Читать книгу Betrayed: The heartbreaking true story of a struggle to escape a cruel life defined by family honour - Rosie Lewis - Страница 11

Lunch was pasta with cheese sauce. Zadie had told me not to worry about special food for her as she was vegetarian and I had checked that it was something she liked, but she barely touched anything. She sat in silence, her eyes fixed on her plate as she twirled her fork in her right hand. Her left hand was out of sight under the table, no doubt tapping out nervous rhythms on her thigh.

Des, my supervising social worker, had called soon after we arrived home, to ask if he could pop in later to make one of his statutory visits. He was a gregarious character and always managed to bring out the louder side of my own personality, so I was looking forward to introducing him to Zadie. If anyone could bring Zadie out of her shell, it would be him.

The rest of the afternoon passed quietly, with Zadie up in her room reading The Red Pony. I was happy with her choice, confident that the classic was unlikely to cause offence to anyone. While she was occupied I sat in the conservatory to write up my daily diary. Recording our earlier conversation in the forest, I remembered how abruptly it had ended. It was a shame the rain had started just at the moment she spoke of her mother. I sat mulling over what she had said, itching to find out more.

When my records were up to date I invited Zadie to help me prepare a chicken pie for our evening meal, hoping that we might take up the conversation where we left off. Emily and Jamie were going to the golf driving range with their dad after school – although we had divorced years earlier, Gary remained dedicated to the children and saw them often – so we had a long afternoon to fill. She seemed content pottering around the kitchen and was adept at preparing food, even the meat, despite being a vegetarian. It was clear that she was well practised at preparing meals for a large family. Without any direction from me she tore the plastic from a pack of chicken and rinsed each fillet under the tap before deftly snipping slivers into some hot oil with a pair of kitchen scissors.

I began kneading the pastry and chattered on about the rest of our family; my mother and nieces and nephews, but, while Zadie seemed interested, she didn’t join in or volunteer anything of her own. I remembered what Peggy had said about her father pressurising for Zadie to be returned to him and couldn’t help feeling a sense of urgency, but I didn’t want to force it so I avoided any more direct questions.

Emily and Jamie arrived home just after five o’clock. As soon as Zadie heard their steps on the gravel driveway she washed her hands and then left the kitchen. After a hurried greeting in the hall, she withdrew to the dining room, burying her head in her book.

Emily went straight up to her room and Jamie, following his usual after-school routine, raided the biscuit tin then switched on the Xbox. Leaning his head into the dining room, he invited Zadie to join him. She shook her head shyly, diving straight back into her book. A little pride swelled up in me; it was always so lovely to see my own children’s efforts to welcome others in, even though their friendliness was often shunned in the early days. Jamie shrugged off her rejection and carried on with his game.

Des arrived just before dinner time, as was his usual habit. Jamie answered the door, greeting the social worker by thrusting an Xbox controller in his hands. Although half the time my son made an effort to show that he was now beyond all forms of play by shrugging nonchalantly and forcing a look of disinterest, computer games seemed to be an acceptable caveat.

‘How about you let me take my shoes off first, eh, Jamie? He doesnae give me a chance,’ Des muttered, removing his shoes using the heel of each foot and leaving them in the hall. ‘Hi, Zadie,’ he said casually when he passed the dining room, as if he’d met her dozens of times before. ‘How do you put up wi’ him, you lot?’

Jamie grunted, revelling in the banter. Zadie peered over the top of her book, a little intrigued. Des was such an affable character; he just had that way that some people have about them, of creating an immediate air of familiarity.

‘Don’t start another game yet, Jamie. Dinner’s almost ready,’ I said, leaning against the doorway. It was one of those moments when I wished I had thought to run a brush through my manic hair. I managed to tuck some of it behind each ear. ‘Hi, Des. Would you like to join us?’

He looked at me sideways, his blue eyes shining with their usual glint of humour. ‘What are you having?’ There was no mistaking the caution in his voice and I couldn’t disguise my smile. Des struck me as such a bold character. He was outgoing, charming and had travelled all over the world, yet he was such a baby about food. One sniff of something spicy and his lips would go pale. ‘Not that I’m fussy,’ he insisted, ‘so you can stop looking at me like that, Rosie Lewis.’

‘Chicken pie. We made it this afternoon, didn’t we, Zadie?’

She raised her eyes, nodding silently.

‘You didnae sneak anything hot in there, I hope?’ he teased.

Zadie looked serious. She frowned, shaking her head.

‘Don’t worry, Zadie. Des thinks pepper is an exotic flavouring, don’t you?’

The social worker snorted. Zadie pinched her lips in imitation of a smile but her features didn’t soften accordingly.

‘Yes, count me in then, if there’s enough,’ he said as I leaned my head into the hallway and called up to Emily. ‘Dinner’s ready, love.’

