The Girl with the Suitcase

by Angela Hart

  I busied myself, opening a new box of tissues I’d put on her dressing table. Sometimes kids find it easier to talk if they don’t have to give you eye contact. I hoped Grace would tell me more, but she didn’t. Instead, she stood rocking from one foot to the other while she fidgeted and looked out the window.

  ‘Can I go out and play now? Can I? Can I?’

  ‘Yes, sweetheart,’ I said, getting to my feet. I hadn’t shown her the bathroom but that could wait. ‘I think some fresh air will do us both good, and there’s still a drop of sunshine out there. Aren’t we lucky?’

  Grace didn’t reply. She was already running down the landing.

  4

  ‘I always have ants in my pants!’

  Grace was up early. She said she slept very well and that her bed was comfy.

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ I said. She looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Her hair looked exactly as it had the night before, with her headband neatly in place, and I told her I wished my hair looked that good when I’d just got out of bed. She looked pleased by the compliment and gave me a smile.

  I explained that Jonathan was already at work in the florists and that she could walk into town with me later that morning. I had a bit of shopping to do, and afterwards I needed to call in on my mum, who lived nearby. I didn’t normally introduce the children to Mum so soon, as I felt they had enough to deal with in getting used to Jonathan and me and any other kids we were fostering. However, I’d arranged to see my mum before I knew Grace was coming to stay, thinking I had some time to myself. Mum was looking forward to it, and I wanted to give her a present I’d brought back from our trip as a thank you for helping Barbara in the shop.

  ‘I’ll show you around the town first and then we can have a cup of tea with my mum,’ I said to Grace. ‘If we’re lucky, we might get a piece of cake. She told me she was baking this morning, and she always makes lovely things. Her name is Thelma, by the way.’

  ‘OK,’ Grace said politely, although she didn’t sound particularly interested in cake or anything I’d just said, to tell the truth. ‘Can we play frisbee?’

  The night before, when she was looking from her bedroom window, Grace had seen some children playing frisbee on the field behind our house. They’d gone in by the time we got out there, but I’d told her we had a frisbee in the garage and could fetch it out and have a game some time.

  ‘Of course. That’s a good idea. Let’s have breakfast, and I have a couple of jobs I’d like to do first, then we’ll go out onto the playing field.’

  ‘What jobs?’

  I explained I had washing to hang out and that I wanted to quickly polish the shower unit in the children’s bathroom. The two other girls we had living with us would be back the following day, and I wanted everything to be as spick and span as possible. I’d cleaned the bathroom in preparation for Grace’s arrival, but I’d run out of time and the shower cubicle was still streaky and needed a quick buffing up with shower-shine spray and a soft cloth. This was always the last job I got around to, because the sides of the cubicle were awkward to reach and I never seemed to get them shining as well as I hoped.

  Grace tucked in to a large bowl of cereal and devoured two thick pieces of toast and honey. She washed her breakfast down with a glass of orange juice and even asked for a cup of tea with two sugars. During breakfast she’d started to chat to me, unbidden, about her other foster placements. She spoke about them in no particular order, from what I could gather, and regaled me with details about some of their rules, particularly surrounding food.

  ‘The one before last – or was it the one before that? – I didn’t like it there. The people wouldn’t let me have sugar in my tea and you could only have one biscuit from the tin. And the other people – when I was in Year 4, I think it was – they said I couldn’t eat the sweets I got for Halloween. The man took them off me and said they were bad for my teeth.’

  I listened attentively and tried to look as interested and sympathetic as possible without actually saying anything. I didn’t want to interrupt, as sometimes when children start to unload about relatively minor niggles and grievances they end up disclosing something potentially very important.

  Grace carried on talking, listing a few other complaints she had. Predictably, she mentioned how crisps and fizzy drinks had been limited in lots of the houses she stayed in. ‘My mum lets me have whatever I want but other people don’t. It’s not fair. Some people don’t even have orange squash! That’s, like, weird. And once I had to live with a girl who was allergic to everything. Her mum was, like, completely crazy. She flipped out all the time about food. We couldn’t have crisps, not even one single packet. Cameron gave me a packet of cheese and onion crisps once and she totally freaked out when she saw the packet. It was like they were poison, or something. What’s wrong with crisps?’

