The Foster Child

by Jenny Blackhurst

  The thought that everything is somehow her fault is almost more than she can bear. And if it is true, if she is some kind of evil freak-show, then she will never be able to get close to anyone as long as she lives. Because what if she’s already hurt them before she has a chance to make friends? No, it’s easier just to stay away from people, not to make friends and definitely not to love anyone for now. Just until all this is sorted out. Probably not forever, she thinks, although she doesn’t for the life of her know how long it’s going to take – or how she is going to fix herself.

  30

  Imogen

  I peer though the one-way glass panel on the door to the health and social care suite. The young girl sitting on the chair outside is unmistakable as the girl who was accused of pushing her school friend into the road a week earlier. She is smaller than the other eleven-year-old girls I saw around the school, and looks skinnier, although I’m not sure why that would be – she isn’t in the care system through neglect, and as far as I can ascertain from the case notes Florence Maxwell sent me, there have been no issues with neglect before or since the fire. Her long dark hair is clean and her nails look trimmed, no visible signs of being unwashed, and yet she just doesn’t quite fit.

  I open the door and give my most welcoming smile. ‘Ellie? You can come in now.’

  The girl has the air of someone visiting the dentist, or being forced to do something equally unpleasant. I am used to this; council workers are seen by children as equal to doctors, teachers or police. To be feared until you knew you’re not in trouble.

  I realise as I get a closer look at her why Ellie seems small – her uniform is at least a size, maybe two, too big. Not quite enough to swamp her, not so you’d even notice straight away, but it gives the subconscious the illusion that she is smaller in stature than her peers. My heart breaks at the thought of someone this young losing everyone and everything she loves – everything that at that age seems a certainty: your family, your house, your clothes. No eleven-year-old expects all those things to be pulled from under them so cruelly.

  ‘Do you want to sit on these sofas? Or would you be more comfortable at the desk?’

  Ellie nods towards the desk and I nod back. ‘No problem. Take a seat. Can I get you a drink?’

  The girl fixes her eyes on her lap and says nothing. I remember the words I heard her speak after the incident in town: You really shouldn’t tell lies. In the olden days, they would have cut your tongue out. Seeing her again brings back the chill I felt that afternoon. I pour myself a glass of water and return to the desk to sit opposite her.

  ‘Ellie, do you remember me from the other day? From the accident your friend had in the town?’

  Ellie nods. ‘She’s not my friend.’

  ‘How are you feeling about what happened now? Have you been okay since?’

  Silence. I decide not to push the issue – we can get back to it in later sessions.

  ‘Do you know why I’ve asked to chat with you today?’

  ‘The spiders.’

  ‘No, I was asked to see you before any of that happened. You’ve spoken to counsellors before, haven’t you?’

  Ellie nods. ‘They all just wanted to talk about my feelings.’

  ‘Well I’m hoping you’re going to be the one talking eventually.’ I smile, try to look encouraging, but she gives nothing back. ‘I want you to know that I’m not going to force you to talk about anything you’re uncomfortable with. I’m not here to report back to your teachers or carers. These sessions are to provide somewhere safe for you to express how you feel without thinking you’re going to get into trouble. This isn’t about assigning blame about certain things that have happened. I’m not a teacher. Or a detective,’ I add.

  The girl stares blankly at me, not giving any indication whether she believes me or not. I plough on, unperturbed.

  ‘Is there anything you’d like to talk about, Ellie?’

  When she doesn’t speak, doesn’t shake her head or nod, I speak even more gently.

  ‘How about we start with school? Do you like school?’

  ‘I used to.’ Her voice is low, as though she is testing it out for the first time. I wait a few seconds.

  ‘But you don’t now?’

  She shrugs. After a long pause, she says, ‘They don’t like me here.’

  ‘The children?’

  ‘The teachers.’

  I sit forward. ‘What makes you think they don’t like you?’

  ‘Because I’m not like the other idiot children they teach.’

  I give a slow nod, trying not to show any shock. The sad thing is she might be right; it is often the most intelligent children who are the most misunderstood.

