by Rosie Lewis
‘Do you know what I do when I’m feeling unhappy or scared, Angell?’ I asked, wrapping my arms around her middle and rocking slightly. Her head was tucked beneath my chin, her hair tickling my skin as she shook her head. ‘I imagine that I have a special balloon that I can climb into whenever I want. It can float through the air or rest on the ground but do you know what’s really special about it?’
She shook her head again, glancing sideways at me.
‘Well, it’s made of glass, so not only can I hear what everyone around me is saying but I can see everything as well. I tuck myself away, warm and safe, and I stay in there for as long as I want to.’
Her breathing began to slow as she stared at me, one eyebrow cocked.
I smiled and her lips twitched, almost responding with one of her own. ‘And do you know what’s even more special?’
‘What?’ she asked in a croaky, mucus-filled voice.
‘Anyone can have a balloon like that.’
She frowned, thinking about it for a minute. ‘Can I have one?’
‘Yes. It’s ready for you, whenever you need it.’
‘I can get in it now, can I?’
I nodded. ‘Yes, if you want to.’
We walked downstairs together, Angell moving robotically, as if she was frightened her balloon might be too fragile to take her weight. She spent the next hour or so in a trance-like state, quietly removed from the merriment going on around her.
It wasn’t until after 7 p.m. that I noticed the home telephone flashing with a recorded message. Pressing my right hand flat against my ear to drown out the sound of Strictly Come Dancing in the background, I pressed play and leaned my head against the wall, listening. It was a duty social worker with a strong Liverpudlian accent, who introduced himself as Ben. ‘Hello, Rosie, sorry to disturb you on Christmas Day but I need to talk to you about Angell.’
I straightened, a wave of anticipation rushing over me.
‘We’ve had some, um,’ there was a pause, and then the light male voice issued through the air again, ‘enlightening disclosures from Mum.’
I held myself still, readying myself.
‘I won’t go into detail here. Can you call me as soon as you can, please?’ He left a mobile number and then cut off, the message ending with a resounding buzz. An automated voice announced the time of the call – 1.05 p.m. I pressed my lips together and played the message again, scribbling the mobile number he’d left on the back of my hand and then quickly dialling it. There was a click and then Ben’s voice regurgitated a standard ‘Sorry I’m not available right now’ message. Frustrated, I sank back against the wall, immediately jumping away as the phone jangled into life.
‘Rosie?’
‘Yes, it’s me. Ben?’ I apologised for not picking up the message sooner.
‘That’s OK,’ he said, his accent less pronounced than it had been in his message. ‘I just wanted to give you the heads up, love, to keep you in the picture, like. Mum’s still in Queen Mary’s Hospital but I’ve been to see her this morning and what she told me put a very different light on things, I have to say.’
‘Oh, right?’
‘Yes. The thing is, Nicki was w-o-rking yesterday morning when Angell was found,’ Ben said, ‘if you get what I mean?’
‘Ah-ha,’ I said, ‘yes, I see.’ Ben’s emphasis made it clear. The possibility had popped into my head when Angell had hidden herself in the wardrobe after seeing Chris in my bedroom. When she went on to ask about other men I had gathered I was on the right track. ‘So she was nearby then?’
‘No, that had been her plan – she takes Angell with her when she works, I’ll tell you why in a minute – but the punter didn’t stick to the rules. He dragged her off and she fought to keep Angell within sight, hence the pummelling she took. I expect you noticed.’
A sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach told me that Nicki’s chances of getting Angell back were looking decidedly grim. Des, my supervising social worker, had told me soon after we first met that there were lots of mothers who earned a living from prostitution. Apparently, as long as the children were well cared for in all other respects and kept away from ‘tricks’, social services didn’t intervene. Nicki had opened up and been honest, which in a way was a good thing, but the trouble was that, by admitting that she took Angell to ‘work’ with her, the authorities had proof that she wasn’t safeguarding her daughter. I pictured Angell as she clung desperately to her mother on Christmas Eve and my heart lurched. ‘Oh dear, poor Angell.’
