by Rosie Lewis
I sat on the floor while she wriggled herself under the duvet, wondering again why her mother had disguised her. It seemed such a strange thing to do but I suspected that, whatever the reason, the motivation would have been one of love. Every now and then Angell glanced at me, her forehead furrowed, as if trying to work out what I was up to. Clearly she still didn’t trust me, but every time I made a move to leave she whimpered. Her limbs and neck were stiff with tension, and soothing the pain of being wrenched from her mother was out of my reach, no matter how many hugs I offered.
I stayed beside her until the tension ebbed away, her head falling limp against the pillow.
Downstairs, I could hear Jamie’s crowing from the hallway. ‘Why can’t you just admit you were wrong? Angell likes dolls because she’s a girl. If she had been a boy she would have wanted to play with the cars.’
I hovered in the doorway of the living room, watching as Emily’s face crumpled in on itself. Her hands migrated to her hips, a sure sign of her fury. ‘Well, you loved wearing dresses when you were a toddler. Your favourite was a sparkly pink one and you used to cry when Mum put it in the wash. You wore it to Pizza Hut once.’
‘Yeah, right. Course I did.’
Sheepishly, I sidestepped Emily, trying to make it to the kitchen unseen. She swung around. ‘He did wear that dress out, didn’t he? Do you remember?’
‘Um …’
‘I did not! She’s lying, Mum, isn’t she?’
I paused.
Jamie stared at me in horror. ‘You let me go out in a dress?!’
‘Well, you wore a coat on top,’ I said weakly. ‘You didn’t want to take it off.’
He clapped a hand to his forehead and groaned.
‘Ha!’ Emily gloated in delight. ‘And I’ve got a photo somewhere. I’m going to find it and show everyone tomorrow.’
‘You can’t let her do that, Mum!’
‘Emily, stop it. It’s Christmas Eve.’
She continued to snicker so I distracted her by inviting her to help me sort through the storage boxes under the stairs. I wanted to find a few toys that Angell hadn’t seen that would appeal to a girl of her age. There were some gender-neutral presents wrapped up under the tree but most of the toys I had bought the previous day were aimed at boys. While searching, Emily gave me one of her lectures for worrying about it, ‘You’ll be doing Angell a favour by giving her boy toys. Didn’t you know that girls who are given traditionally male toys score higher in intelligence tests?’
‘Well, how about that?’ I said mildly, reaching for a small buggy folded up at the back of the cupboard. I didn’t necessarily disagree with Emily but Angell had clearly enjoyed playing with the dolls – I just wished we had something new that I knew she would like.
We managed to rescue a few old bits – the buggy still worked fine and there was a small bear with a satchel full of teddy clothes, but if I’m honest they were all a bit raggedy.
As we wrapped the moribund finds Emily said: ‘Oh, by the way, a police officer called while you were upstairs. She wanted to let you know that Angell’s mum is starting to open up and he is really a she. I told her we made that discovery ourselves.’
I grinned. ‘We certainly did.’
Emily secured a label on one of the gifts with a piece of sticky tape and then sat back on her haunches, frowning. ‘Why do you think she made out that Angell was a boy?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said slowly, although several motives were beginning to bubble through my mind. I knew it was quite possible that I was way off kilter – the only certainty when fostering is that each day holds a promise of the unexpected.
I slept well that night, but my dreams were a jumble of confusion, skipping randomly through the events of the day. The draconian brutality of Angell’s separation from her mother kept playing on a loop in my unconscious mind, coupled with the strengthening conviction that Nicki wasn’t all that she seemed.
Jenny, one of my fostering friends, kept floating in and out of my thoughts as well. As is our usual tradition, we exchanged texts late in the evening, wishing each other a peaceful day ahead. Christmas is rarely an easy celebration for children in care – the day being a painful reminder of their own absent family – and I knew that Jenny was anticipating a particularly difficult time. Twelve-year-old Justin had moved in with the foster carer just two weeks earlier and she was still struggling to contain his violent behaviour.