At the table, Des and Jamie argued playfully about the upcoming friendly football match between England and Scotland, Des going into a rant in imitation of a well-known sports commentator. Dark wavy hair that was usually swept back from his temple flew out at odd angles and soon Jamie was in fits of laughter. It was easy to picture Des in his earlier days, as a bit-part actor in dodgy American sitcoms. Tonight he surprised us by throwing into the conversation that he’d also been the lead guitarist in an unsuccessful rock band known as The Bad Natives. Lifting his leg, he wrapped one hand round his shin, strummed his thigh and threw his head back, launching into a rendition of ‘Mustang Sally’.

Jamie whooped, drumming his palms on the table. Zadie raised her eyes, interested but a little taken aback by the banter. Every now and again she would cast a furtive glance around the table but whenever any of us looked her way she would stare into her plate and play lifelessly with her food. But she wasn’t the only one. I could see that Emily was troubled too. I can read my daughter’s expression from across a room, interpreting her mood from the angle of her head or slant in her shoulders, but that night I didn’t need a mother’s instinct to know she was upset. She was usually animated when Des came to visit but she prodded at the same speck of food with her fork, barely glancing in his direction.

‘Are you all right, Ems?’ I asked.

‘Yes, fine,’ she nodded. Des stopped teasing Jamie for a moment and turned to look at her. Emily smiled but quickly returned her attention to her plate, clearly stewing over something. It was unusual for anything to cloud Emily’s brightly glowing aura. She was such a cheerful, buoyant soul that it was a surprise to see her gloomy. I wondered whether Zadie’s brooding silence was affecting her, but then I dismissed the thought. Emily had grown used to children arriving in a much more distressed state than Zadie appeared to be in. I was wondering whether to say anything more when Jamie distracted my attention. ‘Can I leave the table, Mum? I told Ben I’d meet him on FIFA at 7.’

As usual, his plate was clear. ‘Go on then.’

We watched silently as Jamie sprang to his feet and disappeared from sight. Des can’t be described as anything other than a people person; his ability to mingle was the trait I admired in him the most, yet without Jamie at the table he seemed to lose his momentum, as if the silence of the rest of us was contagious.

Our attention soon focused on Zadie. Holding her fork in her right hand, she separated the food on her plate into small mouthfuls; a couple of peas, a piece of her own mini-vegetarian pie and some mashed potato were dotted around the plate in small mounds. If a pea rolled away she manoeuvred it back to the required position with robotic movements. It was mesmerising.

A minute or two of silence passed before Des recovered. ‘I’ve been thinking about reviving the old band actually,’ he said, reaching for his glass of water. ‘First there was the Spice Girls, then Take That. I think the world might be ready for a Bad Natives reunion. What do you think, Ems?’

That was it. Emily guffawed, much like her usual self. Zadie touched her forefinger to the tip of her nose and examined what was left of her pie. She tilted her head then set to work rearranging the layout, making minute adjustments. Des put his fork down and cocked his head, giving me a knowing look. I stretched my lips and gave a slight nod.

It wasn’t unusual for fostered children to display symptoms of OCD, especially where food was concerned. But Zadie’s compulsive behaviour went beyond that; the strumming, the counting under her breath, the tidying. And then it suddenly struck me: the chapped skin on her hands might have nothing to do with sleeping out in the cold for two nights, and all the time she spent in the bathroom may not have been just purifying herself for prayers.

‘Had enough of social work then, Des?’ I heard Emily ask Des.

‘Funny you should say that,’ he answered.

But their conversation faded into the background. I was quiet, absorbed by my own thoughts. I remembered Zadie washing her hands after doing the dishes. I had thought it was nerves but now it all fell into place – she was an obsessive hand washer.

Just after 8 p.m. Des stood at the front door manoeuvring his feet back into his shoes. With his uncanny ability to read me he looked down and touched me on the shoulder. ‘Give it time.’

I sighed. ‘She just seems so very far away.’

‘She’ll come out of herself,’ he said, speaking with absolute conviction, ‘once she feels comfortable.’

He always seemed to make me feel better. ‘Thanks, Des. You would have been wasted as a rock star. You’re in the perfect job, if you ask me.’

He gave me a look I couldn’t quite decipher. ‘Visiting you is more than just a job, Rosie. You do know that, don’t you?’

I smiled, patting his arm.

‘Anyway, looks like there might be changes afoot,’ he said cryptically.

‘Changes?’

Just then Jamie came into the hall and stood beside me, draping an arm around my shoulder.

‘I’ll tell you more on Saturday. You are going, aren’t you?’

Des was referring to the foster carers’ ball. Every year our fostering agency arranges a dinner dance for its foster carers. They often invite a motivational speaker along to give a talk and then to present long service and special recognition awards afterwards. It was an enjoyable occasion, although this year, feeling a bit guilty about leaving Zadie with a back-up carer so soon after her arrival, I wasn’t as keen to go.

‘Yes, I’ve booked my mum in to babysit.’

‘Great. Maybe I’ll persuade your mother to have a dance with me,’ Des said, winking at Jamie.

