Читать книгу Broken: A traumatised girl. Her troubled brother. Their shocking secret. - Rosie Lewis - Страница 12

I finally spoke to the children’s social worker at 9 a.m. three days later, on Monday 5 January. Most of the children in the borough, including Jamie, had returned to school after the Christmas holidays, but Megan’s nursery was closed for an INSET day and wasn’t due to reopen until tomorrow. Emily was studying at the library, and I still wasn’t sure where to send Archie and Bobbi. I had called Joan to ask if she knew whether the children were home educated, but she had no idea either.

As I listened to Danny introducing himself over the telephone I heard footsteps on the stairs. I turned to see Megan padding down awkwardly in a pair of pink crocs. She had dressed herself again. The thick woolly jumper she had chosen was on inside out, almost covering the pink stripy shorts she was wearing. She jumped down the last two steps and skipped over to me, flinging her arms around one of my legs.

I pulled a funny face as I listened to Danny outlining social services’ legal position. Megan giggled and tugged at my hand, insisting loudly that I should come and play. I shook my head and put a finger to my lips, gesticulating for her to go and find the others. She danced around my legs then planted a kiss on my hip and skipped down the hall. Seconds later I heard her chatter cutting through Bobbi’s monologue.

From what Danny was saying it seemed that the Bradys’ neighbours had tolerated months of anti-social behaviour in the lead-up to the children being removed. On the night the children were removed, they had heard a series of disturbing thuds and lots of shouting, followed by crying that went on for hours. Being the early hours of the morning, it hadn’t been possible for the local authority to seek an Emergency Protection Order, so the children had been taken into police protective custody. ‘So you’re in court today?’

‘Yep,’ Danny said over a rustle of papers. His voice was deep and warm, his accent bordering on cockney. ‘They came in early on the 29th. Strictly speaking the police protection only allows us to keep them for seventy-two hours, so we’re out of time on that. I’m meeting Tanya Brady, that’s Mum, later today but I’ve spoken to her over the phone a couple of times. She sounded half-cut the first time, but when we spoke again she told me she’s engaged a solicitor. She’ll be contesting, but I’m certain we’ll get our ICO.’

An ICO or Interim Care Order is a temporary order made by the court when there are reasonable grounds to suspect that a child has suffered or may be at risk of suffering significant harm. An ICO means that the birth parents must share parental responsibility with the local authority until a final decision is made by the courts.

Parents who have had their children removed from their care automatically qualify for legal aid no matter what their financial circumstances, so it’s rare for a care order to go unchallenged.

‘So how they been then?’

‘Erm, well, we’re still getting to know each other really. Archie seems to have taken the move in his stride –’

‘Oh?’ Danny cut in. ‘Not sure I like the sound of that.’

‘– yes, I know, I know,’ I said, lowering my voice. Social workers always reserved more concern for children who seemed not to react when their entire world had tilted on its axis. Some children were highly skilled at concealing their vulnerability beneath a phoney exterior, usually because they feared that their true feelings were too ugly to expose. Such camouflage requires years of practice and monumental levels of self-control. One of my tasks as Archie’s foster carer was to help him peel away the protective layers he’d wrapped around himself. I also had to prepare myself to nurture whatever lurked underneath.

‘And Bobbi?’

I hesitated for a moment. ‘I think it’s fair to say that Bobbi and I are still trying to reach an understanding. We’ve had a few hiccups so far, but we’re getting there.’ It was a sanitised version, given that the siblings were within earshot. In truth the last few days had passed in a blur of frenzied, violent meltdowns. I was grateful that the children had arrived during the holidays when Emily and Jamie were at home. Whenever Bobbi began to blow, one or the other of them had taken Megan off to play, sparing her the worst of the fall-out.

The trouble was, Bobbi flew off the handle at the slightest provocation and with very little warning. Most of the time it was impossible to even begin to ascertain the trigger. She refused to comply with the simplest of requests – I had only managed to brush her teeth three times in five days, and even then only for a few seconds while she thrashed around, snarling and snapping. It was like trying to groom a bowl of jelly laced with nitroglycerin.

