Читать книгу Broken: Part 3 of 3: A traumatised girl. Her troubled brother. Their shocking secret. - Rosie Lewis - Страница 6

Archie looked a fright the next morning; his eyes puffy, cheeks flushed. In manic tidying mode from the minute he came downstairs, he began piling up the breakfast bowls and sweeping the spoons away before any of us had even eaten. ‘Archie, love,’ I said, laughing, ‘give us a chance. I’ve only just put those there.’

He grinned and set them out again, but there was a distant quality to his smile. Physically, he was with us, but it seemed that his mind was somewhere else. Hearing about the children’s disappointment, Emily and Jamie had agreed to come with us to the splash park the previous day. Archie had been cheered by the news and seemed to enjoy charging down the slides after Jamie, but even that failed to erase the dull sadness in his eyes. I got the sense that he was struggling to contain himself as he walked around the table. He straightened the placemats and centralised the bowls with the studied caution of someone who was about ready to explode.

It was Sunday 15 February and though the children had only been living with us for just over six weeks, I felt I already had Bobbi sussed. Her favourite game was animal hospital, although as a rule of thumb, any game that incorporated bandages and plasters tickled her interest, as well as those Megan closely guarded as her own. She loved painting and colouring but refused to have anything to do with mouldable dough, which she described as ‘disgusting’. I was also getting to know some of her triggers. I could tell when she was tired – her manic spins fading to drunken, endearing lollops – and when she was upping the ante for no other reason than because she needed a hug.

Archie, though, was still a mystery. I knew the image he liked to project well enough, and conversing with him was easy, but part of him was still more or less closed off. ‘Who’s going to be there today, Rosie?’ he asked as he rearranged the cutlery so that it was perpendicular to the mats.

It wasn’t the first time he’d asked and I could hear the reluctance in his voice. My friend Naomi had called the previous night and tearfully invited us to meet her at a stately home owned by the National Trust. I had first met Naomi on an Understanding Attachment course a year earlier, soon after she had adopted a sibling group of three. Overwhelmed and exhausted by the sudden change in her life, she had opened up to me over lunch one day and told me all about her struggles to build a family – her miscarriages and failed attempts at IVF.

When she and her husband had finally decided to adopt, social workers told her that they needed to mourn the losses they’d experienced before they could progress to being assessed, and it was another two years before they were finally matched with the siblings. The couple fell in love with the children on sight but the eldest child, who had been four at the time of placement, struggled to accept the loss of his old family and the imposition of a new one.

Aiden, now five, still insisted on using wet wipes whenever Naomi touched him, a daily rejection that broke her heart, and seemed intent on doing all he could to disrupt the growing bond between his new parents and younger siblings. Naomi and her husband understood that his behaviour was rooted in fear, but sometimes it was difficult for them not to take it personally.

I think being out of the house alleviated some of the pressure on the family, and Naomi often asked us to meet up, whatever the weather.

I had shown Archie, Bobbi and Megan pictures of the maze and natural play area we were planning to visit and they had all been excited, but as soon as I mentioned that we were meeting others there, Archie’s face fell. He tried his hardest to project a confident image to the world but his fingers trembled at the prospect of being introduced to new people and I suspected that, on the inside, he was spinning as rapidly as his sister.

‘Only my friend Naomi and her children,’ I said lightly. ‘Don’t worry, honey, I’ll make sure you have fun.’

‘I’m not worried,’ he said in an equally light, if slightly strained tone. He nudged a stray chair in line with the table and moved one of the bowls an inch to the right.

It was unseasonably mild for February and when we arrived it was so sunny that we left our coats in the car. Naomi was waiting for us near the gatekeeper’s house at the entrance to the grounds, her children running around on the neatly manicured grass nearby.

Toby, Aiden’s four-year-old brother, ran through the gates as soon as he saw us. I leaned down to talk to him. ‘Hello, Toby, how are you?’

He turned his wide blue eyes up to look at me. ‘Aiden says she not our real mummy,’ he blurted out loudly, pointing at Naomi with the unapologetic, unflinching honesty that only young children are capable of.

‘That’s cos she’s not,’ Aiden said when he caught up with his brother. He was a thin boy with short brown hair, pale skin and downturned, slightly sunken eyes.

‘She looks real enough to me,’ I said lightly, glancing at Naomi. She was walking towards us with a slow, defeated air.

Toby looked thoughtful. ‘Aiden says the other mummy is our real mummy, not this one, cos we didn’t grow in her tummy. We grew in old mummy’s tummy but Mummy says we’re not allowed to see old mummy any more cos she’s dangerous.’