Over the last couple of years, Jenny, I and two other local carers had met up regularly and, having witnessed each other sobbing at one point or another, the usual barriers to intimacy seemed to have crumbled away. I felt completely at ease in their company and knew that word of my new placement would travel quickly around our small group.
What I hadn’t expected, though, was their response. I had set my alarm for 5 a.m., eager to put Jamie Oliver’s advice of preparing the dinner hours before cooking into practice. With everything ready to pop into the oven, I would be able to spend lots of time nursing Angell through what was likely to be a stressful day for her – that was the theory, anyway.
It was still dark when I crept downstairs but even without the lights on I noticed a white note suspended halfway through the letter box. Intrigued, I released it gently and quickly unfolded it.
Rosie,
Heard about the mix-up – I recently bought some new bits for After School Club but we don’t start over again until 6 Jan so plenty of time to replace them. Hope this helps.
Enjoy your day!
Rachel x
With a little skip in my chest I reached for my keys and, trying not to rattle them, stepped over the plate of mince pies and carrots on the mat and unlocked the door. There, piled high in a wicker basket on the path just below the front step, were several gifts gorgeously wrapped in pink and purple sparkly paper. I clapped my hands to my cheeks, overwhelmed by Rachel’s thoughtfulness.
Excitedly, I carried the frost-covered basket into the living room. As I unpacked the presents I noticed that Rachel had attached a photo of the contents to the outside of the wrapping with a slither of tape. It was unbelievably thoughtful of her and I was still buzzing with gratitude as I peeled the potatoes and prepared the stuffing balls. It had been such a wonderful start to the day that my worries about how Angell would cope were pushed firmly to the back of my mind. Getting into the Christmas spirit, I opened a caramel and cinnamon syrup, added a dash to some coffee and sat down on the bottom stair to listen out for her.
Gone were the days when Jamie would leap out of bed at 5 a.m. pleading to open his presents. Excitement usually still got the better of Emily, who tended to hibernate the other 364 days of the year, but at 6.30 a.m. both of them were still holed up in their rooms. There was still no sound from Angell either so at 7 a.m., after nibbling a few reindeer bites in the carrots and crumbling one of the mince pies, I crept up the stairs to check on her. I stopped short in the doorway of her room, surprised to find her softly weeping, her thumb in her mouth.
Her head snapped up when she saw me. She frowned, as if she couldn’t quite place who I was. I felt a pang of guilt – while I’d been enjoying my coffee she’d been alone and crying in a strange house. ‘Morning,’ I said softly, kneeling beside her and reaching out to stroke the sleep-knotted tendrils of dark hair that were clinging to her wet cheeks. ‘How long have you been awake?’
She sat up and rubbed her damp eyes. They were red-rimmed and swollen; she must have been crying for quite some time. ‘I don’t want dis room,’ she quavered, her bottom lip trembling. ‘I want Mummy’s room.’
‘I know, sweetie, I know.’ I wished I could tell her how many sleeps it would be until her first contact session with Nicki, but I had no idea and, being Christmas, I didn’t expect to hear anything from social services for at least a couple of days. ‘Someone will arrange for you to see Mummy soon, I promise. Now, shall we go downstairs and see if the reindeers ate their carrots?’
The crease in her brow deepened and she gave a little
sorrowful shake of her head. Temporarily stumped, I was trying to figure out how to persuade her to join me when Emily burst into the room. ‘Morning! It’s Christmas, hooray!’ She knelt beside me and kissed my cheek. Angell held her breath mid-sob, staring up at Emily in surprise.
‘Happy Christmas, Mum! You too, Angell. Come on, let’s go and open the presents.’ Emily grabbed Angell’s hand, pulled her to her feet and swept her from the room. ‘Come on, Mum,’ she said impatiently, banging on Jamie’s door on the way to the stairs. ‘Jamie! Get up, it’s Christmas!’
It was at times like this that I realised, even after years of fostering, that there was still so much I needed to learn about children. I sat for a moment and stared after them, smiling and shaking my head.
