Читать книгу Torn: A terrified girl. A shocking secret. A terrible choice. - Rosie Lewis - Страница 10

‘Taylor,’ I called up the stairs, making an effort to sound as pacific as possible. It was already 8.15 a.m. and with two school runs awaiting execution, I was eager to herd everyone out of the house. Chilled about most things but irrationally petrified of being late, Jamie stood with his hand on the catch of the front door, ready to sprint for the car as soon as Taylor decided to grace us with an appearance. ‘We really need to go now, Taylor, or you’ll all be late.’

Jamie, bobbing around on the balls of his feet, gave a little squeak of terror.

‘Why you indicating?’ Taylor demanded from the back of the car, twenty minutes later. ‘Our school’s straight on.’

‘Yes I know, but Devonshire Primary is around here,’ I said, throwing her a quick glance over my shoulder as I took a left at the traffic lights.

‘Na, you can drop us off first,’ she said, flicking her right hand at the wrist to gesture a U-turn.

‘We discussed this earlier, do you remember?’ I asked calmly. While Taylor had been straightening her hair (a task that had taken almost an hour to complete) I told her that we pass Emily and Jamie’s school on the way to hers. ‘I said that Emily and Jamie will be going in first but in the afternoon we’ll do it the other way around, so you’ll get first choice of where to sit later on.’

Taylor growled, gesticulating so furiously that Emily, who was sitting next to her, had to shrink away to avoid being slapped. ‘Oh-wah! But I need to hand my project in before the bell-errr.’ I had noticed that whenever she was annoyed, she prolonged certain words so they ended with an ‘er’ sound.

‘Let’s get a wriggle on then,’ I said, brightly, checking my teeth in the rear-view mirror to demonstrate that I wasn’t the least bit affected by her negative mood. Ignore difficult behaviour and it fades away. Isn’t that what the social worker on my last training course had assured us?

‘Ow, that’s so unfair,’ she lamented, an aggressive growl taking the whine out of her voice. She leaned forward in her seat and flicked her forefinger close to the back of my head, almost making contact (another one of her habits whenever she grew tense). ‘Today is literally the worst day of my life!’

Beside her, Reece began whining, his arms folded around his middle. ‘Urgh, Rosie, I feel sick. I don’t think I can go to school.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Taylor bellowed before I could respond. ‘Take no notice of ’im. He says it all the time so he can skive off school.’

‘No I don’t, you liar.’

‘D’you want me to smash your head through that window?’

‘Taylor,’ I snapped, as a large 4 x 4 pulled out in front of me without indicating. I swung my Ford quickly to the left, taking the place it had vacated, and accidentally clipping the kerb with my offside wheel. The jolt nipped at the muscle I had torn in my shoulder when moving the beds around and I winced.

Taylor gasped and clutched her hands to her chest. ‘Oh my God, oh my God, now I got whiplash!’ She fluttered her hands around in front of her in a parody of shock. ‘I can’t believe you did that, Ro-sie-er!’ she ejaculated, spitting my name out with such venom that it sounded like a swear word.

‘Oh, Taylor, you’d make an excellent actress,’ I said, trying to sound more amused than I felt. With only three days left of school before the Easter holidays, I knew I was going to have to find a way to establish a relationship with Taylor before they broke up. The withering glance she threw my way told me that I was going to have to be particularly inventive if I was to have any chance of achieving that.

As soon as I secured the handbrake Jamie dived forwards, kissed my cheek and leaped from the car. Thankfully, Emily offered to walk him to his classroom and as I watched them pass beneath the wrought-iron archway and into the playground, a pang of guilt rose in my chest because I wasn’t there beside them. I had registered as a foster carer soon after separating from Gary, although I had been drawn to the idea ever since I discovered, at the age of thirteen, that my father had grown up in a children’s home. A friend of mine, one of those scary people with a psychology degree, insisted that my attraction to fostering was born of a subconscious desire to heal my father and take away the pain he had felt as a child.

