by Casey Watson
‘Casey, I am 16!’
‘Which to me, and the state, for that matter, is a child. A minor, if you want to get picky about it. And a vulnerable one at that. Saints alive! You know the word “vulnerable”? That’s you, Adrianna. God, what’s got into you? Where on earth did this nonsense all come from?’
I grabbed her hands, which were clasped in her lap, holding a tissue. Grabbed them none too gently, and then shook them slightly, too. ‘Where in the world did you pick up this silly, silly notion that no one can ever be allowed to help you? Where did you get this ridiculous idea that you are not worthy of anyone’s help? Hmm?’ I pressed. ‘Eh? Great Britain – great people? Wasn’t that what you said to me? So let us help you, okay? You want to be an “independent Polish girl”, then you must stop running away. No more running away, sweetheart, okay? We get you sorted, and we help you become that independent Polish girl. Once you are better. And we will help you find your baby, I promise.’ I squeezed her hand again. ‘And in the meantime, you are coming home with me. Jeepers, love, I can’t believe we’re even sitting here!’
I really couldn’t believe we were sitting there. And attracting the sort of covert attention that public displays of emotion in such places invariably did. Well, it passed the time waiting for coaches, I supposed.
Adrianna said nothing. Mostly because she physically couldn’t, having rendered herself mute by the huge, convulsive sobs that had been steadily building since the moment she’d seen me, and which she now seemed powerless to stop.
I reached between her knees for Tyler’s backpack. His very old, battered backpack. ‘You’re under house arrest anyway,’ I quipped. ‘For stealing this.’
I waved it in front of her as I hauled her to her feet. Which was possibly a misjudgement – no, definitely a misjudgement. Because it just produced another bout of anguished tears.
Which continued all the way out of the coach station and out to the road where, miracle of miracles, I had not got a ticket. I then shovelled her into the passenger seat and tugged on her seatbelt. ‘Here you go,’ I told her. ‘Now, sit and stay!’ Which at least produced a whisper of a smile.
Then I walked around the boot, opened my own door, slung Tyler’s backpack on the back seat and, once belted up myself, gave her my phone.
‘I need you to text Mike,’ I said, as she began to compose herself.
‘And say what?’ she asked meekly.
‘Hmm …,’ I said. ‘Let me see … Tell him … yes. Tell him “Elvis hasn’t left the building”.’
We were halfway home before Adrianna stopped sniffing and snivelling, and only then, I suspected, because she’d run out of tissues and wouldn’t have dreamt of wiping her nose on her sleeve. Which was a comforting thought. Perhaps I knew her better than I thought I did. Perhaps, actually – and perhaps I would discuss this with Mike later – a lot of what you knew about a person you knew intuitively; knew simply by virtue of a lifetime of being around people, and picking up on all those little non-verbal signals that said so much over and above mere words.
I knew something else, as well. That, like the car, if we wanted to we could park this whole escapade. And, on balance, I felt perhaps we should keep this between us. I’d tell Mike, obviously, because he already knew half the story. But did John need to know about this minor blip, really? Because now I’d found Adrianna, that was all it was – a minor blip. A momentary madness in a fraught situation. A world away from a missing 16-year-old.
Not so much John, actually, because John was a level-headed soul, but social services – did they need any of this on their records? Thinking ahead – to the business of Adrianna’s baby, and the power they would wield over her – no, they absolutely did not.
‘You know,’ I said to Adrianna, when we were on the home run to home (and, with a bit of luck, with still a half hour till Tyler rolled in from school), ‘I sort of understand why you bolted. It was a gut reaction, wasn’t it? You know, once you’d told me everything. You were scared. And I get that. You’ve been on your own so long now. I completely understand. It’s a hard thing, when you’re used to having only yourself to rely on – it must feel almost claustrophobic – you know that word?’ Adrianna nodded. ‘Hard to cope with – that huge loss of control. And I can see where you are coming from, in terms of us looking after you. I can see why you might think it was wrong for you to stay. But you’re wrong. We get help, from the government, to do our fostering. An allowance, to make sure you have everything you need. I think it’s important you know that.’
