Читать книгу Moving Fostering Memoirs 2-Book Collection - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 10

It was Jamie who first spotted something was amiss.

He was standing excitedly at the window to watch for her arrival, and I could tell by the quiver in his voice that the young girl walking up the path wasn’t at all what he was expecting.

‘Mum, she’s … er, Phoebe’s here.’

With the sound of my own heartbeat rushing in my ears I reached the door as the bell rang, giving me just enough time to smooth down my unruly, unwashed hair. ‘Hello, Phoebe,’ I said, the friendly smile on my face stiffening as I caught sight of the 120 centimetres of disgruntlement standing on the doorstep. One glance told me that the description ‘warm and friendly’ might have been a tad overgenerous.

‘Hello, Phoebe,’ she mimicked with a sneer before barging past me into the hall.

‘Goodness, well, come in,’ I said, with false brightness. All of the children I have looked after have exhibited some level of ‘challenging’ behaviour but on first arriving in a new placement, most were withdrawn; only once they felt safe enough to test the boundaries did the difficult behaviour begin to emerge, signalling the end of the honeymoon period.

It was the first sign that Phoebe would turn everything I thought I knew about childcare completely on its head.

Lenke, Phoebe’s social worker, hovered on the path. She was a rotund, bosomy woman, and I groaned inwardly as I stepped aside and welcomed her in. The previous year the Hungarian social worker had been responsible for a child I had accepted for a fortnight’s respite and though I’d got on fine with her, I formed the strong impression that her heart really wasn’t in the job. Besides a laissez-faire attitude, she didn’t seem to have a clue what she was doing.

Whatever I had asked for, whether it was GP details or a contact schedule, a blank expression would cross her face, followed by a futile search through the dog-eared contents of her overlarge leather bag. A sketchy command of the English language on top of her air of disinterest was one complication too many and in short, communication had been a trifle frustrating.

A loud chanting from the living room quickened my step along the hall.

‘Jamie, Jamie, Jamie! Wet willy, wet willy!’

‘Lovely it is to see you again, Rosie,’ Lenke said breezily to my back, as though the walls of the hallway were not vibrating with the sound of piercing screeches coming from the living room.

The first thing I noticed when I stood in the doorway was the horrified expression on my son’s face. He was arching over the back of the sofa, fending Phoebe off with his arms as she fought to stick her wet finger in his ear.

‘Stop that please, Phoebe,’ I said, my voice sharp. Clearly there was to be no honeymoon period in this placement and the sooner she learnt who was in charge, the better.

‘Stop that please, Phoebe,’ she mimicked again. Although she was using a high-pitched, scornful tone, I could tell immediately that she was well-spoken, each word precisely clipped. Thankfully my own tone had an effect. Although she fixed me with a brazen look she stopped what she was doing and began staring at me with a nasty, twisted smile on her face.

‘I’m going to my room,’ Jamie wheezed. He passed me with his head bent over so I couldn’t see his expression but the slope of his shoulders told me how he was feeling. Despite his protestations about wanting a boy, I knew he had been looking forward to meeting Phoebe.

‘OK, Jamie, that’s fine,’ I said, my voice tight as a sudden guilt clawed at my throat. What had I taken on here?

‘I’m going too.’ Phoebe flipped over the sofa and charged across the room but I stepped backwards to fill the doorway by stretching out my arms.

‘No.’ I summoned my most commanding tone. ‘We don’t go into each other’s rooms. Now go and sit down. I’ll show you around the house later, if you sit nicely while I talk to Lenke.’

‘Sit nicely while I talk to Lenke,’ she repeated, spinning around and returning to the sofa. Lenke walked past and I gestured for her to take a seat. The social worker headed for the opposite end of the sofa, hardly looking at Phoebe, who sat with her legs sprawled, glaring at me. Her hair was brown and frizzy-looking. The style was boyish, cut short to make the wiry texture more manageable, I imagined. Her eyes were appealing, light brown in colour, but seemed to swivel, giving her a slightly deranged look, and she was scarily thin, so much so that the skin across her cheekbones had a translucent quality.

‘How about we find some colouring for you to do, Phoebe?’ I said, crossing the room. ‘Emily, would you mind fetching the pens and some paper? Phoebe can sit at the table while Lenke and I chat through some of the boring details.’

Emily was watching Phoebe, intrigued. ‘Sure,’ she answered, giving me a sidelong glance. ‘Come on, Phoebe.’

‘Come on, Phoebe,’ she chorused. Emily giggled in response and out of nowhere I remembered reading A Series of Unfortunate Events to her when she was younger. One of the characters in the book, the headmaster, mocked everything the Baudelaire children said. His outlandishly rude character had captured Emily’s imagination at the time and she found it hilarious. I wondered if she was thinking the same as me.

‘Would you like tea, coffee?’

‘No, it is fine.’ Lenke waved her hand and pulled her substantial coat a little tighter around herself. She looked distinctly uncomfortable. The social worker wants this over with, I realised, as I sat next to her on the sofa.