‘Hmmm, don’t worry, Rosie. You haven’t heard the half of it yet. It’s not all bad news.’
‘O-kay …’ I said, noticing for the first time that it wasn’t just Ben’s accent that made him sound cheerful. There was a fighting spirit in his tone.
‘I wasn’t too hopeful either, when I first heard the facts. But then I heard what Nicki’s been going through. Rosie, she’s being run by her partner, Angell’s dad. Nasty thug, by the sounds of it. He forced her to work right through her pregnancy and throughout the years since.’
‘Oh no,’ I cupped my hand to my brow, leaned my shoulder against the wall.
‘He’s highly manipulative and she’s so terrified of him that she won’t let Angell out of her sight. That’s why she takes the child with her while she works – a screwed up way of being protective, but I can see where she’s coming from, if you understand what I mean?’
‘Well, yes, absolutely. That does put another slant on things. But why didn’t she ask anyone for help?’
‘She was convinced that Angell would be taken away from her.’
I sighed at the irony.
‘Yes, it’s taken a lot to convince her to trust us. You know, stalking has come a long way in the digital age, Rosie. It’s not a case of calling someone and then hanging up any more. Her partner has used geo-location software, to pinpoint her exact whereabouts, and listening devices, planted into Angell’s clothes. Whenever Nicki has made a run for it in the past, he’s always managed to track her down.’
As Ben spoke, the fragmented thoughts that had been floating around in my head finally organised themselves into a mosaic I recognised, the last pieces of the jigsaw falling into place. I was pretty sure the reason Angell had been made to look like a boy was another misguided attempt to protect her from the attention of Nicki’s clients. And Angell’s silent protests suddenly made sense as well – heaven knows what she may have witnessed during her short life, but whenever she was distressed, it was probably unsafe to make a sound.
Before he ended the call Ben filled me in on the plans he had made during the day – he had found a room for Nicki in a women’s refuge over two hundred miles away. She had agreed never to return home and had handed her mobile telephone over to police officers so that all tracking devices could be disabled. After leaving hospital she would be moved to a safe house and would wait there until Tuesday, the day after Boxing Day. Angell would join her there and together they would make the long journey towards their new life.
Spontaneous dancing and an appalling but loud Bruce Forsyth impression (courtesy of Chris) had broken out in the living room, so I asked Angell to join me in the kitchen where I could tell her the news. Sliding from the sofa, she carefully stretched her blanket over the carpet, arranged her toys one by one on top and then lifted one corner, dragging it behind her as she followed me.
‘I’ve just been speaking to someone who is taking care of Mummy,’ I said, crouching on the floor in front of her and holding one of her hands.
The blanket fell to the floor as her hand flew into her mouth. She frowned, nibbling at the skin of her knuckles with her teeth.
‘It’s alright, it’s very good news. They told me that Mummy is feeling much better now and guess what?’
Her eyebrows lifted as she squeaked a breathless: ‘What?’
‘You’re going back to stay with her very soon.’
She took a rapid breath in, clasped her hands together and performed a little jump. ‘
Yes! Ray! Ray!’ she said, clapping and bobbing up and down on her toes. ‘See Mummy, yay!’
I laughed. ‘I can see you’re happy about that! I’m happy too.’
And then she melted my heart, throwing her arms around my neck and holding tight. I drew her to me and straightened, lifting her up high and spinning around on my heel. When I set her back on her feet she looked up at me, her face finally free from fraught anxiety. ‘So how long time is it till I can see Mummy, Rosie?’
I held up my middle and forefinger. ‘Two more sleeps, sweetie, that’s all. And then it will be time to see Mummy.’
Observing a long-held Lewis family tradition, towards the end of the evening I invited everyone to join me in the garden to watch the launch of some Chinese lanterns. Angell, no longer my reluctant shadow, stood happily beside me on the patio, one of her gloved hands tucked into the warmth of my coat pocket. The air was crisp, a bitter wind extinguishing my brothers’ initial attempts to get the lanterns airborne. Impatient, my nieces and nephews began a rhythmic clap. Angell looked up at me with uncertainty. With a nod of reassurance she joined in, stamping her feet into the bargain.