She sighed. ‘But it still feels all wrong. To expect it.’
‘Who said you expected it?’
‘People,’ she answered.
‘Oh really?’ I pricked my ears up.
‘For some people, I am taking money from British children,’ she persisted. ‘I know this. I understand it is unfair.’
‘Who said so?’ I countered.
‘I can read and I have ears, Casey. I know it. I see it in newspapers and the television every day. I saw it in Donna’s café that day. I heard what those ladies were saying. They don’t think I belong. They never will. And it’s not just them, Casey. Other people also say this.’
‘In the hospital?’
‘That as well, yes.’
‘No one there was mean to you, were they?’
‘No, not at all. All the nurses. The ladies in the ward with me –’
‘You missed a trick there,’ I said. ‘You could easily have come home with a hand-knitted scarf.’
Adrianna smiled. ‘Peggy. That lady, she is called Peggy. She is lovely. And the sister? Sister Skaja? She is so lovely too.’
‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘You know, you’ll find most people are. And another thing. When you worry about money, think about this. That for every girl like you – and you are thankfully a rarity – there are dozens, if not hundreds, of hard-working Poles. Who all pay their taxes, and all make a contribution, and if they thought a tiny part of that – because it is a tiny part – was going towards helping you make a good, productive life, then what do you think they would say? They’d say go for it. Because it’s not about now – it’s about what you will contribute in the future. Which will be so much.’ I sniffed. ‘Now you’re getting me going. Enough. So let’s say no more about it, okay?’
‘Okay,’ Adrianna said. ‘I know I am stupid. I cannot believe I have been so stupid for so long. To tell you such nonsense. To lie …’
‘Not stupid,’ I told her. ‘You were frightened when you came to us. I understand that. You might have it wrong about immigrants and detention centres – you definitely do have it wrong about immigrants and detention centres, as it happens. But if you’d told them your real age when you went to social services, you’re right – you might not have been sent to us. Or, indeed, to any foster family. You might well have been put in lodgings.’
‘Lodgings? Are they like squats?’
‘Yes, sometimes,’ I said. All too often, I thought – it was a fine line. ‘Like you might have ended up back in if you’d got on that flipping coach. A room in a grotty house somewhere. With other vulnerable people. No family. No friends.’
‘Oh, Casey,’ she said, swivelling in her seat. ‘How sad I am to have lied to you for so long. I have lain there in my hospital bed, wide awake, so much. So much. I am so sorry for that. And now all this, too … I feel terrible.’
I shot her a look. ‘Don’t start again. That’s all done with, okay? No more discussion.’
She shook her head. ‘I hate to think of you all thinking I have deceived you. And Tyler. I feel so awful … he … he will be so upset …’
She didn’t need to finish. We both knew what she meant as far as Tyler was concerned. ‘Listen, about Tyler,’ I said, as we turned into our street. ‘We haven’t told him about the baby. Or your age, for that matter. He just knows that you were ill and are now better. We thought you might like to have the opportunity to tell him yourself. I think it would be better coming from you. If
you feel able to … what with everything.’ I tutted. ‘Specially now you tried to run away with his favourite backpack. He’d have been inconsolable …’ I laughed. Adrianna did as well.
‘Oh, Casey,’ she said, and, though I was busy parallel parking, I could still hear the catch in her throat. ‘I am so happy that you have done that. I shall do it. I shall explain. And it will be okay, I know. I promise. Tyler is my ziom.’
‘I know what ziom means,’ I said, hoping she was right about that. ‘Tyler told me, just before you came to us.’
‘He is getting good with his Polish,’ she said. ‘He is a lovely, lovely boy.’
Boy, I thought. Of all the ways she could describe him. The very last word Tyler would want to have affixed to him. In this circumstance, anyway. Poor Tyler.
‘He is,’ I said. ‘We love him very much.’