‘I didn’t say that!’ Naomi said defensively. She strode over, knelt down in front of Toby and held one of his hands. She reached out her other hand towards Aiden but he screwed his face up in disgust and looked away. Naomi turned back to Toby, her expression tense. ‘I said that Tummy Mummy can’t keep you safe, honey. I didn’t say she was dangerous.’

Toby frowned, looking uncertain. Beside me, Archie and Bobbi were both paying close attention to the conversation. A strange expression flitted across Archie’s face, one I couldn’t quite decipher. A few feet away, Aiden was staring at his adoptive mother with a look of longing that tugged at my heart.

I crouched next to Naomi and pulled Megan onto my knee. ‘Do you know what, Toby? Megan didn’t grow in my tummy either. She grew in my heart, just like her brother and sister. And look,’ I jabbed a forefinger first into my chest and then into Megan’s. ‘I’m real, she’s real. And Mummy is real too.’ Megan giggled. I tried to be as open as possible about her adoption, using the word lightly in everyday conversation so that the news that we weren’t biologically related wouldn’t come as a shock one day. I think its meaning was slowly beginning to sink in.

Toby grinned and smiled at Naomi. She gave him a hug and the tension in his face melted away. I eased Megan off my lap and was about to stand up when Archie leaned down, his face level with Toby’s. ‘Just because you grow in someone’s tummy don’t mean they love you better than someone else,’ he said. His voice was laced with bitterness, but he was trying to make the little boy feel better. ‘I grew in my mum’s tummy, but Rosie’s the one that cares about me.’

Naomi and I exchanged glances. It was a telling comment, one I wanted to record accurately once I got home. I smiled at Archie sadly, feeling ever so slightly choked.

‘It tears me apart,’ Naomi said later, as we sat side by side on a wooden bench near the exit of the maze. I pulled a flask out of my bag and poured us both a cup of tea, listening to the shouts and giggles from the children as they chased each other around on the other side of the tall hedge. ‘I just don’t know what I have to do to get through to him. I love him so much, but he doesn’t even want to be in the same room as me.’ She threw her eyes skyward. ‘That’s probably why I lost all those babies. Him up there knew I’d be a rubbish mum.’ Naomi was a long-time member of the Salvation Army who had managed to cling onto her faith despite all she’d been through. Her lips trembled as she took a shaky sip of tea.

‘Oh, Naz, you mustn’t think that, really you mustn’t. You were meant to be mummy to these children, and they were meant to be with you. All of that awful stuff you all went through helped you to find each other.’ I squeezed her arm. ‘You should have more faith in yourself. You’re not doing anything wrong. Aiden is a very frightened little boy. He’s petrified of getting too close in case he loses everything again, you know that. You’ve done the courses, got the T-shirts. But I tell you what. He wants you desperately; I can see it in his eyes.’

‘Really?’ She lowered her cup to her knee. ‘I don’t see that. You really think so?’

I told her about the way Aiden had looked at her earlier. ‘You’re getting closer than you think,’ I said. She gave me a teary nod.

Not long afterwards, the children came charging out of the maze in a spray of woodchips and soil. ‘Can we see the house now, Mummy?’ Megan asked, giggling as Toby began to chase her around my legs. Megan loved the outdoors but old buildings held a special fascination for her and she’d been asking to look around the house ever since we arrived.

I glanced at Naomi. ‘I’m up for it if you are,’ she said.

All of the children surprised us with their enthusiasm, staring around the corniced ceilings and wood-panelled walls with awe. There was a chest of Victorian clothes in one of the bedrooms and they pulled the outfits on with glee, admiring themselves in the ornate free-standing mirror beside a four-poster bed.

Things only started to go pear-shaped once Bobbi caught sight of the dining room. Before I could catch hold of her hand she ran over to the polished table and tried to clamber onto one of the chairs. ‘Not on there, dear!’ cried one of the volunteers standing nearby.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I told the elderly gentleman as I jogged over to Bobbi and lifted her down. ‘You mustn’t climb on the furniture, Bobbi,’ I said in a hushed voice. ‘It’s very old and precious. We have to take care of it.’

‘But I want lunch,’ she insisted, grabbing one of the sparkling silver forks and putting the prongs into her mouth. The volunteer’s eyes widened, his mouth flapping silently up and down.

