering that this wasn’t a peer, just a young girl, in the midst of an appalling situation. But one with strong opinions, too. ‘That’s okay,’ she said. ‘But I like it like this, thanks.’

Upon which I think we both decided the best course of action was to draw a line under any more discussion of Sophia’s eyeliner. ‘Come on,’ I said, pretty much at the same instant Riley did. ‘Let’s head to town and do our girlie shopping.’

Twenty minutes later we’d made it into town and hit the shops, and to a passer-by we probably looked like a perfectly normal family gathering, except I couldn’t shake off the feeling that had been stalking me since Sophia’s arrival – that I had to be on guard, be alert, keep an eye trained on her all the time. Not physically – she was too old for me to worry about her running off and getting into scrapes – but just this vague nervousness, like she was this unknown quantity you had to keep checking on. It was her smile, I think. The fact that it never reached her eyes. As if it was stuck on, and could be whipped off in an instant.

But I had a mission on and I intended to complete it. ‘How about these?’ I suggested, once we were in a shop selling nightwear, and I was holding up the umpteenth pair of pyjamas.

Sophia shrugged indifferently. ‘Whatever.’

I bit my lip. She wasn’t being so different, I reminded myself, from plenty of other girls of her age. In the end I selected a few sets of PJs myself, together with a fleecy dressing gown that came with matching slippers.

‘Cheer up,’ said Riley, helpfully, as we exited the shop. ‘I had that dressing gown and slippers from Mum at Christmas, and they’re really cosy –’

‘Oh, she likes dressing girls up as old ladies, then, does she?’

I don’t think Sophia intended it for my ears, but I certainly heard it. Riley rounded on her. ‘Sophia! You could at least try to be grateful!’

‘And since you didn’t want to help me choose them, what do you expect?’ I added levelly. ‘And as Riley just said, a little gratitude really wouldn’t go amiss.’

I was busy thinking how this was what she most needed, her rude behaviour reined in a bit, just like I’d always made a point of doing with my own kids, when I realised she was about to burst into tears. It was incredible. One minute so cheeky, the next looking so wretched. Was this why everyone pussyfooted around her? Because you simply couldn’t discipline her for fear of her cracking up? I sighed inwardly. That wasn’t useful at all. If so, how could anyone help her?

I stopped scowling and instead scooped her into my arms.

‘I’m so sorry, Casey,’ she sobbed. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude. Thanks for my pyjamas.’

‘It’s okay, love,’ I soothed.

‘I’m just missing Jean so much. It’s hard …’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I know. Now then, you probably need to stock up on toiletries, don’t you? Shall we do some proper girlie shopping now, eh?’

I glanced at Riley as I said this, noting her sceptical expression. But I made a sign to let her know that I didn’t want her to say anything, even though I knew exactly what she meant. Early days, I thought. Only early days yet.

And the next hour passed agreeably enough. Though we were soon to see yet another sea change.

‘How about we have lunch in that new organic café?’ I suggested. I’d clocked it before Christmas and they’d seemed particularly baby-friendly.

‘I’d promised to go and meet David,’ Riley began. David ran his own business – he was a professional plasterer – and at the moment was working close by. ‘But I guess I could tell him to come and meet us here instead, couldn’t I?’

Sophia’s ears pricked up. ‘David?’ she said. ‘Isn’t that your boyfriend? What’s he like?’

Very much to Sophia’s liking, seemed to be the answer, because lunch soon became excruciating. If she’d seemed a bit over-enthused with her endocrinologist, now Sophia was utterly rapt. She hung on David’s every word, kept flicking her mane of curls all over and giggled excitedly at pretty much everything he said. If it hadn’t been so uncomfortable, it would have actually been comical, for she sat, chin on fist, gazing at him adoringly.

Riley, however, wasn’t too amused. ‘Elbows,’ she chided. ‘This is a restaurant, Sophia.’ Which not only earned her a withering look, but also a giggle at David and a roll of her eyes. ‘Ooh, er! Is she always so fussy?’ Sophia purred.

