Читать книгу Moving Fostering Memoirs 2-Book Collection - Casey Watson, Casey Watson - Страница 17

Over the next couple of days Phoebe’s behaviour began to improve and her symptoms seemed to lessen. Not to the point where she could be regarded as an ordinary eight-year-old girl, far from it, but as the Easter holidays drew to a close, and Phoebe had been living with us for almost two weeks, I noticed a definite reduction in her parroting and arm flapping.

I also became aware of a growing warmth between the two of us. It was strange, but the disapproving ‘shiny’ mums from our day out had stirred the instinct of a lioness within me and I felt an increasing protectiveness towards Phoebe. The experience had definitely brought us closer and she began to ‘accidentally’ brush against me as she passed by. It was more of an aggressive lunge than a hug, but still, I felt the right sentiment was there. Perhaps she sensed my growing fondness and was merely responding to that.

Jamie was also spending more time with Phoebe, something I hadn’t bargained on. She followed him around like a loyal puppy in awe of its owner, but rather than being irritated by it, as I would have expected Jamie to be, he tolerated the attention with good humour. An easy intimacy crept into their play and I began to suspect that he actually enjoyed having someone look up to him. I knew he welcomed the privileges that came with no longer being the youngest, like not being the first to bed, for instance.

There was also more coherence to Phoebe’s conversation, less ‘off the wall’ rambling. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was Emily and Jamie’s influence that had helped her to ‘normalise’ her behaviour.

So it was that once more I felt hopeful that we were over the worst and Phoebe wouldn’t feel unhappy enough to need to soil herself again. But at 8.30am on the first Monday after the holidays, as I stood next to her in the playground of Englebrook House School, I felt an unpleasant ache rising in my throat. Watching the other children play, I couldn’t help but feel that Phoebe didn’t belong there. Her body language told me that she felt exactly the same way.

Despite being away from her friends for two weeks, she showed no interest in seeing any of them, and they certainly made no attempt to include her in their games. Instead Phoebe hovered at my side, her face turned into my shoulder, staring avidly at my coat. Looking around, there were several children I recognised as having Down’s syndrome, a few that were wheelchair bound and others who walked with strange gaits, much as Phoebe had done when she arrived, two weeks earlier.

The playground itself was cheerful and welcoming, with lots of different play areas marked out in bright colours, and shiny mobiles hanging from the gables of various school huts. There was a fenced zone with adventure play equipment and, beyond a concrete area, a large grassed field with a running track and football nets.

‘Can you see any of your classmates here yet?’ I asked Phoebe. Reluctantly she pointed a number of children out to me and I gently placed my hand on her back. ‘Go on then, go and say hello to them. Have a play.’

She groaned, then wandered a few feet away, before turning around to look at me. I flapped my hand at her. ‘Go on,’ I said, trying to encourage her to join in. ‘Off you go.’

She rolled her eyes and shuffled along, turning in one direction and then the other. She seemed to fix her gaze on someone, then head towards them only to change her mind at the last minute and do an about turn. After a few minutes she began circuiting the playground, trudging unhappily along with her head lowered. Weirdly, her strange gait had returned. It was a heartbreaking sight and I really felt for her as I watched her loping along.

And that’s when it hit me.

I sensed the realisation with full force, a jolt to my stomach so strong that I felt my chest constrict. It was a moment when everything else seemed to move in slow motion, only my thoughts sharpening as they raced around my mind. Phoebe wasn’t stumbling along because she was struck intermittently by faulty wiring in her brain, a symptom of her autism, she was choosing to copy the children around her.

It was a feeling, I came to realise, that I had held in the deep recesses of my gut for several days, but now it had risen, embedding itself as a conviction firmly in the forefront of my mind.

When the school bell rang and the children were asked to line up outside the assembly hall my thoughts were still tumbling over themselves, but my shoulders sagged with relief. It had been difficult to watch her regress and I was glad that she would soon be out of my sight. Phoebe gave me a small wave before heading off to join the back of one of the lines. To me she looked to be on the verge of tears. There was lots of noisy, excited chatter as the classes filed in, though no one turned to talk to her.

