Читать книгу Trapped: The Terrifying True Story of a Secret World of Abuse - Rosie Lewis - Страница 6

It was a dreary, overcast day in March 2009 when I first met Phoebe. As I sat in the local authority training centre, I shook my lifeless mobile phone several times, hoping that news of a fostering referral would drift across the airwaves. Between placements I was filled with a restless yearning; an itch I couldn’t scratch. How blissfully ignorant I was back then, unaware of the far-reaching impact she would have on our family.

‘It would be wise to keep a collection of pebbles in your kitchen drawer,’ our lively tutor was drilling us on the latest techniques for safeguarding drug-addicted teenagers. ‘That way you’ll remember to drop one in if they trust you enough to ask for a bag.’

Ellie was a recent recruit to the local authority team of trainers and a registered nurse by profession. The tall blonde was proving popular with foster carers, her courses particularly well attended by other halves – I had never seen as many men on a training day before. It seemed word of her sultry tones, shiny lip gloss and stiletto heels had worked its way quickly around the fostering network of the north of England.

A flurry of blank looks travelled around the semi-circle of foster carers in front of her.

‘We lost one of our teenagers earlier this year,’ Ellie went on to explain. ‘She passed out with a bag of solvent still fixed to her ears. With a heavy object inside, the plastic would have been far more likely to fall from her face as she collapsed. A little forethought from her carer might just have saved her life.’

‘I take it we’re expected to provide ’em with a WH Smith voucher as well,’ the black foster carer sitting opposite me offered in a Brummie accent, daring a touch of sarcasm, ‘to save ’em forkin’ out for t’own glue.’

Sniggers swept around the room.

Ellie held out one manicured hand, tucking a stray tendril of shiny blonde hair behind her ear with the other. ‘I take it that some of you feel uncomfortable with what I’ve just said?’

Glancing around, I noticed several of the women nodding their heads. Most of the men sat with their legs sprawled wide, one or two with dreamy expressions on their faces.

‘Surely it’s our job to discourage risky behaviour?’ I ventured. Social workers were keen to encourage foster carers to show Looked After Children the same quality of care as their own families. I was certain that I wouldn’t provide bags with rocks inside for my own children, Emily and Jamie, freeing them to get high in the knowledge that Health & Safety procedures had been adhered to by their attentive mother.

Ellie smiled, shaking her head. ‘I know it’s not easy to stomach but it’s our responsibility to safeguard these children. They’re damaged – most of them need something just to get through the day. Showing disapproval will simply drive their behaviour underground. Having to hide their addiction,’ she tilted her dainty hand in mid-air, rocking it slightly from side to side, ‘might just be enough to tip them over the edge.’

After a buffet lunch courtesy of the local authority, Ellie moved on to drug classifications and how to recognise paraphernalia among seemingly innocent everyday objects such as empty fizzy drink cans. It was fascinating but her comment about damaged children needing a prop to survive kept playing over in my mind. I felt a longing to soothe the turmoil a child must feel to treat their body with such disregard. The uncomfortable feeling reminded me of why I had decided to register as a foster carer. Like many of my fellow carers, I was drawn to it.

For the rest of the afternoon the class was held rapt, not only by Ellie’s dynamic teaching style but also the shocking nature of the facts she was imparting. Between the 20 or so carers present we had chalked up a collective experience of over 200 years of fostering, yet most of us were unaware that the latest trend for self-harmers was to insert diazepam capsules into the cuts in their skin for rapid absorption, or that wheelie bins often went missing because they offered an ideal confined space for solvent abuse.

Most of the training days I had attended in the past fortnight held my attention as efficiently as a pile of wet nappies and so it was refreshing to be presented with such thought-provoking information. It was only towards the end of the day that my concentration began to waver and I idly poked my mobile phone again, willing it to spring into action. My last placement had ended three weeks earlier – a sibling group of two who stayed with me for almost three years. The wounds of separation after they moved on to adoption were still raw, an unfortunate occupational hazard. I was eager to jump back into the saddle of caring again, knowing it was the best way to recover from my loss and so, after taking a break of two weeks, I agreed for my name to reappear on the vacancy register. Recovery time between placements is recommended to restore energy levels; fostering can be a physical and emotional drain. Carers often make use of the time by catching up on training; we are obliged to attend at least six training sessions each year, a tricky task with young ones in placement.