She turned her head. ‘And you are a lovely mum,’ she said. I cleared my throat. We were definitely going to have to knock this on the head. ‘No more running away,’ she promised. ‘I have learned now. I have learned from you,’ she said, ‘very much. And now,’ she finished, and the relief in her voice was unmistakable, ‘I am going to be a lovely mum to my own boy.’
‘Of course you are,’ I said as I switched off the ignition. And was just taking my belt off when she started contorting her body.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ I asked her, as she started undoing her skinny jeans.
She grunted as she wriggled them down and her jumper up and started rummaging around in the tights she had on under them. ‘I have something to give you,’ she said, scrabbling her hands behind her back. ‘Now,’ she said. ‘Now. It is important.’
‘Can’t it wait?’ I said, watching her struggle with her various layers of clothing.
‘No, I must do this now. To prove to you.’
‘If you say so,’ I said, continuing to watch, mystified, till at last I heard her say, ‘Ah. Now I have it.’ Upon which she slid something long and flat from round her middle. Only when she placed it in my hands did I see what it was. A slim, canvas, flesh-coloured money belt. Ah, I thought, feeling the warmth from it. Ah, now I see.
‘There is £40, I think,’ she said. ‘You and Mike. You must have this. This was my fund … to escape. If I needed to.’ She smiled shyly. ‘I wore it always. So you might want to wash it.’
Chapter 13
Even if she’d been exposed to British radio comedy, which she probably hadn’t, Adrianna was obviously too young to know anything about the iconic series called The Glums. Ditto Tyler, of course. But there was no getting away from it. After all the drama – and relief – that came with Adrianna’s confession, it was now like we were living in an episode of it.
I’d been very happy to step back when it came to Adrianna telling Tyler that, actually, she was not what she had seemed. And she’d been equally anxious to address the problem right away. They’d holed themselves up, not long after he got home from school that afternoon, and when they emerged – Adrianna thoughtful-looking, Tyler a little pale – I didn’t mention their conversation, and neither did they. I just dished up the tea, with a side order of near-unbroken, bland, idle chit-chat, and trusted my instincts that it would all soon blow over. Because, however hard Ty had seemed to fall for Adrianna, I had a feeling there was a part of him that had always practised self-protection, knowing that, ultimately, she would move on.
Time would tell. But I still had an equally pressing problem to deal with. That, having reassured her on all fronts as a matter of course when bringing her home again, I still had to make clear that there were difficult times ahead; that her belief that getting her baby back would be relatively simple was one that needed tempering with some cool, rational facts.
I cursed whoever put the idea into her head in the first place. Well, would have, were the target that clear. It seemed she’d had multiple conversations, with multiple fellow patients over the weekend, all of whom, it seemed, had contributed to her belief that there were some things that were almost woven into the fabric of the Union flag; that a mother and her child should always be together – that she and the baby would be united, because that was the right way.
‘And I have been thinking,’ she told me, while helping with the housework on the Wednesday morning – she really was something of a little domestic fairy, it turned out, and extremely anxious to make herself useful. ‘I can get a job. And work hard. And will be able to support him. It is not true that I am not allowed to work here legally, and I have looked online’ – she still had the freedom of Tyler’s laptop when he was at school – ‘and there are many jobs for cleaners, and waitresses, and shop girls. I think I will be okay to get a good job with good pay. I have already made some notes about places to apply.’
Much as I applauded her work ethic – which was, indeed, laudable – at the same time I felt my spirits sink. There was no point in putting the conversation off further. No point in waiting, as I had been, till John came round for the formal meeting. There was a theme building. That it was more a case of ‘when’, rather than ‘if’. And while I still believed that the ‘when’ part would eventually happen, there seemed increasingly to be a mismatch in our ideas about how soon that ‘when’ was going to be. ‘Sweetheart,’ I said, ‘you know what? I think we need to sit down and discuss all this properly.’
‘Properly?’ she asked, her dark brows coming together.
‘Properly,’ I repeated. ‘So. To the kitchen.’