  ‘Can you think of one teacher that you feel doesn’t like you – you don’t have to tell me who it is, but I’d like you to think about how they act around you that makes you feel this way.’

  ‘The way she looks at me. Like I’m different. Like . . .’ she pauses, ‘like she’s scared of me.’

  I have a good idea of who Ellie is describing. I still recall the fearful look on Hannah Gilbert’s face when she spoke of the girl, the idea I had that there was something she didn’t want to say.

  ‘Why do you think your teacher would be scared of you?’

  ‘People are always afraid of things they can’t understand. That’s not my fault – it’s theirs.’

  ‘That’s quite true, Ellie, it’s not your fault and you must remember that. Can you tell me about things at home?’ I ask.

  Ellie scowls. ‘I don’t have a home now. Nobody wanted me.’

  I was afraid of this. After the fire, social services tried to place Ellie with relatives, but it seemed she had very few in England to choose from, and the ones she did have were less than receptive to having an eleven-year-old girl thrust upon them. Her only living grandmother, her father’s mother, lives in France and travels regularly – no life for a young girl who needed stability, she said – and her uncle lives in New Zealand with a family of his own; he’s never even met his niece and didn’t travel back for his sister’s funeral. Her parents had many acquaintances but few close friends, and none in a position to take on a child. Her mother’s sister has three kids of her own and was reluctant to take care of another that she hardly knew. It’s surprising how often children find themselves in care because everyone around them thinks someone else should take responsibility.

  ‘Now I know that isn’t the case,’ I tell her. ‘These things are a lot more complicated than you or I could understand.’ I lean forward conspiratorially. ‘I’m not even sure the people who make the rules understand them half of the time.’

  ‘I don’t think you have any idea what I understand.’

  I force another smile, trying to remember how abandoned Ellie must have felt when no one around her stepped forward to take her in. How alone. No wonder she is feeling hostile. ‘How are things where you live at the moment? How do your foster carers treat you?’

  ‘They treat me as you would treat a poisonous snake,’ she replies. Her dark eyes are fixed on me and I shift uncomfortably under her intense gaze. ‘Like they are interested in me but they don’t want to get too close. Like Ms Gilbert, but with less of the meanness.’

  I think about how Ellie’s foster mother didn’t rush to defend her that day in town. What was it she said? What did you do to Naomi? She couldn’t defend her because she believed that Ellie had pushed Naomi. That would explain the relief on her face when I swore to the police officer that I had seen the girls standing feet apart moments before the accident. And the older girl backed me up . . .

  ‘Who was the other girl with you when I saw you on Saturday? Was that . . .’ I glance briefly at her notes, ‘Mary?’

  Ellie nods.

  ‘And how do you get on with Mary?’

  ‘She’s the only person who doesn’t treat me like an idiot.’ Ellie shrugs. ‘And she hates Billy as much as I do.’

  ‘Billy?’

  Ellie sco
wls. ‘He lives with us too but he’s not Mary’s real brother, he’s like me. His mum is a complete waste of space and nobody wants him either. I’m not surprised, though, because he’s horrible.’ She stops suddenly, as though she’s realised she’s said something she shouldn’t.

  ‘It’s okay.’ I smile. ‘You don’t have to look so worried. Like I said, you can say what you like to me and I won’t tell anyone. I’m not allowed to – I’d get into real trouble.’

  ‘You people always say things like that, but I know you’d have to tell someone if I told you I’d done something bad.’

  ‘Okay, here’s the deal with bad stuff. I’m a bit like a priest. Have you ever met a priest?’

  ‘I’m not allowed into church,’ Ellie replies. ‘In case I burst into flames.’

  I can’t stop the gasp. Then I see the glint in Ellie’s eyes and my mouth drops.

  ‘Ellie Atkinson, was that a joke?’

  She shrugs, but I see a shadow of a smirk. She really is quite pretty when she isn’t being so intense.

  ‘Well I’m a bit like a priest, only younger and more attractive . . .’

  ‘And not as bald,’ Ellie says. I laugh.