I wasn’t sure about that, but on a practical level registering made sense – I needed to work but wanted to be available for Emily and Jamie whenever they needed me. Reality, as it often does, took me by surprise. In my head I had imagined that our future foster children would slot neatly into family life. Inevitably there would be problems, I knew that, but behavioural difficulties notwithstanding, we’d carry on pretty much as before. What I hadn’t bargained on were the daily diaries, monthly reports, PEPs (personal education plans) meetings, LAC (looked-after child) reviews, health-care assessments, monthly visits from supervising and children’s social workers, unannounced checks and, to top it all, providing transport to and from contact sessions with parents.

Not that I was complaining – my need to work with troubled children, like most foster carers, came deep from the heart and the children we had shared our home with over the last two years had done as much to help our family as we had ever done for them.

As I pulled away from the kerb, Taylor wincing exaggeratedly, I reminded myself that birth children learn lots of important life lessons from fostering, one being that simple, everyday comforts should never be taken for granted.

Without Jamie to chat to (the pair of them had barely stopped since they woke early that morning) Reece went into overdrive as we drove towards Downsedge Primary. My son, though lively, seemed to have a calming effect on Reece, but now he bounced up and down on his seat, talking so rapidly that I could barely keep up. ‘How old do you think that BMW is then, Rosie?’

We had been playing the same game for ten minutes and I was getting a little jaded, but at least it seemed to be distracting him from his nervy, cramping stomach.

‘Hmm, that’s a tricky one because there aren’t the usual letters and numbers on its registration plate,’ I said, surveying his sister in the rear-view mirror as I spoke. She sat in stony silence, every so often releasing a faint scent of coconut as she tossed her blonde locks over her shoulder. Her hair really was a beautiful colour – burnished gold with flashes of red – and shiny from all the attention she seemed to lavish on it. I was surprised that she was wearing it loose to school but she had insisted that she was allowed to, although I was frankly disbelieving that the heavy liner she wore was permitted as well.

‘Yes, but what do you think?’

‘Well, the paintwork’s shiny so I’d say two years old. Three at a push?’

Reece clapped a hand to his forehead as if something calamitous would happen as a direct result of my vagueness. ‘Which one though? Two or three?’

My thoughts drifted back to the previous day when Reece had appeared anguished to be presented with a choice of beds. It seemed that he was a boy who preferred absolutes. ‘Three, I’d say.’

He groaned, blinking rapidly to stop his eyes from twitching. As if contagious, one shoulder joined in, jerking up and down in synchrony with his eyelids. ‘But how sure are you?’

‘Quite, quite sure.’

Satisfied, his shoulders dropped in relief and I found myself letting out a breath as well. It was difficult not to get caught up in his panic.

‘What about that van then? The Ford. How old do you think that is?’

Suppressing a sigh – he had chosen another vehicle with a personalised number plate – I hazarded a guess at five years. Reece chewed the ends of his nails as he considered my answer, his fingers visibly trembling. My heart went out to him; he seemed unable to cope with the tiniest amount of stress. Being so overwrought, it wasn’t really any wonder that he suffered from so many tummy aches.

Suddenly his brow furrowed. ‘What, so you’re saying that van is more olderer than the BMW?’ His alarmed tone suggested that my answer was outlandish and possibly downright dangerous.

‘Well, it’s just a guess, Reece, that’s all. Why don’t you tell me what you think? How old would you say it is?’

He seemed to know a lot about cars, surprising considering his age. With barely a glance he was able to identify the make and sometimes even the model of passing cars. I guessed that it must be a passion of his father’s. It was a bad idea to throw the weight of responsibility back at him though, however knowledgeable he seemed. Clamping a hand either side of his head, he clawed at his nearly bare scalp with his fingers, an expression of pure panic skittering across his face.

‘Owww, I don’t know what to think. I really don’t know.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, shut it will yer, Reece? You’re getting on my pissing nerves.’