Archie, on the other hand, spent most of his time either covering up Bobbi’s misdeeds or assuming responsibility for them, even when it was clear he’d had not the slightest involvement. He spoke to her in soothing tones and went out of his way to try and calm her down, his parentified behaviour offering an insight into the peace-making role he may have assumed at home. Archie had cleaned up the mess Bobbi made in their room, his sister shouting instructions from the sidelines.

He was always eager to help, though he made an effort at being cool whenever Jamie graced us with his presence. He’d been pleased on Saturday when Jamie and a couple of his mates had allowed him to join in their game of basketball in the garden. Since then it became clear that there was a bit of hero-worship going on. Jamie, having grown up with fostering, took it all in his stride.

Danny belted out a laugh. ‘We’ll have a proper chat at the Placement Planning Meeting. You home tomorrow? I’m thinking early. I can’t seem to get hold of your supervising social worker, a –’ There was another rustle of papers. ‘– Sarah Baker? Is she away at the moment?’

‘I’m afraid Sarah left Bright Heights weeks ago. I don’t have a supervising social worker at the moment.’ Des, my longest-running supervising social worker (SSW) at Bright Heights, had left the agency over three years earlier to gather information on a youth behavioural scheme that had been showing signs of success in Boston. Our friendship had grown over the years and I missed his impromptu visits while he was away, so much so that when he returned to England in 2014, we began spending more time together. We weren’t quite in a relationship, but things seemed to be heading that way.

Since Des left the agency I had been assigned to seven different SSWs, each staying in post for such a short time that it had been difficult to build anything other than a polite working relationship with them. ‘I’m able to approach the fostering manager if I have any concerns though,’ I added in defence of the agency, although if I’m honest I did feel a little cast adrift.

‘Yeah, yeah, course you are.’

I sucked in a breath, unsure whether he was serious or not.

‘Mate, I’m joking. We’ll manage. See you tomorrow.’

I laughed. ‘Yes, I’ll see you then.’ I lowered the receiver but then quickly lifted it to my ear again. ‘Danny, sorry, before you go –’

‘Jeez, what now? You’re gonna be one of those awkward ones, aren’t you? I can always tell.’

‘Danny, you have no idea,’ I said with a grin, already getting the measure of him. A low chuckle came down the line. ‘Can I just check, what school do the children go to? Is it Millfield Primary?’

Danny snorted. ‘Yeah. Well, put it this way, that’s where they’re supposed to go. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.’

I spent the next half an hour trying to cajole Bobbi into getting dressed. Neither Bobbi nor Archie had a full uniform to wear in the morning and I wanted to get to the school outfitters before lunchtime so that I could label everything and still make it to Megan’s swimming lesson, which was due to start at half past one.

I had rolled out every weapon in my armoury to try and persuade Bobbi into her clothes: playfulness, competitiveness – I bet you can’t get your jumper on within the next twenty seconds – bribery with chocolate. With Megan’s enthusiastic help, I’d even involved her in crafting a postbox out of cardboard and red paint, so that we could post pictures of each item of clothing she managed to get on herself. It worked a treat with Megan, who paraded her entire wardrobe in front of me in the time it took to get Bobbi into her socks.

‘If you don’t get dressed we won’t be able to get you a costume and you won’t be able to swim with Megan,’ I said, kneeling in front of her and holding out her jumper invitingly. I had spoken to Megan’s swimming teacher that morning and she’d kindly agreed to squeeze Bobbi into the lesson so that she wouldn’t feel left out. I often found people went out of their way to be accommodating for fostered children.

My spirits lifted as Bobbi ducked her head and allowed me to slip her jumper on. I could hardly believe she might finally relent. ‘Woo-hoo!’ I said, clapping and making a big fuss of her as she slipped her arms into the sleeves. ‘Well done, Bobbi!’ She beamed.