Our guests began arriving around midday. Thanks to Jamie Oliver, dinner was coming along nicely, so much so that when my mum arrived I was able to decline all offers of help and spend some time introducing her to Angell. Within minutes, Angell was curled up next to Mum on the sofa, still wearing the Ben 10 tracksuit she had arrived in. I had tried to coax her into wearing some of her new clothes but, understandably, she wanted to keep the few things that were familiar close by. Thankfully I had thrown everything into the washing machine when she went to bed, so at least it was clean. One by one, Angell showed my mum the toys she had opened earlier that morning. Every one of Rachel’s gifts had been a hit and Angell had spent the morning dragging them along on a blanket behind her as she followed me from room to room.
It was a relief to see her reaching out to Mum for comfort, but part of me felt a failure for not being the one providing it. As they flicked through the pages of a Little Mermaid book, Angell smiling and leaning into Mum’s arm, I told myself that her rejection wasn’t personal – in her eyes I was a usurper, the one responsible for snatching her away from her mum. It would take time for her to realise that I was firmly on her side.
With her safe haven marked out on the sofa next to Mum, Angell barely raised an eyebrow as the rest of the guests turned up – my aunt and uncle, youngest brother and his family and Mary, an elderly ex-neighbour of mine – although when Chris, my effusive older brother, arrived with his wife and three sons, she clasped her toys a little closer, chin quivering. Bounding into the living room, Chris pulled me into a bone-crushing hug, exchanged a noisy high-five with Jamie then chased Emily around with his arms thrown wide. ‘Come and give your Uncle Chris a big cuddle.’
‘Urgh, get off!’ Emily giggled, waving him away. Emily and Jamie appreciate their uncle’s unreserved enthusiasm and cheerful banter these days, but when they were small, his loud, gravelly voice left them wide-eyed and slightly tearful.
Chris laughed and gave up, his eyes finally landing on Angell.
He leaned over and slapped his hands on his thighs. ‘Oh, hello, little one. I didn’t notice you there.’ Bestowing a tickle to her tummy he said: ‘You must be Angell.’
Angell looked up tremulously and leaned closer to my mum.
I cupped a hand in a C-shape around my mouth. ‘Um, boundaries, Chris,’ I hissed, ‘boundaries …’ When I began fostering I explained to my family that foster carers have a responsibility to ensure that the children in their care will not be tickled. Having expressed their unanimous opinion (‘what piffle!’) they agreed to rein in their tactile natures, promptly forgetting whenever said children were in placement.
‘Oh, stop worrying, Rosie. She’s alright, aren’t you, Angell? Looks like you’ve got some lovely presents there.’
Angell looked into his open face with a look of puzzlement and then, amazingly, the edges of her mouth curled upwards. Thinking she was on the verge of a smile, I felt a surge of happiness, but then, after a sidelong glance at me, she leaned forwards and whispered into Chris’s ear, ‘Will you take me back to Mummy?’
My heart sank with the realisation that she had been wearing a look of hope. Chris glanced at me then crouched in front of her. ‘Aw, you’re staying with Rosie for a while, darling,’ he said, his bristly face soft with compassion. ‘She’ll take good care of you.’
Her eyes filled up and she turned away, burying her face into my mum’s shoulder.
By 2 p.m., with the dinner almost ready and the house filled with happy conversation, I was enticed into a false sense of security. Every so often Angell would tug at the sleeve of a passing relative and ask them when she could see her mum, hoping to get a different answer from the one I kept giving – ‘soon, sweetie, soon’ – but apart from that, she seemed to be coping brilliantly, unperturbed by all the unfamiliar faces and sudden bursts of laughter. My plan was for us all to eat together at the table and then, at 3 p.m., watch the Queen’s Speech with Christmas pudding in bowls on our laps.
Unfortunately, Angell had other ideas.
As soon as Mum took her hand and led her to the table, her shoulders begin to shake, tears rolling down her cheeks. My heart melted but I was so busy trying to get everyone squeezed around our small table (niftily extended with an 8-ft block of MDF planted on top of it, disguised with shiny Christmas paper) that I left my mum to coax her along. The trouble was that, within seconds, several well-meaning adults had circled, all trying to offer their own form of comfort.