  Cameron was the older stepbrother, I’d found out. He was ‘about sixteen’ and his brother Lee was fourteen. Grace had mentioned Cameron several times and had told me he was ‘nice to me’. However, she pulled a face on the one occasion when she mentioned Lee. She told me he was a ‘pain’ because he stole her clothes, but she clammed up when I tried to get her to elaborate on this. So far, she had said nothing about her sister Lily.

  ‘Allergic to everything?’ I said, wanting to correct Grace’s mistake without drawing attention to it. ‘What a pity, but you can’t be too careful, you know. Allergies are serious. It’s tough when you’re allergic to any food.’

  I explained to Grace how some children really could become very ill, or even die, if they had a severe nut allergy and accidentally ate something containing even a very small amount of nuts. I also chatted about how important it was to eat a healthy balanced diet, and I said that even though I did allow all the children who stayed to have sugar in tea, and to have the occasional slice of cake, bag of crisps or packet of sweets, there was a limit to how many sugary treats and junk food we all should eat.

  She looked at me blankly, as she had a habit of doing, but I kept the conversation going as I thought it was an important one to have. I’ve cared for a lot of kids who confuse an unlimited supply of junk food – often provided by their parents or relatives – with a sign of generosity, or even love.

  ‘I try to stick to healthy limits myself,’ I went on. ‘We’d all like to eat more sweet things, I expect, but it’s important to get the balance right. After all, you want to be fit and healthy so you can go pogo-ing and running round the field with a frisbee, don’t you?’

  ‘I am fit and healthy,’ Grace said cheerfully. ‘I always have ants in my pants!’

  I smiled. I guessed she was repeating a phrase she’d heard somebody else use to describe her, and I wasn’t at all surprised. Grace did have ants in her pants. Not only did she want to play out all the time, but she ran everywhere, even if she was just going from the kitchen to the utility room next door, or to the downstairs loo. I’d already had to remind her several times to slow down and be careful on the stairs, and even when she was simply standing or sitting, Grace had a habit of fidgeting and never being still.

  ‘It’s good to be active,’ I said. ‘And when you’re burning up lots of energy I think it’s fine to have a treat.’

  ‘Can I have a biscuit? And can I have some orange squash?’

  I told her she could later, as we’d just had breakfast, but reminded her that if she needed a drink she could always help herself to water. She did, glugging down a large glass.

  ‘Everything in moderation. That’s the rule Jonathan lives by, and I agree with him.’

  ‘In mod-er-a-tion?’ she intoned, giving me a quizzical look.

  ‘In moderation, yes, that’s right. It means limited, but in a good way, so there’s a good balance. Not too much and not too little. Just right.’

  ‘Like the three Goldilocks?’

  ‘I know what you mean. Kind of like Goldilocks and the Three Bears, yes.’

  ‘My dad called me Goldilocks.’

  ‘H
e did?’

  ‘Yes, because my hair was, like, loads blonder when I was little.’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘Yes. He always called me Goldilocks.’

  I didn’t know if Grace still saw her father or not. I nodded expectantly and hoped she’d elaborate, but she said no more and started staring into space, rocking back and forth in her chair as she did so.

  ‘Grace sweetheart, please can you stop rocking on the chair? Remember what I said? You might fall and hurt yourself.’

  I’d already stopped her rocking on the chair several times that morning, pointing out that she might well slip backwards if she didn’t keep all four legs on the floor. However, when I reminded her of this once again she looked at me as if all this was news to her. Thankfully she did stop rocking, though, and she got to her feet and started skipping around the kitchen.

  ‘What’s this?’ she said, looking at a fridge magnet a friend had brought me back from her holiday in Ireland. It had an image of a laughing leprechaun on it and read: ‘Murphy’s Law: Nothing is as easy as it looks. Everything takes longer than you expect. And if anything can go wrong it will, at the worst possible moment.’