I winced.

‘You shut it,’ Reece howled, his eyes pooling with tears. ‘I’m trying to think. Ow, what shall I guess? I really don’t know, Rosie.’

‘It don’t bloody matter how old it is-er,’ Taylor snapped.

Not entirely unsympathetic with the sentiment, I said: ‘Please don’t say “shut it”, both of you. Say “be quiet” instead. And mind your language, Taylor.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Well, bloody be quiet then, Reece, or I’ll knock your teeth to the back of your throat.’

‘Erm, how about we count how many vans we see from here until we reach school?’ I ventured, knowing that Jamie adored nothing more than being presented with a challenge. He really wasn’t that much older than Reece. Besides, distraction was top of the list of social workers’ tips for dealing with difficult behaviour.

‘OK! You do it as well, Rosie, yeah?’

Performing a mental punch in the air, I tried not to whoop. ‘Absolutely, but we’ll have to be quiet so I can concentrate.’

Reece pinched his forefinger and thumb together and mimed zipping his lips together, a sight that brought a little skip to my heart. Taylor rolled her eyes and stared avidly out of the window, her forehead almost touching the glass. Downsedge Primary was about six miles on from Emily and Jamie’s school and it was already nearing 9 o’clock. Traffic grew mercifully lighter as we reached the outskirts of town, the wider, tree-lined streets windswept from the previous day’s storm.

At 9.15 a.m. we finally pulled up outside Downsedge Primary, the school’s appearance incongruous with its earthy name. Topped with several spired turrets, the four-storey red-brick building reminded me of my own primary school, its many cottage pane windows dotted with colourful paintings and glittered mobiles. ‘S’ya later,’ Taylor said, throwing her school bag over her shoulder and striding off without a backward glance.

‘Have a lovely day,’ I called out to her back as I got out of the car and handed a book bag to Reece.

He sniffed, his big eyes pricking with tears. ‘I don’t wanna go to school,’ he cried mournfully. ‘I want Mummy.’

‘Aw, come here, love,’ I said softly, holding out my arms. He rushed forwards and buried his head into my chest.

Sometimes it was that easy.

Later that afternoon, I decided to head off any negativity over my cooking skills by inviting Taylor to help me in the kitchen. Sitting on the sofa watching television, she seemed taken aback by the offer, staring between me and the screen as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. ‘What, me?’ she said, thumbing herself in the chest.

I laughed. ‘Yes, but you don’t have to. It’s up to you.’

‘All right,’ she said, which, in Taylor’s personal vocabulary constituted enthusiastic acceptance. She shuffled towards the kitchen with slow wariness, as if suspicious that the floor space between the living room and kitchen might be set with a series of small mines.

‘Turn the TV off on your way through, could you?’ I said, standing in the doorway that separated the kitchen from the living room, wiping my hands on a paper kitchen towel.

‘I want it on.’

‘Well, no one else is watching it and we’ll be quite a while. I thought we could have lasagne today, although we’ll make Reece a small one without onions.’

‘Na. I like it on in the background.’

‘But what about our environmental footprint?’ I said, trying to sound jokey. Since arriving home from school she had spent over half an hour on the computer, assuring me that she never ever went anywhere near chatrooms (‘I swear on my life, Rosie, for God’s sake-er!’), and the rest of the time watching Disney sitcoms that seemed more suited to teenagers than someone of her age. But at least they were milder than CSI, a television programme she insisted her parents allowed her to watch. I reached for the remote and switched it off. ‘Now, how confident are you with a sharp knife? Have you used one before?’

Taylor was too savvy to be sidetracked. Drawing herself to her full height (roughly an inch shorter than me) she set her jaw and flicked her fingers close to my eye. I stood unmoving, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of flinching away. ‘Changed me mind, I don’t wanna help you now. Put it back on, can yer? I wanna finish me programme.’