The playground gradually emptied around me as parents headed for the school gates. I had phoned ahead and asked if I could have a brief chat with Phoebe’s class teacher, largely to introduce myself but also to see if I could glean any more information about her condition.

The receptionist smiled brightly after buzzing me in through the main school entrance doors. She made a quick phone call and a few minutes later a rotund woman of around 50 or so arrived in reception, smiling warmly.

‘You must be Rosie?’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m Miss Angel, Phoebe’s class teacher. It’s lovely to meet you.’

‘What a wonderful name!’ I smiled.

‘Yes, you wouldn’t believe how much it helps the children who are worried about moving classes. They think I couldn’t possibly be anything other than kind to them.’

‘Which you are, of course.’

She laughed, gesturing me through to a small side room off a corridor decorated with children’s paintings. ‘So, how’s she been?’ she asked once the door closed behind us. Her face was full of concern. ‘We were all so shocked about what happened. We had to report what she’d told us, of course, but we never expected her to be taken so suddenly.’

‘Erm, well, she’s coping OK,’ I said slowly, ‘though we’ve had a few challenges so far.’

Miss Angel nodded. ‘Phoebe does have complex needs. We’ve had a few frights along the way but her parents cope marvellously with her. They must be devastated. Such a lovely couple, they’ve done such a lot for Englebrook. Been very generous. It was Mr Steadman who donated the sundial in the main playground, you know.’

‘How does she cope at school from day to day? Does she have any friends?’

‘She’s not terribly popular with her classmates, I’m afraid. She tends to hit out quite a lot and they’ve learnt to avoid her.’ She grimaced. ‘I’m afraid the staff have had their fair share of problems with her too.’

‘Do you ever get the impression that she’s …?’ I hesitated, licking my lips. What I was about to say seemed disingenuous to imply, but if my suspicions were correct, something needed to be done to help her. ‘Do you ever get the impression that she’s putting her symptoms on?’

Miss Angel looked taken aback. ‘No, of course not – why would she?’

Yes, why would she? I thought, as I made my way back to the car park. It was something I was to spend many hours puzzling over. Poor Phoebe, she didn’t seem to have anyone who really understood her. Nowhere she truly belonged.

From the midst of my dreams that night, I became aware of a continuous, unsettling sound. Suspended in the free-falling world of half-sleep, I turned and bent the pillow over my ear in an effort to cling on to my relaxed state. All at once the muted, ghostly wails became increasingly shrill. Gasping, I propped myself up on one elbow, trying to gauge the time from the dim rays of moonlight dancing through a gap in the curtains. Frowning, I stayed motionless for a moment, listening to the innocuous tinkle of water running through the central heating system.

Moments after I had sunk my head back onto the pillow I heard a scream so piercing that I shot out from underneath the duvet, grasping for my dressing gown. Catching the rim of a glass of water on the bedside table, I knocked it over and it soaked the floor.

Disorientated, I stubbed my toes on the skirting board as I dashed along the hall, just as Emily and Jamie were emerging from their rooms in bleary-eyed confusion.

‘It’s alright, it’s just Phoebe,’ I reassured them.

Jamie rolled his eyes and groaned.

‘You two go back to bed,’ I said, a ripple in my stomach telling me that I was moments away from something incendiary. Sure enough, when I switched on Phoebe’s light there it was: the explosive, grisly scene hitting my senses with full force.

Blood stains covered every visible surface of the room. The cuddly toys, so attentively arranged by Emily earlier in the week, lay scattered across the floor. With limbs and heads missing and blood-spattered stuffing strewn across the carpet, the room resembled the set of some macabre fairy tale.

My ears closed up and my vision tunnelled when I noticed that Phoebe’s bed was empty. Fearing the worst, I was almost too terrified to search for her. Part of me was tempted to run back to my bedroom and crawl under the duvet. Feeling giddy, I swerved through the carnage then pulled up short.

My heart reared up with shock, slamming against my ribcage with such force that my vision wavered for a moment. Blinking, I saw Phoebe slumped lifelessly in the corner of the room; her face was white as fresh paper.