  I explained where it came from. ‘It’s only a joke, really. The friend who gave it to me is the most positive person you could meet. Not everything that can go wrong does go wrong, of course. But I suppose it’s a reminder to be careful. Keep your four chair legs on the floor, for instance, because the chances are you’ll fall if you don’t!’

  Grace laughed. ‘I’ve got the message,’ she said cheekily. Progress, I thought.

  I told Grace that the following day we were invited to a barbecue with one of our neighbours who had a large, extended family. There would be lots of children there and Grace would meet the two girls we had staying with us, as they were being dropped off at the barbecue after their weekend visits with relatives.

  ‘Will there be crisps and fizzy drinks and am I allowed a burger?’

  ‘I’m sure there will be,’ I said. ‘And of course you can. In moderation!’

  Grace rolled her eyes and repeated the word moderation, spitting it out mischievously as if it were the worst word she’d ever heard. I asked her to go and clean her teeth and get dressed. ‘Please do your teeth first,’ I said. ‘Then when I’ve hung out the washing I can get in the bathroom and polish the shower unit, while you get dressed.’

  Grace sprinted off and returned just a few minutes later. She was still wearing her pyjamas but told me she had cleaned her teeth.

  ‘Did you forget to get dressed?’ I said gently.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Remember, I asked you to clean your teeth and get dressed?’

  ‘Do I have to have a shower?’

  ‘No, sweetheart. You had one last night and you can have a shower tonight before you go to bed. You just need to get dressed. Then when my jobs are done we can go out and play frisbee before we walk into town.’

  Grace ran off again. I heard her chanting ‘get dressed, get dressed’ as she went. My heart went out to her. There was so much to take in and she was clearly trying hard to behave herself. I hadn’t seen any hint of the disruptive or aggravating behaviour I’d been warned about, but of course it was very early days. Kids generally go through a ‘honeymoon period’ when they first arrive in foster care. They typically start off on their best behaviour and it’s only when they feel comfortable that they start to display their true colours. I could see that Grace was putting all her energies into doing her best and the fact she needed reminding about a few things was not a problem.

  I started to quickly hang out the washing while Grace was upstairs. Within just a few minutes she dashed outside to join me, dressed in grey leggings and another Spice Girls top. She was panting for breath. ‘Can I help you?’

  Plenty of ten-year-olds have no idea how to hang out washing, but Grace needed no instructions at all. She pinned the T-shirts by their hems and even hung the socks up in neat pairs. The washing was blowing in the breeze in no time at all and I told her I was very impressed. I carried the peg basket over to the garden table, and as I did so I noticed Grace running up and down the length of the clothes line, eyes scouring the grass.

  ‘What are you looking for, sweetheart?’

  ‘Checking there are no pegs dropped. Can I play on my pogo stick now I’ve done that?’

  I told her she could have a turn on it later, when I came back down from cleaning the bathroom, as long as she stayed on the springy grass. I didn’t want her to fall and hurt herself, and certainly not while I was inside the house.

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘For now, why don’t you have a go on the Swingball?’ I pointed to the game, which was already set up at the end of the garden.

  ‘Swingball? I love that!’ Grace grinned and ran down to it. She picked up a bat and began whacking the tennis ball enthusiastically, making it dance on its string in all directions. I don’t think I’d ever seen a child put so much energy into a game of Swingball, and certainly not a solo game. Her hair was fizzing in the sun; already she looked like a happier, more confident little girl than the one who’d arrived at our door the night before.

  With Grace occupied, I quickly nipped up to the top floor of the house. The garden was secure and I’d told Grace I’d be able to keep an eye on her from the upstairs window and to come inside and find me if she needed to.

  I swiftly buffed up the shower cubicle, squirted some bleach down the loo and gave the toilet seat a swift clean with a disinfectant wipe. This routine had become second nature to me during my years as a foster carer; I’m sure I could do it in my sleep, and at record speed. I was well aware that when children shared a bathroom you needed to do a daily inspection and make sure everything was at least hygienic, if not sparkling clean. (Annoyingly, the shower unit was still streaky after I’d polished it – that thing was the bane of my life!)