I hesitated, trying to work out whether agreeing would make me seem like too much of a pushover. Whenever Taylor refused to do something I was instantly ruffled, a sad indictment of my lack of experience. It was so much easier with toddlers, I thought. Counting to five and then sweeping them up in my arms if they refused to co-operate. Flailing, pudgy limbs and tiny fists were well within my capabilities. And then I reminded myself that I was supposed to be the adult so, unwilling to get drawn into childish games, I said: ‘Well, OK, but it’s going off in an hour when dinner’s ready.’

Just over an hour later I asked everyone to wash their hands. Six plates were arranged on trays I had bought earlier, since there was no longer a dining table for us to sit around. Taylor didn’t move.

‘Taylor, could you turn the television off and wash your hands for dinner, please?’

‘Just give us my tray here, ta,’ she said blithely from the sofa, as if she had special dispensation from the rules that the rest of us followed. When I hesitated she flicked her wrist at me as if to say, ‘Come on, come on’.

I drew a deep breath and walked backwards from the kitchen to the living room. ‘I’d like you to wash your hands like everyone else, please, Taylor.’

Teeth bared, she threw me a disgusted look and then slowly dragged herself to her feet, groaning as if crippled with arthritis. When she returned from the bathroom the television was off and all of us were sitting down, trays on our laps. It wasn’t ideal but when the weather improved I planned to scrub the patio table and chairs down so that we could eat our meals outside.

Instead of taking the space on the sofa that I’d left for her, Taylor reached over me to grab the remote.

Reece stiffened, the muscles in his cheeks tensing so hard that I could see them trembling.

‘It’s all right, Reece,’ I said gently. ‘There’s nothing to worry about, but, Taylor, we’re not having the television on while we eat. Now, sit down, please, there’s a love.’

She threw her arms up in disbelief. ‘Oh, why not-er?’ she screeched. ‘Mum lets us have it on all the time.’

Well, Mum’s not here is she? I was tempted to say. But I didn’t. Instead, I took a breath and then overwrote the mental retort: ‘Everyone has different rules, Taylor. In our house we each get to choose some programmes we’d like to watch. You and Reece can as well, but the TV doesn’t stay on all the time. You’ve been on the computer and watched some TV. I think that’s enough screen time for the moment. Now, come on, sit down or your dinner will get cold.’

Torn between eating and flouncing off, she stood for a moment, rocking on her heels. Food won out in the end. Without further demur, she slumped herself down on the sofa, so hard that Emily’s plate flew up, some pasta sliding onto her lap. She stared at Taylor with an expression of forbearance, glanced at me then silently lifted her knees, cradling the tray closer to her lap. I felt a flare of gratitude for her Zen-like nature, her ability to take upsets in her stride.

‘So, how was school today, guys?’

Reece spoke through a visible roux of pasta and mince. ‘Mrs Stanley moved me up to green level for my reading,’ he mumbled, tomato sauce dripping from the side of his mouth. I resisted the urge to say anything about it; they had only arrived twenty-four hours earlier and there was so much for them to take in. Table manners were lower down my list of priorities than making them feel comfortable and I didn’t want to be constantly nagging them.

‘Well done, Reece. That sounds good,’ I said, clueless as to what green level meant. Emily and Jamie had worked their way up a numbered reading scheme at their school.

‘It ain’t good,’ he said, shovelling an overburdened forkful in his mouth. ‘Still way too easy for me. The stories are boring.’

‘Oh, well, perhaps we could have a word with your teacher about that.’

He nodded, looking pleased.

‘Bethany’s still on those green books,’ Taylor piped up, suddenly emerging from her sulk.

‘Who’s Bethany?’ I asked, keen to encourage a continuing thaw.

‘Oh, just some lame girl in my class.’

‘What’s lame about her?’

‘Everything, basically.’

I lowered my fork to the tray. ‘Everyone has something special about them, Taylor. Perhaps you should give this Bethany a break.’

She sighed heavily, eyes skyward. ‘God, I don’t think so. For a start she wears glasses, no offence, Reece.’