Soon ten fiery bulbs were suspended in the darkness above our garden. Enchanted by the flames, Angell’s face was luminescent, her breath fogging as she gasped and cooed. The lanterns drifted quickly but it was so lovely to see her looking carefree that I could barely tear my eyes away from her. We stayed outside until the golden thread of lights faded, leaving just a faint, smoky footprint over the trees.
The journey to the safe house took over an hour, and every mile or two Angell, her new toys piled high on her lap, bobbed up and down in her booster seat and asked, ‘Nearly Mummy time, Rosie?’
It was a relief to reach our destination: a large semi-detached house in an affluent suburban street with shiny bay windows and a herringbone drive. As I pulled up outside I noticed a slight twitch of one of the curtains upstairs and before I’d even cut the engine and retrieved my keys, the front door was opened. Nicki tore across the driveway towards us so I quickly climbed out, opened the rear door, swept Angell’s toys from her lap and released her seat belt. ‘Mummy!’ Angell shrieked, clamouring out. Nicki swept her up in one swift movement and the pair clung to each other, Angell burying her head into her mother’s neck.
‘I love you so much, baby,’ Nicki said with a little sob. I rubbed a circle on each of their backs and then walked back to the car to retrieve Angell’s things. Inside the house, Angell remained glued to her mother’s lap while Nicki showed me photos she had been given of the refuge they would soon be moving to. The hard lines of her face were softened with affection and her cheeks were crimson, eyes glistening. She was dressed in the same clothes that she had worn in the police station, but with her feet bare and a sweatshirt over the flimsy top, she looked much less fierce. Younger too, with her face free of make-up and her dark hair tied in two plaits, one resting on each shoulder. She seemed positive about the future and, with Angell clearly thrilled to be back in her arms, after about half an hour or so I made a move to leave.
Angell looked up sharply. ‘I not coming with you,’ she said, gripping Nicki’s shoulders. ‘I stay here!’
Nicki looked embarrassed but I laughed. ‘Of course you are, sweetie. But thank you for spending some time at Rosie’s house. We loved having you.’
‘Angell,’ Nicki said chidingly. ‘Say goodbye nicely.’
Angell cocked her head, smiling shyly. She raised her hand in a little wave and then buried her face back into her mum’s neck.
‘Goodbye, Nicki. All the best, honey,’ I said, patting her arm. I kissed the top of Angell’s head and then headed for the door.
‘Oh, just a minute, Rosie.’ I turned to see Nicki peeling herself away from Angell. She grabbed a tiny white handbag and rummaged around, pulling out a bunch of keys. A moment later she was on her feet and crossing the room, Angell clinging to her leg as she went. She reached for my hand and pressed a small, sparkly object into my palm, cupping her other hand around mine and giving it a squeeze. ‘Thank you for looking after Angell,’ she said, her eyes misting over. I smiled, reaching out and squeezing her arm.
It was only when I reached my car that I took a proper look at what Nicki had given me. As I had guessed, it was a key-ring, the scratched plastic case housing a faded picture of Nicki with a new-born Angell cradled in her arms. I still treasure the impromptu gift, even though it’s a little battered. When I think of all that Nicki had to leave behind to keep herself and her daughter safe, it can’t have been easy to part with one of the few possessions she had managed to hold on to.
Angell’s placement was one of the shortest I’ve ever had, but reuniting her with her mother and witnessing their joyous reaction is one of the fostering moments that I hold dear. It’s such a privilege to be able to offer a soft landing to a child during a low point in their life, a moment of tranquillity away from the stress they’ve known. When that moment’s rest becomes a bridge towards a better life, being part of the transition is all the more rewarding.
An exclusive sample chapter from Betrayed by Rosie Lewis.
Out 12th February 2015.