Now I was getting really uncomfortable. ‘Tell you what,’ I suggested to Riley, ignoring Sophia’s comment. ‘Why don’t you walk David back, and we’ll head to the market with Levi?’ I had a few bits to buy, and she could easily catch us up. And it might stop her bursting a blood vessel.

But as soon as we were alone with the baby, Sophia turned to me, oblivious. ‘Oh, Casey, he’s well fit,’ she said, stopping me in my tracks. ‘How old did you say he was?’

‘I didn’t,’ I pointed out. ‘But way too old for you, young lady. And also taken,’ I added pointedly.

She giggled again, then, but was happy to push Levi to the market. She chatted animatedly to me as she did so, as well, even though one of her comments was that pushing a baby was great because it always made you such a ‘man magnet’.

I made light of it, but by now I was having serious concerns. She was attracting male attention not because she was a young girl pushing a pram. She was attracting it by the way she was wiggling as she did so. This girl had been sexualised – and to a increasingly worrying degree. Which rang alarm bells. What had happened to her that we hadn’t been told about?

We’d been told to expect it at some point, of course, but when the letter arrived that Friday from social services it was to inform us that Sophia’s next visit to her mum would be taking place just a week on Sunday.

My musings about why Sophia behaved around men the way she did were now nudged out of pole position by my worrying about that. I didn’t know why, quite – I’d dealt with plenty of bad things in my time – but I was filled with this sense of foreboding. The tone of the letter didn’t help, either, making it clear that the whole thing would be emotionally exhausting for her, and that we’d have to be extra vigilant about her taking her medication, as her stress levels would be particularly high. We might even, the letter warned, have to make her take more hydrocortisone, as the stress might deplete her reserves. Finally, it advised that the visit might be upsetting for us to witness; in short, the letter seemed to say, brace yourselves.

The timing, I thought, was very poor as well. We’d already been told that these visits were infrequent, so why arrange one in the midst of so much upset in her life? She’d have barely been with us a fortnight! I gathered up the rest of the post and went into the kitchen. I could hear Sophia coming down, accompanied by Bob. She’d definitely made a friend in our little mutt, at least. Which was pleasing; pets were so good at soothing troubled souls. And so uncomplicated with it. Just what she needed.

‘All right, love?’ I asked her as they both came into the kitchen. I was pleased to see she was wearing her new pyjamas and dressing gown.

‘Yeah, fine,’ she said, smiling. ‘And it’s a lovely day, isn’t it?’

‘Nice to see some sun,’ I agreed. ‘Even if it’s perishing out there. Let me just let Bob out then I’ll make you some breakfast.’

‘I’ll do it,’ she said. ‘Out through the conservatory, is it? I can stay and keep an eye on him too.’

‘Don’t forget your tablets.’

‘I won’t!’ she responded brightly.

‘Then I’ll make us both a nice fry-up, shall I? I’ve got bacon, I’ve got mushrooms, I’ve got eggs …’

‘That would be lovely,’ she said, grabbing her meds from the fridge. ‘But no mushrooms for me, thanks. Mushrooms are yuk!’

Well, well, I thought cheerfully, as she followed Bob into the conservatory. Was I at last seeing a glimpse of the girl behind the mask? The girl she might once have been?

And could be again, I hoped, if she got the right kind of help and support. Poor, poor kid. None of us could make things right for her – not where her mum was concerned, anyway. But at least we could all go some way towards making her life more manageable; give her some tools with which to better deal with her demons. But thinking of her mum reminded me I now had to puncture her seemingly happy bubble. But not yet. I would choose my moment. Do it later.

The ‘later’ turned out to be lunchtime, because the morning had continued in much the same cheerful vein, and I figured she was in a good frame of mind. She’d played in the garden with Bob for ages, even though it was perishing, and once I’d done all my housework and told her I’d make something she particularly liked for lunch she seemed genuinely chuffed at my suggestion.