  ‘Yes, definitely not as bald. And like with a priest, you can tell me about bad stuff without getting in any trouble. Though if it’s really bad, if I think you might have hurt someone or you might hurt someone in the future, I would have to tell my boss. Because there are some things that are too important to keep to yourself, aren’t there?’

  Ellie says nothing. She seems to be thinking carefully about what I’ve said, running it through her mind as though it is a contract she might want to sign.

  ‘So for example,’ I continue, ‘if you were to tell me you had put those spiders in Ms Gilbert’s desk—’

  ‘Which I didn’t,’ Ellie replies indignantly.

  ‘It’s just an example.’ I put my hands up. ‘Okay, how about . . . if you told me you’d put itching powder in Ms Gilbert’s pants . . .’

  Ellie rolls her eyes.

  ‘Or slugs in Mr Harris’s wellingtons . . .’

  ‘He’d probably like that. What if I swapped all the sugar in the staff room for salt?’

  I screw up my nose. ‘Well I would definitely need you to tell me that – I use the sugar in my tea! If you told me that thing about Ms Gilbert’s pants, though, I’m not sure I could promise not to laugh, but I promise I wouldn’t tell anyone. On the other hand, if you told me you’d dug a pit in her garden and covered it in leaves . . .’

  ‘You would have to tell the police,’ Ellie finishes.

  I nod. ‘Or at the very least Ms Gilbert and her cat.’

  ‘Okay.’ Ellie nods back. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘That’s all I want, for you to think about it.’ I smile. ‘Can I just ask you one more question before you go back to class?’

  Ellie looks suspicious again, gives a small shrug.

  ‘Well you said that Mary is kind to you, right?’

  Another nod.

  ‘I was just wondering, can you speak to Mary about things that happen at school? Maybe if you need someone to talk to before you see me again, you could talk to her?’

  ‘I could,’ she concedes. ‘But what’s the point?’

  ‘Sometimes it’s just nice to have someone to tell things to, even if nothing changes straight away. It sounds unbelievable, but just saying how you feel to someone can make you feel better.’

  ‘I know what would make me feel better,’ Ellie replies, as though the answer has been there all along. ‘If every single one of them was punished.’

  31

  Imogen

  I pull up in front of the terraced house and cut the engine. I sit for a moment in the car, looking at the unruly front garden, where a plastic toy that has faded to white lies abandoned underneath a white UPVC windowsill. I take a couple of deep breaths and try to picture the people I’m going to find behind those walls. Then, steeling myself, I get out of the car, stride up the short path to the front door and rap sharply.

  After a few minutes, when nothing happens, I try again, then again. Eventually the door swings open, and the teenage girl I first met that day on the high street is standing there. She smiles when she sees me; has she recognised me as the woman who stuck up for Ellie that day? I’m glad now that I spoke out, even if Dan is always telling me I should hold my tongue more often.

  ‘Hi, are you Mary? My name’s Imogen, I’m here to see your mother.’

  The girl nods and opens the door wider. ‘Yeah, sure, Mum’s inside. She would have come to the door herself, but . . . well, never mind, come in.’

  She turns to lead the way through the hall and into the kitchen, where Sarah Jefferson is frantically wiping the surfaces down. She turns when I enter, looking flushed and harassed.

  ‘Good morning.’ She wipes her hand on the front of her jeans and shakes the one I hold out to her. ‘Sorry about that, we had a bit of an incident.’

  From the acrid smell of burnt plastic and electrics it seems like more than just a bit of an incident to me, but I’m not here to judge. I’ve never had to look after one child, let alone three – two of whom are bound to be challenging – so for all I know, incidents like this are commonplace in any family. Sarah must have noticed my frown, as she immediately offers ‘Blown fuse,’ with a wan smile.

  ‘I’m Imogen Reid,’ I say weakly. Poor woman looks like the last thing she wants is a council worker in her house.

  ‘Sarah Jefferson.’ She gestures to the small dining table in the corner. ‘Please, sit down. Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Coffee would be lovely – actually, do you have any decaf?’

  From the look on Sarah’s face, I may as well have asked for a litre of cider. ‘No, I don’t think we have, sorry. I can send Mary to get some?’