Reece narrowed his eyes and looked at me as if undecided whether he should feel insulted or not. ‘So does Harry Potter,’ I said, winking at him. That was all it took. His face lit up and he carried on eating.

‘Yeah, well, Bethany’s fat as well. Oh, the other day it was hilarious, yeah? You shoulda been there. Basically, we was in the hall for games, right? Cos the field’s blocked off at the moment with all scaffolding and stuff. And she goes and falls over and literally skids all the way across the floor on her arse.’ I looked up from my plate but she carried on, oblivious. ‘Oh my God, it was so fucking funny. And she always has these marks on her arms where her uniform clings to her. We call her Lardface.’

‘Please don’t use bad language in front of the others, Taylor. If you must say something, say, “Oh my giddy aunt” or how about, “Oh my goodness”?’

Her jaw dropped. ‘You have got to be kidding? What bad language anyway?’

I pressed my lips together and gave her a hard stare. She rolled her eyes. ‘Oh what’s the big deal? Everyone swears.’

I gave her another warning glare but she seemed guileless. Second nature to her, I don’t think she even realised she was doing it. ‘Poor Bethany, it must be so horrible for her, being called names,’ I said. ‘I bet she dreads going to school.’

A faint shadow of embarrassment crossed Taylor’s features, quickly followed by a ‘Who cares?’ shrug. ‘It ain’t just me. Literally everyone hates her.’

I winced. ‘Hate is a very strong word, love.’

‘I’m a strong person,’ she said with a sour smile. She always seemed to have an answer for everything.

We lapsed into silence, none of us quite sure how to restart the conversation. And then Emily, who had been quiet until that point, said: ‘I hope Bethany discovers a cure for cancer or something when she’s older, don’t you, Mum?’

I was about to agree when Taylor scoffed. ‘It’d be just like her to do something lame.’

Jamie dropped his fork. It clattered on the tray and made Emily jump again. Her plate rolled against her tummy, tomato sauce creeping over her top. ‘How can finding a cure for cancer be lame?’ Jamie demanded, looking at me with wide eyes. Emily glanced between us, gave her top a little shake and then discreetly shuffled her bottom further along the sofa, away from Taylor. Her ability to accept the bad in people without too much effort always amazed me, whereas Jamie was the opposite. Even at the age of seven he couldn’t tolerate flippant, senseless remarks.

‘Because I say it is, numbskull.’ Taylor flicked her hair over her shoulder. ‘Basically I’m gonna be a top model or something when I’m fourteen. I could of been one already if it weren’t for school and everything.’

Jamie spluttered on his food, his eyes scrunched in disbelief. Sensing that he was about to make a comment that wouldn’t go down too well I jumped in quickly. ‘Some of the most famous people in the world were picked on at school, did you know that?’

‘Yeah, like who?’ Taylor asked, her lip curled into a grimace. I knew it didn’t matter what I said, but I pushed ahead anyway, if only to distract Jamie.

‘Er, well, off the top of my head, there’s Madonna. She had a hard time at school.’

Taylor rolled her eyes. ‘Lame,’ she decreed.

‘Lame? You’re calling Madonna lame?’

‘Yep,’ she said, rolling her lips and making a loud smacking sound. I ran through a host of other celebrities, reaching a point where I had no idea whether they were bullied or not. Taylor wrote them all off as boring losers, or useless twats. Riled, Jamie shouted ‘Richer than you’ll ever be’ after each of her insults.

It saddened me that a child of her age should be so disillusioned with the world that every word she uttered seemed to be either a put-down or a complaint. I knew that most children had a tendency to polarise, dividing experiences or people into the best or the worst ever, but Taylor categorised almost everything in existence as abominable. The only person she ever spoke well of was her mother, who was, in Taylor’s words, ‘beautiful and kind’.

It puzzled me, her adoration of her mother, considering that she seemed to be the prime aggressor towards the children.