‘So,’ I said in hushed tones once Phoebe was settled at the dining table. Our house is open-plan so even though I could still see her, she was out of earshot. ‘What’s the story with Phoebe?’

‘Oh,’ Lenke waved her hand dismissively. ‘Phoebe, she has a touch of, er, what you say?’

I shook my head.

‘Er,’ she hesitated then reached into her bag, pulling out her diary and flicking through it as if the word she was looking for would miraculously leap from the page. ‘I do not have the, what is it, the papers yet. It was all such an emergency. But it is, er, I think you say autism?’

‘Autism?’ I said, louder than intended. Phoebe inclined her head, staring at me with a strange grin on her face and then, without warning, she threw her head back and began barking. ‘That wasn’t mentioned by the agency,’ I said over the din. Of course, autism would explain her erratic behaviour. The mimicking, screeching and barking made much more sense now.

‘Well, it’s how you say, erm, mildly, not much autistic.’

‘Really?’ In the background I could see Phoebe flapping her arms in front of herself like a demented penguin. That could never be described as mild, I thought drily, not in any language. Emily was watching the antics of the new arrival, her eyes wide with fascination.

‘Why was she taken into police protection?’

Lenke watched my lips avidly. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I said …’ I raised my voice again to compete with the animal noises coming from across the room. Phoebe fixed me with another icy stare. ‘Why has she been removed?’

‘Er, she is, erm, telling one of her teachers today that her mum hurt her arm. She twist it behind her back, so she say.’

‘Is she known to social services already?’

‘Sorry? I don’t know this …’

‘Is she subject to a Child Protection Order?’

‘Oh no, no,’ Lenke shook her head. ‘This family is fine, no problems. Her father is very successful financier. Respectable. I think that this is possibly false alarm. It may be, erm, possibly part of the illness. We interview the parents this afternoon. They are mortified, really. Nice people, yes. She should be able to go home as …’

A scream from across the room stopped Lenke in mid-sentence. The noise was somewhere between a balloon squeak and a smoke alarm. ‘Please, Phoebe,’ I said evenly but kept my tone stern, ‘don’t scream, sweetie. It’s upsetting.’

‘Don’t scream, it’s upsetting,’ she repeated contemptuously, but picked up another pen and returned to her colouring.

Lenke smiled serenely, the picture of innocence. ‘I think it be good for her parents to have a break. When she back home we will look into the, how you say,’ she fluttered her hand through the air, as if trying to catch the right word, ‘you know, a rest?’

‘Respite?’ I offered.

Lenke nodded emphatically. In the background Phoebe began flapping again, this time accompanied by a loud ‘whoop-whoop’ noise. I could certainly understand how her parents may have reached the end of their tether, dealing with such severe problems on a daily basis. We’re going to have our work cut out here, even just to get through a few days, I thought rather guiltily. Still, Phoebe was just a little girl and we would have to make the best of it. I had dealt with difficult situations before, I reassured myself. There had been times in the past when I had been daunted by difficult behaviour but with patience and support from my family we had managed to overcome whatever problems we encountered.

Within half an hour I had signed several copies of the Placement Planning Agreement. Most of the form was blank since so little was known about Phoebe but the basic facts were there, along with her parents’ details. Their address caught my attention – Rosewood Drive, a rather prestigious road several miles from us, with manicured lawns and substantial houses. So, the family must be fairly well-to-do, I thought to myself, which tied in with her well-spoken accent. Most of the children I had cared for in the past were from impoverished backgrounds.

Every family has its problems, I mused. ‘Is she on any medication to control her …?’ But Lenke zipped up her bag, then stood, tying her belt around her coat. I guess that’s a no then, I thought. She began drifting from the room, her relief palpable.

‘Well, that is all I know for now. I’ll leave you to it, Rosie. Bye bye, Phoebe.’

Phoebe barked in response.

‘Good luck, Rosie,’ Lenke called out over her shoulder as I stood on the doorstep, waving her off. ‘Ah, I forgot to mention one more thing: the school says that Phoebe has the condition called pica so you need to be careful about leaving her unsupervised.’ I stared at her agog but she scuttled down the path without a backward glance. She may as well have shouted, ‘See you, wouldn’t want to be you!’ Not for the first time since I received the initial call about Phoebe, I was filled with a growing trepidation.

I remembered from our initial training that children with pica were inclined to eat inedible objects. I had no personal experience of the condition but guessed it meant that Phoebe would have to be treated like a toddler: any object could be a potential choking hazard. I was beginning to understand how difficult it must have been for her parents to cope with her.

It was as I closed the door that a strange groaning noise from the dining room drew me back. Emily called out, ‘Mum, I think maybe you should come here …’

Rushing back into the room I noticed the look of concern on Emily’s face as she watched Phoebe standing on the table with her legs spread wide, loudly remonstrating with thin air. Her arms flailed wildly as she spewed words out in no meaningful order – ‘You get that off, pens so useless, rip it out, bitch!’

‘Are you alright, Phoebe?’ Emily asked, moving forwards before I could form the words to stop her.

Phoebe screamed, kicking Emily’s outstretched arm, hard.