‘No, Bobbi, put it back,’ I said, wrestling the fork away from her. I handed it to the volunteer with profuse apologies. He took it silently, still staring at Bobbi with disbelief. Aiden, Toby and Skye, Naomi’s youngest, lost no time in joining in the fun. Darting to the other end of the table, they grabbed whatever they could lay their small hands on. Placemats, utensils and serviettes clattered to the floor. The noise drew volunteers from all directions, abject horror on their faces.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, mortified. I slipped my arms around Bobbi’s middle and pulled her away before she could upset anything else, aware that Naomi was now chasing her three children around the room. ‘Come here, pickle,’ I said, catching three-year-old Skye with my free hand. Deciding that divide and conquer was the best way to go I handed her to Archie, who was standing beside Megan at the door, the pair of them watching the carry-on with almost as much horror as the volunteers.

Naomi emerged from the dining room a minute or so later, two screaming children in tow and a sheen of perspiration on her forehead. Aiden kicked out at the furniture as Naomi pulled him along, nearly toppling a suit of armour as he rattled its arm.

We whizzed through the rest of the house, Archie calmly bringing up the rear with Skye in his arms and Megan at his side. By the time we reached the long dark passageway leading to the back exit we were practically running. ‘No, Mummy, no!’ Megan cried, when she realised that the heavy oak door in front of us led outside. ‘We didn’t see the kitchen!’

‘I don’t think the kitchens are open, darling,’ I lied. Bobbi was making a determined effort to bite my cheek and I had a nasty feeling that that was just the warm-up. I wasn’t sure I had the strength to keep her at bay for much longer.

Megan stopped. ‘It is, Mummy. We passed it. It’s down some stairs, I saw!’

‘Okay, well, let’s get some lunch and maybe we’ll come back later.’

‘No!’ Megan roared as Archie ushered her out the door and onto the shingled drive. I lowered Bobbi to her feet and knelt in front of Megan, aware that we were beginning to gain the attention of other visitors.

‘We’ll go back in after lunch, Meggie, okay?’ Next to me, Bobbi was spinning manically; human hoopla without the hoop.

Megan gave a reluctant nod. Bobbi pushed her out of the way and stamped her feet in front of me. ‘I want food!’ she screamed, preparing to roar off into orbit. Megan burst into tears. Behind us, Naomi was emerging, the boys kicking at her shins and turning the air blue.

‘Bobbi, you mustn’t push Megan. Now, we’ll go and get some lunch, but only when you’ve calmed down.’

‘I am calm!’ Bobbi hollered, spraying my cheeks with saliva.

I brushed my sleeve over my face and blinked. ‘Good. That’s good,’ I said softly, trying to soothe her. A grey-haired gentleman gave us a wide berth as he exited the house after Naomi, eager not to be tarnished by association. Two well-dressed women strolled by, their faces agog. They turned their heads as they passed, indiscreetly keeping us in sight. When they reached a bench they sat down at an angle that allowed them an unimpeded view.

It was easy to guess what they were thinking – fancy kowtowing to a child like that, what a slummy mummy, no wonder the girl’s out of control. If Jenny, one of my fostering friends had been with us, she probably would have engaged the women in conversation and told them that the children were new to the family and still undergoing training. Most people soften instantly when they find out that children are fostered, but it’s something I rarely reveal unless it comes up in conversation, clinging as I do to the belief that it is wrong for anyone to judge. Sometimes I even felt tempted to offer horrified bystanders a hook to hang their condemnation on by slumping onto a nearby bench and cracking open a can of Strongbow.

I remembered the looks I used to get when I took nine-year-old Phoebe out. She was an easily revolted girl with a sharp tongue and if ever anyone showed an interest in her, she either insulted them with colourful profanities or heaved her lunch all over their feet.

Bobbi sucked in a lungful of air and released it in little breaths, doing her best to bring her temper under control. ‘Good work, Bobbi,’ I said, aware of the exchange of glances from the two women across the way. ‘You’re doing really well.’

‘I’m going to lose it in a minute, I swear,’ Naomi said behind me, the boys continuing their assault on her shins.

The two women continued to stare as we ushered six tired, angry children over the lawns towards the tea shop, no doubt wondering how the china teapots would fare once our motley crew arrived.

I read The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams to Megan that evening and after the day we’d had, the words took on such a special significance that I emailed a short passage from the book to Naomi when I got downstairs.

‘What is Real?’ asked the velveteen rabbit one day.

‘Real isn’t how you are made,’ said Horse. ‘It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become real.’

‘Does it hurt?’ asked the Rabbit.

‘Sometimes,’ said the Horse, ‘[but] when you are Real you don’t mind being hurt … it takes a long time … by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off and your eyes drop out and you get loose in all the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all because once you are Real you can’t be ugly …’