Chapter 1
‘Do you think she’ll be like Phoebe was when she first came?’ my son Jamie called out from his bedroom.
I couldn’t help but smile at the hesitancy in his tone as I swept from room to room, checking there were fresh towels in the bathroom and grabbing a floral duvet set from the airing cupboard. Nine-year-old Phoebe had stayed with us for almost a year before moving on to a long-term carer. The friendly, kind and bubbly girl we said goodbye to was unrecognisable from the angry whirlwind we had first met. Our house seemed so much emptier without her presence and, despite her leaving months earlier and other children staying with us meanwhile, we still missed her. But the first few weeks of Phoebe’s stay had been challenging for all of us, especially so for Jamie.
From the moment she arrived Phoebe had fixated on him so that, whenever she was confused or upset, Jamie would be the one who got a wet finger shoved into his ear or a plate thrown at him. As she settled and learnt to trust us we witnessed some dramatic changes in her behaviour, so much so that our motivation to foster had grown even stronger, but the traumatic start had left Jamie chary of new arrivals.
‘No, I doubt it,’ I said, though my words sounded hollow. I actually had no idea what Zadie Hassan would be like. In a hurried telephone conversation with her social worker late that afternoon, I had been told that the 13-year-old was from a Muslim family who had never come to the attention of social services before, and so information was sketchy. Of Asian heritage, Zadie had been found by two patrolling police officers early that morning, sheltering in a shop doorway in a central northern shopping centre. Apparently she had pleaded with officers not to take her home, begging as if her life depended on it. She had seemed so genuinely terrified that the officers took her straight to the police station and alerted social services.
At 13, Zadie was outside of our approved age range, but she had spent most of the day waiting at the local authority offices, listening as social workers phoned agency after agency, trying to match her with Muslim foster carers. By the time the decision was reached to settle her with a white British family it was almost 5 p.m. and the poor girl was exhausted. Strictly speaking, our family was only approved to take children from 0 to 11, leaving a gap of at least two years between any child coming into our home and my own youngest, Jamie, who was just 13. But when an ideal match isn’t possible and a child urgently needs a warm bed to sleep in, social workers are usually prepared to bend the rules.
A gap of two years is recommended between looked-after and birth children so that the family dynamics are roughly unchanged. If disrupted, resentment against the foster child can build to a point where the placement breaks down. Some fostered children have been so badly abused in their own homes that they find it difficult to witness the positive environment when they arrive in a foster home and seek to sa
botage the relationships between family members, so it’s important to maintain the original pecking order.
Preparing children for family life when they have had little experience of boundaries or parental discipline takes time and patience. Even getting them to sit at the table at meal times can seem like an insurmountable task, in the beginning. I wondered whether we would experience any behavioural issues with Zadie. If so, we would have to brace ourselves to get through the first few weeks while she adjusted to our house rules and boundaries.
I had cared for teenagers before and emerged unscathed so I wasn’t too worried about Zadie’s age. What concerned me more was her culture. Would she feel comfortable living with people who didn’t share her faith? I wondered. My own parents were Christian and, having grown up in a house where one adult was more devout than the other, I had witnessed first-hand the problems that differing religious views can cause. My father was so determined to prevent any of his children drifting away from the Church that he would only allow us to mix with families who shared his faith. Such a sheltered existence left me wary of outsiders when I was Zadie’s age. It took years for me to realise that people didn’t necessarily need to be religious to have a good heart. I wondered whether Zadie might feel as guarded as I had. If so, she might well feel awkward around us, frightened even.
Armed with clean linen and towels, I went through to make up Zadie’s bed. It was almost 6 p.m. but the bright, early May sunshine was still streaming through the window, giving the magnolia walls a cheery glow. I was pleased Zadie would have the room in our house that got the most sun during the day; she needed to recover from the nights spent sleeping outside.
I wondered whether there was anything about the place that Zadie’s parents might disapprove of, certain that they would have concerns about her staying in an environment so far removed from her own. The last thing I wanted was for Zadie to feel uncomfortable in what was to be her home.