Which wasn’t out of the blue; I wasn’t a mind reader. With our first foster child, Justin, having such issues around food, and because our kind of fostering was geared to particularly damaged children, minimising any anxieties that didn’t need to be there was a really big help. And with issues around food being quite common in kids who’d been in the care system (unsurprisingly, given how insecure they tended to be, not to mention having to compete with older and bigger kids in children’s homes and so on) Mike and I had devised a questionnaire. It was something kids who came to us could fill in before they moved in, and gave them a chance to list all the things that mattered to them. Foods were the major part, but we also included things like favourite colours, favourite TV shows, any hobbies that mattered to them and so on. It all helped to make the transition process just that little bit less stressful, and, in Sophia’s case, I knew she liked cheese and beans on toast.

‘Ooh, lovely!’ she said, seeing it, as she joined me at the table. ‘You’ve done it just how I like it, Casey. Thanks so much.’

‘You’re welcome,’ I said. ‘I’m looking forward to trying it, as it happens. I’ve never had beans and cheese on toast together before.’

‘Oh, you’ll love it,’ she assured me. ‘It’s gorg. Really gorg.’

Perhaps this was my moment. ‘By the way,’ I said lightly. ‘I had a letter from social services earlier. They’ve arranged for you to visit your mum Sunday week.’

A full minute passed before she responded in any way. She just carried on eating, mechanically putting forkfuls in her mouth. Then she finally lifted her head. ‘And?’

‘And nothing,’ I said, keeping my tone breezy. ‘I just thought I ought to let you know. Are you okay, love?’

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she said, putting down her knife and fork. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I’m not really hungry. Is it okay if I go upstairs and finish my unpacking? I still have some things to sort out.’

‘Yes, yes, love,’ I said quickly. ‘Of course that’s okay. We did have that big breakfast this morning, after all. Probably not a good idea to … well …’

But I stopped speaking because by now she’d already left the room. I sat there not knowing what to think. Had that gone well or hadn’t it? At least she hadn’t kicked off or become visibly upset. And going quiet and wanting some time alone – well, that seemed normal. After all, how did you deal with having your mum effectively dead, yet still there, alive in a hospital bed? The closest analogy I could think of was having a loved one with Alzheimer’s – still there but not there. Not to communicate with, anyway. But that tended to be problem for adults with their elderly parents. This was a child. It was unusual and grim territory.

I got up and cleared the table. I’d leave her with her thoughts for a bit. She knew where I was if she wanted to talk about it. But she’d only known me a few days so I doubted she would. Instead I went to ring John Fulshaw so he was kept up to date. She stayed up there – I could hear the odd clatter of drawers opening and closing – for pretty much the rest of the afternoon. I must remember, I thought, as I pottered around downstairs, to warn Mike and Kieron that she might be a little preoccupied.

And just how preoccupied we were soon to find out. I’d roasted a piece of gammon for our tea, and also done as I’d intended: warned both Mike and Kieron of the news I’d imparted that lunchtime, and how they’d probably find her a little sad and subdued. But when she rattled down the stairs, obviously having heard Kieron’s voice, she seemed quite the opposite: bright as a button.

‘Hi Kieron,’ she said, as though they were mates from way back. ‘Good day at college? I’ve got school next week. Groan. But maybe you can help me with my homework!’

Mike gave me a look as if to say ‘Quiet?’, while Kieron shook his head emphatically. ‘Trust me, you don’t want me helping you,’ he said. ‘You’ll get it all wrong. I was rubbish at school.’

‘Only joking!’ she came back with. ‘I’m actually quite brainy. Get it from my mum’s side!’ Then she laughed like a drain.

The silence was uncomfortable and further eyebrows were covertly raised, and I moved the conversation on to less delicate topics as I carved the meat and plated up the meal. I was twitched. There was just no predicting this child.

And I don’t think any of us could have predicted what would happen next, either.