I kept busy during my first week off, getting the house straight, tidying up the garden and attending a round of courses – anything to distract my mind from worrying about how the siblings were coping in their new home. It was such an upheaval for them, leaving all that was familiar behind. When children move on to adoption, it is recommended that their foster carer takes on the role of ‘auntie’, so remaining part of their lives but in a more distant way. I couldn’t help worrying that they might feel abandoned by me and our reunion wasn’t to take place for another three weeks, to allow time for their bond with me to weaken. The idea that I would see them again, hopefully happy and settled with their ‘forever’ parents, gave me something positive to hold on to in the meantime.

For the past week I had been on the out-of-hours list, making myself available to the local authority at any time, day or night, to take on an emergency. So far all had been quiet but I kept my phone close by at all times, just in case.

The timing of the call about Phoebe, when it came, couldn’t have been more perfect. I had just completed my course evaluation sheet, giving Ellie top marks in all ten categories, and was wandering out of the training centre into the misty gloom when my mobile phone coughed itself awake.

‘Hi, Desmond.’ My heart was already beginning to race in anticipation as I climbed into my car with the handset clamped to my ear, wondering whether my supervising social worker had news of an emergency or was simply calling for a chat. We had built up a close friendship since I was first assigned to him when I registered with Bright Heights Fostering Agency seven years earlier and he often popped in to check how our family was, even though he was only strictly obliged to visit once every four weeks.

As I listened to his voice, intermittently thick with a Scottish accent despite having left the Highlands as a teenager, I found myself holding my breath and hoping for a newborn, recklessly forgetting my vow never to take on another baby after my most recent, difficult separation. Reaching to grab a notebook and pen from the dashboard, I jotted down notes as Desmond spoke.

‘She’s been taken straight from school into police protection. They should be with you in the next half an hour or so. Will you be home by then?’

Slipping the key into the ignition, I switched the Nokia to loudspeaker mode then dropped it into my lap. ‘Yes, should be. I’ll just have enough time to let Emily and Jamie know what’s going on.’

My own children were keen to welcome new little ones into our home but I preferred to seek their approval before someone new arrived on the doorstep, to make sure they felt consulted.

‘I won’t be able to make it, I’m afraid – sorry, Rosie, I’m up to my neck in it over here. I’ll come and see you some time in the next few days, though.’

Saying goodbye to Des, I stopped at the next set of traffic lights, holding my notebook up at eye level. The page was still blank but for my scribbled notes: girl, age eight; warm and friendly. Without noticing the lights as they turned to amber, I sat staring at the words on the page. Overstretched social workers were sometimes so keen to place a child that they stretched the facts, I mused, moulding them into a mishmash of half-truths and downright fabrications. Experience had taught me to treat the initial information they provided on a child with as much caution as estate agents’ patter. Just as a house located at the side of a busy motorway could be listed as ‘close to all transport links’, social workers might describe a difficult, confrontational teenager with a penchant for injecting heroin as ‘lively and inquisitive’.

A hoot from the driver behind caused me to start. Lifting my hand in apology, I nudged the accelerator and caught up with the rusting white van ahead, catching sight of myself in the rear-view mirror. Often I felt that my blonde, naturally curly hair offered a cheery distraction from the lines that were beginning to appear under my eyes, giving people the impression that I was bubbly even when I felt nothing of the sort. Today, though, the damp air had taken its toll, making it look like a pile of dried hay and dragging the rest of my face down with it. Grimacing, I tucked the frizz behind my ears, hoping to fit in a hair wash before Phoebe’s arrival.

Driving under an arched railway bridge and along a tree-lined, residential side road I noticed a few drops of rain appearing on the windscreen. A grimly portentous grey sky stretched into the distance and a bubble of apprehension rose in my stomach as I flicked the wipers on, knotting itself stubbornly in my throat. ‘Warm and friendly’ were hardly forbidding adjectives, so what was I reading between the lines?