  I shake my head quickly. ‘No, really, tea would be fine if you have it.’

  The kettle is already boiled and I get the impression that Sarah was completely prepared for the visit before whatever happened in the moments leading up to my arrival. As she sets about making two mugs of tea, I watch her, taking in her smart but casual appearance, her clean nails and tidy pinned-back hair. Aside for the recent stains on the wall, the kitchen is clean and neat, everything completely respectable. It looks like a normal family home, the kind Pammy grew up in and a million miles from the one I myself was raised in.

  ‘We’ve met before,’ I say as Sarah carries the teas to the table. ‘In the town, do you remember? My husband narrowly avoided hitting one of Ellie’s school friends with our car.’

  Recognition dawns on Sarah’s face and her cheeks colour.

  ‘Of course, I’m sorry, I didn’t recognise you straight away, though I thought you looked familiar. That day was a bit . . .’ She trails off, searching for the word.

  ‘Intense?’ I suggest. ‘Yes, it was rather. I felt awful about what happened.’

  ‘Well it wasn’t your fault.’ Sarah scowls. ‘That woman . . .’

  ‘Naomi Harper’s mother?’

  ‘Yes, well, she made rather a big deal out of nothing, I think. The police even came round to say they’d spoken to Naomi again and she’d been quite clear about the fact that she’d lost her footing on the kerb. Messing around, I bet; you know what kids are like. And Madeline reacted quite terribly, I thought.’ She looks embarrassed, like she doesn’t want to sound uncaring. ‘I mean of course she was upset; if your husband hadn’t reacted so quickly, God knows what could have happened. Anyone would be the same, I suppose.’

  Not everyone would have accused an eleven-year-old girl of attempted murder, I think, but I just nod. ‘It was an emotive situation. Was Ellie okay afterwards?’

  Sarah hesitates. ‘She was quiet, she barely spoke about it. She’s like that, you see, she bottles things up until . . . Well, she doesn’t talk about her feelings.’

  ‘Until what?’ I press. ‘You said she bottles things up until . . .’

  Sarah shakes her he
ad. ‘It’s nothing. She has these little outbursts, but we expect that, given what she’s been through.’

  ‘Is she ever violent?’

  ‘No,’ Sarah answers quickly. Too quickly, I think. ‘I’ve never seen her do anything violent.’

  I note the careful choice of words but don’t comment. ‘You know why I’m here, Mrs Jefferson? The school thought Ellie would benefit from talking to someone, a professional. There have been some incidents . . .’

  ‘Please, call me Sarah. And I take it you’re referring to that thing with the spiders?’ She scoffs. ‘Ridiculous to say that was Ellie. I mean, where would she get that many spiders from? It’s not like you can just walk into a pet shop and buy a few hundred house spiders. Or do they think she summoned them like the Pied Piper? Perhaps that teacher thinks she’s the spider whisperer now as well.’

  ‘As well as what?’

  Sarah looks wrong-footed. ‘Well, it’s that teacher they need to have a word with, Hannah Gilbert. Trying to make everyone think Ellie is some kind of delinquent. Telling everyone in town that she’s strange and that she makes up stories. Ellie has never even said anything about her – God knows what she’s done to get under her skin. She’s been through so much already, it’s hardly fair to make her out to be a problem child in her first few weeks.’

  ‘How does she get on with the other two children here? Mary and Billy, isn’t it?’ I remember how Ellie had described Billy in our first meeting. He’s horrible . . .

  ‘Fine,’ Sarah answers, then, catching the sceptical look that must be on my face, she qualifies her answer. ‘I mean, they bicker, but what children don’t? There’s always a bit of that with these kids, vying for attention and all that.’

  ‘Have you had many foster children in the past?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Sarah peacocks. ‘We’ve looked after about twenty children in the last five years. Some stay longer than others, but we think of them all as our own while they’re here. Some have been much more troubled than Ellie,’ she confides. ‘Which is why I was a bit surprised when the school called in Place2Be for her. We’ve dealt with a few anger issues in children before.’