Well, the conservatory, ultimately, once I was armed with a coffee and Adrianna with the cranberry juice she seemed to down by the litre.
I liked our conservatory. It was what psychologists would have probably called a ‘good space’. It looked out onto a garden that, although in large part still in its winter slumber, offered plenty of colour; the zingy spring green of well-watered grass and the cheerful yellows of the now blooming daffodils. It also meant we could sit, very companionably, on our old rattan sofa, looking out onto the garden rather than facing each other, which I’d long learned made for less confrontational conversations and, with less eye contact, made anxious kids more inclined to open up.
And there I explained to Adrianna, slowly and calmly, about all the hoops, as John put it, that she might still have to jump through. That it was not simply a case of them delivering her baby to us, but instead, now the state had effectively become her baby’s parent, of her having to prove that they could absolutely trust that handing him back to her would be the right thing to do.
‘Which is why,’ I impressed upon her (and as forcefully as possible), ‘you did the right thing in coming home with me on Monday, rather than running away again.’
All this she seemed to take in. Well, ostensibly she did, anyway, fully accepting that because of what she’d done – giving birth in a toilet, not seeking medical care, not approaching the authorities sooner – it could be argued that she didn’t have his best interests at heart then, even though – as I knew – she actually did. She also accepted that, in being thorough, the authorities were doing the right thing as well. ‘Doing right by your child, Adrianna,’ I pointed out, ‘just as you had trusted that they would.’
And she was grateful – so grateful – that he was being so well cared for.
But the gulf between her imaginings and the reality was revealed nevertheless, when she turned to me and asked, ‘How long must I wait, then? Not weeks? Some months? As long as that?’
I took her hand and gripped it. ‘Sweetheart, look, this is only a worst-case scenario, okay? You know what that is?’ She nodded. ‘So what I’m about to tell you is the longest time, as far as I know, anyway. It could be less. But I have to tell you, because I want you to understand and prepare for it, that it will probably take longer than that. Perhaps as long as two years.’
The silence mushroomed and bellowed, the shock written plainly on her face. And, once she took it in, there was absolutely no consoling her. No comforting. No ‘there, there’-ing. She was horrifi
ed. Astounded. Appalled. ‘It might be nowhere as long,’ I kept saying, though I knew it was to deaf ears. ‘But these things take time, sweetheart. A lot of time. because of what I’ve already said. You are young. You have been through a very great deal. You will recover from it all –’
‘I am already recovered!’
‘From the mental scars, Adrianna. The trauma. The abuse. The displacement from your home.’
‘I have no home!’ she cried. ‘Only here. Only here.’ Her expression changed suddenly, and I realised something else must have occurred to her.
‘I have to go. I should have gone. I have to make a home. I have to go to lodgings. I have to live in a room and get a job. I must go.’
I shook my head. ‘No, no, no,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to go. Not in the short term. Of course you don’t. Let’s have no more of that talk, please! Yes, in time you do – and I’m sure you will want to, in any case. If you’re going to make a life for your baby, then, yes, of course you will have to prove that you can manage on your own. That you can support yourself and a baby. That’s how you will get him back. But all of that will take time …’
‘And till then? He doesn’t know me? I am a stranger? He loves his foster mummy? He does not want to come to me?’
She was so bright. And, perhaps because of that, even more inconsolable. ‘It won’t be like that,’ I said, my voice growing firmer, as I took in how much she needed purpose and strength. ‘You will work hard to make sure you can give him a home with you. And while you are doing that, you will see him. You will see him regularly, Adrianna. And then you will have him back again, all to yourself. And, don’t forget, he’ll still be so young, even then. And as he grows he will forget. How much do you remember about your first two years? Anything?’
‘But it isn’t that!’ She tapped her temple. ‘It is the damage inside here!’
‘Adrianna, that is not going to happen! He won’t remember anything of the time when he was in care, either consciously, or’ – I tapped my own head – ‘in here. Only that he was always, always loved. That’s what matters. Trust me, that’s what matters.’