Читать книгу Broken: A traumatised girl. Her troubled brother. Their shocking secret. - Rosie Lewis - Страница 10

‘Do I have to go to bed now?’ asked Archie when I walked into the living room five minutes later. He was sitting on the sofa, Mungo resting contentedly at his feet. A few feet away the credits of You’ve Been Framed were rolling across the television screen.

‘What time do you usually go to bed on a school night?’ I asked distractedly, still unsettled by the sight of Bobbi’s drawings. Mungo nuzzled my hand as I joined Archie on the sofa. I stroked his head and gave myself a mental shake. It was perfectly possible that the drawings were entirely innocuous. Children with older siblings often demonstrated behaviour that was beyond their years.

Jumping to conclusions was one of the pitfalls of fostering that I tried to avoid. Like social workers, when foster carers ratchet up lots of experience it’s easy to make assumptions. ‘Oh, I forgot to ask earlier, Archie. Which school do you go to?’

There was a pause and then he said: ‘I don’t go to school.’

I frowned at him. ‘Oh. You’re home schooled then?’

‘Mostly,’ he muttered, his eyes downcast. I had found a single navy-blue jumper in his case with the letters ‘MP’ embroidered onto it. A quick Google search had offered a couple of possibilities, but if Archie were to be believed, he wasn’t registered with either of them.

‘Not to worry. I’ll speak to your social worker about it.’ A strange expression crossed his face and I wondered whether I had a school refuser on my hands. He ruffled his fringe and rearranged his features, quickly recovering.

‘So what time do you usually go to bed on a week night?’

‘Between about eight and half past. Mum lets me read in bed though.’

‘Oh, you like reading, do you?’ It seemed that my strategy for encouraging reluctant readers – allowing them an extra half an hour downstairs after their scheduled bedtime if they read with us – wouldn’t be needed for Archie.

He nodded. ‘I’ve just got into Harry Potter. I finished Philosopher’s Stone a few weeks ago. I can’t wait to read Chamber of Secrets.’

I stood up and walked to the bookshelf in the corner of the room. ‘I have a pack of Harry Potter playing cards here somewhere. Fancy a game now?’

‘Really? Yes please!’ His voice bubbled with excitement. It struck me as the first genuine reaction I’d seen since he’d arrived.

His fingers trembled when he took the pack from me. He fanned through the cards, exclaiming every time he spotted a different character. ‘Who’s your favourite? Mine’s Professor McGonagall, I think, though I love that ghost as well; the one with the funny voice.’

‘Moaning Myrtle!’ he cried, flicking through the deck until he found a card featuring Professor McGonagall. He held it up for me to see, his eyes alight. ‘Why do you like her best?’

I took the card from him and looked at it. ‘Because she’s fierce, but in a good way. She’s one of those people you’d love to have on your side when you’re in a fix. You know the type: firm but fair. How about you?’

He flicked through the cards again. ‘I like Harry and Ron,’ he said, ‘but Mrs Weasley is my favourite.’

‘Oh yes, I like her too.’ I felt a rush of affection for him. Being one of the most sympathetic and cuddly characters in the Harry Potter series, the archetypal mum, there was no need to ask why she was the one who appealed to him most.

‘You remind me a bit of her,’ he added shyly, his eyes fixed on the deck of cards in his hand.

I chuckled. ‘Well, thank you. At least, I think it’s a compliment!’ He grinned, fully meeting my eye for the first time since we’d met.

Despite never having played before, he picked up the game of Rummy quickly enough, beating me on his second round. ‘Are you sure you’ve never played this before?’

He grinned as I dealt another hand. ‘I don’t suppose you got a chance to pack much of your stuff before going to Joan’s, did you?’ I hadn’t seen what was in his rucksack, but there certainly hadn’t been any personal items in his suitcase when I’d unpacked it. Bobbi hadn’t brought any toys with her either.

‘No.’ He picked up a card from the deck on the sofa between us, looked at it, then placed it on the discard pile, straightening it until it was exactly in line with the rest. ‘The police packed a bag for us and then one of the social workers went to our house and grabbed some more of our clothes. She dropped it at Joan’s and said we should ask our social worker if we wanted anything else.’

‘And do you know who your social worker is?’ It was likely that the children would be allocated a different social worker now that they were looked-after children, rather than children in need.

‘I think his name began with a D, but I can’t remember. He came to see us at Joan’s but I forgot to ask about my stuff.’

I nodded, picking up another card from the deck. ‘I can arrange for someone to collect some bits if you tell me what you’d like.’