Angell shook her head in panic, utterly bewildered. ‘How about we sit over here?’ Mum said, shooing everyone away and settling herself on the chair in the corner. Angell leaned into her, making no sound but weeping as if she was grief-stricken. It was such a strange sight – her mouth wide open in a silent howl, eyes full of sorrow.
I suspected that she was used to restraining herself, perhaps fearful of making a noise at home. Her reticence reminded me of Catie, a one-year-old who came to stay with us a few years earlier. Alarm bells rang when Catie’s social worker described her as a docile baby who ‘wasn’t any trouble’. While it was true that Catie never cried, it wasn’t because she was a ‘good’ baby. I think she had simply learnt the cruel lesson that however much she cried, no one would come to lift her out of her cot.
‘Dig in everyone, don’t wait for me,’ Mum said brightly. ‘We’ll be alright in a minute, won’t we, Angell?’
Angell buried her head into Mum’s shoulder. I was hoping that, if we all ignored her, she might feel less conspicuous and begin to relax. A couple of minutes later though, she had wriggled from my mum’s lap and was crouching at her feet beneath the table. It was difficult to know what to do. I wanted to include her but, knowing it was perhaps a bit too much to expect, I decided to let her stay where she was. No child can eat under duress and, from what her mum had said, she wasn’t used to eating hot food anyway. While I wasn’t going to give her a packet of crisps for Christmas lunch, I planned to offer her a sandwich or some fruit when she had calmed down.
The funny thing was that as it turned out, there was no need for snacks. After a few minutes I noticed a pair of eyes peering over the table ledge opposite. I ignored them and carried on talking to my sister-in-law, hoping Angell’s peek would develop into a full-blown appearance. A moment later though, a hand emerged, walking itself across the table towards one of the bowls of leftovers. Within seconds, the small fingers had curled around a roast potato and then quickly withdrawn, like one of those grabbing plastic hands from a children’s money box. I decided not to draw attention to it. At least she was eating and, with all the commotion in the house, it was hardly the right time to start setting boundaries.
Much to the stifled amusement of my family, the hand worked its way through a wide selection of foods from the side dishes, both hot and cold. I might have found the sight comical as well, if it hadn’t been quite so sad.
It was lovely, having the whole family together around our table, but throughout the meal I couldn’t stop my thoughts drifting away from them. I kept wondering whether Nicki was still in hospital and, if not, how she would spend the day away from her daughter. Was it the first Christmas they had been apart, I wondered. I knew Angell was probably still too wary of me to open up about her home life, eve
n if she had been able to find the words. Fortunately, the past seems to have a canny knack of revealing itself.
Around 4 p.m., with a wink in my mum’s direction, I went upstairs. My aunt, who was to be 70 on Boxing Day, had recently discovered a passion for art and so we had clubbed together to buy her an easel with all the associated paraphernalia. I had hidden it away in my bedroom but it was so heavy that I needed a hand to carry it down.
Angell, still firmly attached to my mum’s side, came along as well. Chris followed her in and I handed the largest package, the easel, to him, and a couple of the smaller boxes to my mum. I turned, intending to pass Angell one of the smaller gifts, a set of brushes, so that she’d feel included, but she had disappeared.
My mum spun around on her heel. ‘She was here a second ago!’
Even though I knew she couldn’t have gone far, I felt uneasiness creeping over me. ‘Angell, where are you?’
After lifting the duvet and checking behind the curtains, we turned a few futile circles and then, just as we were about to leave the room, we heard a tiny sniff. It seemed to be coming from the wardrobe. Chris, Mum and I exchanged baffled looks and I pulled the door open. There, huddled in the back of the wardrobe with one of my jumpers clutched to her face, was Angell. ‘I didn’t look,’ she said tearfully, her voice muffled by the wool. ‘Has he done yet? Is he gone?’
I looked back at Mum with raised eyebrows. She winked and squeezed my arm. ‘We’ll leave you to it,’ she whispered, following Chris out of the room. I knelt on the floor and swept the clothes that were hanging over Angell to one side. The rail above her head screeched in protest and Angell flinched, silent screams erupting from her throat again.