Megan joined in with the applause. ‘Well done, Bobs!’ she cheered. ‘Yippee!’ From beneath the coffee table, Mungo gave a soft bark.

‘She’ll take it off again in a minute,’ Archie predicted morosely from the sofa. He peered over the top of his book and then quickly returned his attention to the page, his eyes eagerly running left to right. Within half a second Bobbi’s arms were out of the sleeves, the rest of the jumper hanging like a thick woollen chain from her neck.

I gave Archie a dark look. Ever since his arrival he had been nothing less than accommodating and helpful. This morning, though, he seemed determined to derail my efforts to prepare him for school. He had faked surprise when I told him that Danny had confirmed that he went to Millfield Primary, and since then had dragged his feet at every turn. ‘Bobbi,’ I said in a low tone. ‘Put it back on, please.’ She looked at me, her head in a defiant tilt, and then she whipped the jumper right off.

‘Back on now or you won’t go swimming,’ I said warningly. Megan stood close by, her eyes flitting between us. I feigned an interest in the TV magazine on the coffee table, half-aware of Bobbi picking up her leggings as I flicked through the pages.

‘Yay!’ Megan shouted. ‘You can come swimming with me now, Bobs!’

‘Ow-a!’ Bobbi growled. ‘I can’t do them.’

‘Come here. I’ll help.’ She crawled over and gave them to me. I lifted her to her feet and told her to hold on to my shoulder. ‘That’s it, now lift your leg.’ She didn’t move. ‘Come on, honey, lift your leg.’

Half a second later Megan cried out and clamped a hand over her eyes – while I’d been leaning over, Bobbi had slapped her face.

‘Right, that’s it. No swimming for Bobbi.’ I had tried to keep my voice even but it hadn’t worked. My patience was drained and it showed. Megan wasn’t crying – I think she was more shocked than anything else – but I drew her onto my lap and kissed the top of her head. She leaned into me and rested her head on my chest.

A sickening thud reached my ears a second or two later. I swung around just in time to see Bobbi’s head slamming into the floor for a second time, the crack of skull meeting floorboard making my stomach flip. Megan got off my lap and stared at Bobbi in horror. ‘It’s alright, Meggie,’ I said, steering her towards the door. ‘You go upstairs and see if you can find a towel and your goggles. I’ll take care of Bobbi.’

Megan backed slowly out of the room, her eyes fixed on Bobbi, who was now on her feet and biting her own forearm. It must have been painful, but with the red mist working its numbing magic, she continued to gnaw at her skin. I crouched in front of her, aware that Megan was still staring at us from the doorway. ‘Go, Megan, please,’ I said, without taking my eyes off Bobbi. I heard her scurry away and my chest tightened with guilt.

‘Bobbi, I’m not going to let you hurt yourself,’ I said, taking a firm hold of her arm and pulling it free of her jaws. ‘I can see that you’re feeling cross,’ I continued, in a lame attempt at naming her feelings, but she’d already reached a point from which it was going to be difficult to return. She just needed to be held.

‘GET OFF ME!’ she screamed as I reached out to her, battering me with her fists and then clawing her hands down her own face. I pulled her onto my lap and pinned her arms down with my own to protect us both. She struggled and screamed, her feet slamming repeatedly into the floor. Once again, though, it was Archie’s reaction that unnerved me most. He was watching me from the sofa, an expression of suppressed fury on his face.

‘What’s wrong, Arch?’

‘You shouldn’t have kept asking her to lift her leg,’ he snapped, chucking his book aside. ‘You scared her.’

I looked at him. ‘How come?’ I leaned over Bobbi, who had stiffened on my lap. ‘Why were you scared to lift your leg, sweetheart?’

‘Jason makes her stand on one leg when she’s naughty, that’s why,’ Archie spat out.

My throat tightened. ‘Oh, Bobbi, that’s very wrong of him. I’m sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t know.’ She allowed me to cuddle her to my chest. I gave Archie a regretful look over the top of her head. He glared at me, his cheeks flushed red.