He bunched his lips together. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘How about some books? I mean, we have lots here, but if you were in the middle of reading one …’

He shook his head. ‘Mum was going to get Chamber of Secrets for me but Jason said reading’s for wimps.’

I peered at him over the top of my cards. ‘Oh, really? Is Jason your mum’s partner?’ I usually tried to employ a mild tone whenever a child told me anything about their parents, so as not to deter them from opening up about their home lives. On this occasion, though, surprise got the better of me.

He nodded. ‘He says –’ he started to say, then seemed to think better of it and gave a little shrug.

When it was clear he wasn’t going to say anything else I said: ‘Well, we’ve got a copy somewhere. I’ll ask Emily to dig it out for you.’

‘Wow! Cool!’ he said delightedly, as if I’d offered to take him to Disneyland.

‘How about Bobbi? Is there anything she’s particularly fond of at home? A cuddly toy or a blanket … something to help her settle?’

He gave me a blank look. ‘She has a duvet in bed, not blankets.’

I nodded. ‘Okay. Is she always tricky at bedtime?’

His eyes surveyed his cards and then he looked up, not quite meeting my eyes again. ‘Yep. Takes me ages to get her into bed. If she has a sleep in the day it’s impossible. She gets up, she rolls around. I have to sleep next to her on the carpet sometimes to get her off.’

Where was his mother while he was doing all of that, I wondered. ‘Well, I saw earlier what a knack you have with little ones. You were very good with Megan.’

He smiled, pleased with the compliment. ‘I learned skills from dealing with her up there,’ he said ruefully, lifting his eyes to the ceiling.

‘Ah, yes,’ I said, wondering again just how much he might have been left in charge of his sister. Several of the children I’ve fostered had taken on the responsibility of caring for their younger siblings as well as themselves when they were at home. I’d once looked after an eighteen-month-old toddler who had insisted on changing his own nappy, so adept was he at taking on adult tasks. ‘You’ve got lots of experience then?’

He nodded. ‘It’s hard though. She never does anything I tell her.’

‘Well, now you’re here you can leave Bobbi to me. I’ll take care of all the grown-up things. Your job is to make yourself comfortable and let me look after you.’

He looked at me. ‘Rosie,’ he said hesitantly, ‘how can I find out if Mum’s okay?’

‘You’re worried about her?’

He lifted his shoulders. ‘A bit.’

‘Did your social worker explain anything to you about contact?’ Contact refers to the regular meetings arranged between birth parents and their children. The meetings are usually held in a local family centre and monitored by contact supervisors who observe the family’s interactions and record their findings. In some cases, if there are no security concerns, contact takes place in the foster carer’s home. Some birth parents are permitted to spend time with their children unsupervised, although usually only when they have agreed to voluntary care, or during reunification, when their children make the transition from foster carer back to the birth family home.

He nodded. ‘He said he couldn’t arrange anything until he’s had a meeting with Mum though.’

‘That’s right, that’s what usually happens. I expect the holiday period has delayed things a bit, but I’ll get in touch with him tomorrow and see if I can find out how she is. Is there anything else you’re worried about?’

‘Not really. No, wait …’ He looked at me hopefully. ‘Do you think I might be able to see my dad?’

From the brief conversation I’d had with the placements team social worker, I got the impression that the children’s birth father hadn’t been on the scene for quite some time. ‘I’ll certainly ask. Do you see your dad often?’

He shook his head, his expression downcast. ‘We used to. He used to come and take us out, but Mum says he doesn’t want to see us anymore.’

‘How long is it since you’ve seen him?’

He shrugged. ‘I dunno. Ages. I sort of saw him on my birthday.’

‘In October?’

He looked at me and nodded. ‘He came round with loads of presents, but he had a row with Jason and Mum wouldn’t let him in.’ He rubbed his forehead brusquely.

‘That’s tough,’ I said.

‘I waved out the window but he didn’t see me.’ A shadow crossed his eyes but then he quickly added: ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter. It’s nice here, I really like it.’

I felt another twist of sympathy for him. Many of the children I have cared for display hair-trigger anger because it makes them feel less vulnerable than sadness, but Archie didn’t seem able to express either. ‘Things haven’t been easy for you, have they, honey?’

He shook his head stiffly but then gave me a hopeful, not quite meeting my eyes, look. ‘Maybe now I’m here though … if I can see my dad?’

I patted his hand. ‘I’ll see what I can find out.’