  I looked out of the window and was happy to see Grace still playing energetically with the Swingball. Before I left the bathroom I checked the pedal bin, to see if it needed emptying. Again, this was a job I did daily, almost on autopilot. When the lid popped up I was surprised to see several chocolate biscuit wrappers. They were the brand I always bought and I knew they hadn’t been there the day before, as I’d emptied the bin before Grace had arrived. I’m always very careful not to jump to conclusions, but in this case the only explanation could have been that Grace had helped herself to the biscuits from the kitchen and eaten them secretly. I wondered when she’d done that. She’d eaten such a good meal the night before and I didn’t remember leaving her alone in the kitchen. This morning she’d eaten a hearty breakfast and again had not been alone in the kitchen.

  I went into Grace’s bedroom to check her waste paper basket and found it empty. I didn’t want to snoop and I never root through a child’s belongings unnecessarily, but I did take a moment to cast my eyes around the room. I was surprised and felt a bit sad, as it looked like she hadn’t been there at all. Everything was exactly as it had been before she moved in, apart from the fact her suitcase and holdall were standing in the corner. They were both zipped up and her carrier bags were placed neatly beside them. She was staying with us for another two nights, but it seemed she was already set to move out at a moment’s notice.

  I scanned the room, hoping to see the pyjamas she’d taken off that morning, but couldn’t see them. Her toothbrush wasn’t visible either, even though I’d made a point of telling her to keep it in her bedroom, as I do with all children who stay with us. This is always the best policy when kids share a bathroom, to avoid any mix-ups, intentional or otherwise. On occasion we’d had cases of girls and boys sabotaging each other’s toothbrushes, either for revenge after an argument or just as a prank. I’ve dealt with toothbrushes being smothered in shampoo, rubbed in soap or worse. Jonathan and I always keep our toiletries out of sight in our own, separate bathroom, next to our bedroom on the floor below, and I always make a point of telling the kids to keep theirs in t
heir bedroom.

  I looked at Grace’s dressing table; there was nothing on it apart from the box of tissues I’d put there the day before. There was no hairbrush or comb, no sign of any of her headbands or flannel and certainly not the clear toiletry bag or toothbrush. I could see that the laundry basket was empty and her bedside table was bare too. At bedtime, Grace had taken a copy of a book about zoo animals from the shelf in her room. I said she could read it before she went to sleep, but I guess she must have put it back. When I’d said goodnight I saw that she’d taken her own cuddly toy to bed with her – a floppy-necked swan that was a grubby grey instead of white – but that was nowhere to be seen either.

  Bless her, I thought. I sighed as my eyes finally rested on her luggage. The large, grey suitcase, like the cuddly swan, looked as if it had seen better days. I wondered if it had been on Grace’s fostering journey from the start, right from when she was the blonde-haired little tot her dad had nicknamed Goldilocks.

  The suitcase was one of those slightly stretchy nylon ones, the sort people liked to use in the days before airlines started charging us all a small fortune for hold luggage. It was designed to expand slightly, so you could cram more into it than one of the old-fashioned, hard-shelled cases, and that’s what Grace had done. The sides were bulging and the zips were fit to burst open, just as they had been when Grace arrived on our doorstep. It must have been quite an effort for her to zip it back up on her own.

  She probably can’t wait to get to her mum’s house, I reasoned. I was confident we’d done our best to make Grace feel welcome. She’d even talked herself about coming back, but now I felt more uncertain about how things would work out. Perhaps Grace wouldn’t want to return to us?

  I could see from her window that Grace was still playing happily in the garden. She’d obviously tired of Swingball and was now darting all around the lawn, kicking a foam ball with all her might. Before I left her room, I lifted her pillow and looked underneath it. The vast majority of children never fold up their nightwear and place it neatly under their pillow, but I wondered if that’s where her Take That pyjamas might be. It was wishful thinking, I suppose, and they weren’t there. My heart sank, not only because Grace had obviously packed her pyjamas in her suitcase, but because there was something else under her pillow: a miniature packet of breakfast cereal and some cheese crackers wrapped in kitchen roll.