‘I wouldn’t, Mum,’ Jamie said. ‘He might start singing.’

About an hour later, while Zadie was having a bath, I went into her room to look for any dirty clothes she may have left in there. Foster carers usually have to keep their wits about them, especially at the beginning of a placement when the child is assessing their new environment. Taken away from all that is precious to them and then catapulted into a relationship with unfamiliar adults, it’s a natural response to react badly. I remembered the high drama of when 15-year-old Amy came to stay.

Amy spent her first week with us in a highly anxious state, withdrawing from cannabis as well as trying to deal with the commotion of coming into care. It’s fair to say that our house took a bit of a battering during her period of readjustment. But there seemed to be none of that with Zadie, and her room was immaculate, with not a thing out of place.

If anyone had asked me to name three character traits of Zadie’s after she had been with us for a couple of days, ‘quiet’ would most definitely have qualified. Above that would have been ‘nervous’, but I would have struggled with the rest of the list. There seemed to be no substance to her, nothing solid that I could put my finger on.

About to leave the room, I made a little triangle of her duvet by turning it back at the corner and grabbed her pyjamas from underneath the pillow. As I was smoothing them out on the radiator in the hall to warm them, I felt something knobbly beneath my palms. Frowning, I picked them up again, noticing for the first time how heavy they were. Turning them over in my hands, I felt several hard lumps in the material. Running them between my fingers, I found what felt like rough pebbles had been sewn into the hem of the top and the waistband of the bottoms.

‘Zadie. What are these doing here?’ I asked, surprised to find her standing behind me. She moved so lightly from room to room that all I had sensed was a wisp of air. I often have to remind the children I look after to keep covered up but Zadie had dressed back into her robe just to take the short walk along the hall to her bedroom. Her headscarf was off though, her damp, dark hair clinging to the robe and leaving a large damp patch at the back. It was surprising how different someone could look with the absence of one simple garment. She looked even prettier with her hair long and flowing.

‘What?’ she asked, though it was obvious she knew what I was talking about; she was staring straight at her pyjamas.

‘Why are there pebbles in your PJs?’

She looked at me, chewing her lip. With the line of her elegant neck visible she seemed so much more vulnerable. ‘I’d sleep on my tummy if they weren’t there.’

I held them in front of me, staring. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘I’m supposed to lie on my back.’

I shook my head as I passed them to her, still confused. ‘Why?’

‘Prophets sleep with their bellies facing upwards,’ she explained, clutching them to her chest and lowering her chin into the soft material. ‘I might be sent to hell if I sleep badly, so Chit sewed them in.’

I didn’t know how to respond so I stood clutching her door handle for a moment before saying goodnight.

Downstairs, I picked up a book and slumped on the sofa. Holding it open, I ran my eyes over the first page then realised I had no idea what I’d just read. I tried again but gave up after the second paragraph, too preoccupied to take anything in.

And so, the night before the real problems began to emerge, I lay in bed feeling generally puzzled. I was a bit concerned about Emily. From the moment she was born she had been a textbook baby. She slept when I laid her down, like one of those dollies with the closing eyelids, smiling and cooing whenever she was awake; she skipped her way through the ‘terrible twos’, and even as a teenager she was rarely moody or difficult. I resolved to leave it a few days before pressing her any further. Emily tended to think things through for herself before blurting out what was worrying her.

Unlike Zadie. I knew that she would need lots of encouragement if she was to open up. My thoughts turned to our earlier conversation and I felt a flicker of unease. Funnily enough it wasn’t the pebbled pyjamas that worried me. It seemed a bit of a draconian measure to me but it sounded like her family were doing what they could to keep her spiritually safe. All religions had their own special ways of negotiating their followers through an unpredictable world, I reasoned. I could see the logic.

When I was young, my father had a rigid routine of Bible study in place for when I got home from school. There was no relaxing in front of Grange Hill with milk and a biscuit for me. It was a case of working my way through the books of the Bible and memorising important texts to repeat to him when he got home from work. I had a feeling that Zadie’s experiences were magnified tenfold on a scale of severity, but I could certainly relate to them.

What really unsettled me was the control her brother seemed to exert over her. Zadie said it was Chit who had taken it upon himself to correct her for sleeping on her back. It struck me as strange that a brother should involve himself in disciplining his sister so harshly, but then a little girl, Freya, tugged at my memory. Even though she wasn’t quite five years old when she came to stay with me, she was well used to caring for her younger siblings. She knew how to prepare a bottle of formula milk for her baby brother and was so protective of her role as their carer that she became distressed when I tried to release her from it. I wanted her to learn to be a little girl again but she found it hard to relinquish what she saw as her responsibilities. Without his mother around, perhaps it was natural for Chit to take a more active role in caring for younger siblings, I reasoned.

And then there was Des. Usually so quick to comfort and calm, there was something in the way his eyes shadowed when he told me that changes were on the way that stirred up anxiety in me. I had a feeling that I wasn’t going to like what he had to say.