by Angela Hart
Ryan and I had a hot drink together in the kitchen and he chatted about his school and told me a new supply teacher was taking his class the next day, as his form teacher had to go into hospital.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘So am I. She’s got grown-up toenails.’
‘Oh, you mean in-growing toenails? They can be quite nasty.’
‘That’s it, yeah. In-growing. Urgh! Sounds disgusting. Do you want to hear a joke?’
‘Yes please, I’d love to.’
‘Why did the biology book have to go into hospital?’
‘I don’t know. Why did the biology book have to go into hospital?’
‘Because it broke its spine!’
‘D’oh! Have you got any more?’
‘Why wasn’t the geometry teacher in school?’
‘Go on.’
‘Because she sprained her angle!’
Ryan was doing some homework at the kitchen table when Marty arrived home.
‘How did school go?’
‘OK.’
‘How was the journey?’
‘Quite long.’
‘Did you settle into the class OK?’
‘I suppose.’
‘What was the best thing about the day?’
‘I dunno.’
‘What did you have for lunch?’
‘The lunch was awesome. We had macaroni cheese and salad and you could go back for seconds. And the pudding was chocolate sponge and ice cream. We never had chocolate sponge and ice cream in my old school. The puddings were rubbish.’
‘I’m pleased you liked the food.’
I wanted to ask about the teachers, but because of his history Marty was being shadowed by a one-to-one support teacher for the time being. I didn’t want to mention this in front of Ryan, so instead I asked about his lessons.
‘What subjects did you have?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘What’s your favourite subject?’
‘I dunno.’
Marty scratched his head. ‘We played football at break, though. They have this awesome field and I’m going to do a trial for the school team. There are thirteen boys in the class who all support the same team as me. How cool is that? What are we having for tea? I’m starving. And can I play football later?’
I smiled to myself. Food and football. They were obviously the best ways to Marty’s heart, bless him. He didn’t mention Melissa’s absence so nor did I.
On Valentine’s Day, by which time Melissa had been missing for nearly a week, a huge bouquet was delivered to our door. I was taken aback; it came from a rival florist and of course I was not used to being sent flowers. Jonathan often joked that the fact we ran a florists had saved him a fortune over the years, as he’d never once bought me flowers as a present, for my birthday, Valentine’s or anything else. More often than not we had lots of lovely flowers in the house; the ones that had gone slightly over and were not perfect enough to sell in the shop but were too good to throw away.
This bouquet was for Melissa, the delivery driver told me. I took the flowers into the house, filled up the sink in the utility room and placed the stems in the water. I had a cupboard full of vases but I didn’t feel like displaying these flowers. There was no note, and there was no Melissa either.
It was the weekend now, and Melissa had been missing since Monday morning. There hadn’t been a single sighting of her and I was fed up to the back teeth of being told by the police and Social Services that there was nothing we could do and we shouldn’t trouble ourselves: the professionals had it all in hand.
I called the out-of-hours and told them about the delivery of flowers, giving the name of the company and asking if they thought we should try to trace the sender. I knew it was unlikely the florist would give out the name of the person who’d ordered the flowers if I called them: in our shop we had a policy not to give out any details of our customers over the phone. The out-of-hours social worker told me that, yes, of course it would be helpful if the sender could be traced, but then – rather annoyingly – she started to explain about customer confidentiality and told me that I should leave this to the police and not try to do any ‘detective work’ myself. She made me feel like I had been trying to be some kind of Miss Marple, attempting to solve the mystery from my kitchen table when really I should be leaving it to people who knew what they were doing. This irritated me, as I knew all about customer confidentiality already and had not been suggesting that I break this myself!
I called the police and spoke to a kindly but rather bemused older officer. ‘Thank you for the information. Forgive me, but the person who sent the flowers must not realise she’s missing, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I did think about that, but it’s a lead I still think is worth chasing up. This person may have information, even if they aren’t aware Melissa is missing.’
The officer agreed and said he’d put someone on it right away, but unfortunately we never heard any more on the subject of the flowers or the sender. I was so desperate for any snippet of information that might lead me to Melissa that I daydreamed about ringing the rival florist myself and pretending to be her, but I soon pushed that thought from my mind. I’m one of those people who find it impossible to lie, and even if I tell the gentlest of white lies it’s always very obvious. Besides, I thought again about how I would never give out any customer’s information to a member of the public if someone phoned our shop. Even if I got away with pretending to be Melissa I was unlikely to be told who had sent the flowers. As desperate as I was for news, I conceded this was a matter best left to the police.
‘I don’t feel much like celebrating,’ I said to Jonathan as we got ready for our Valentine dinner that evening.
‘I know what you mean, but the table’s booked and your mum’s on her way over to sit with the boys. Let’s make the most of it.’
As I blow-dried my hair I thought about the first day Jonathan and I met Melissa, when she said she’d have escaped from the secure unit if she were Rapunzel, as the lads there had nicknamed her. I also thought about her dyeing her lovely auburn hair cherry red, and how she tied it up with fancy ribbons and scrunchies. ‘I’ve told them that if I was really Rapunzel I wouldn’t still be here, would I? A prince would have come to my rescue!’ That was exactly what she’d said; I could hear her very young-sounding voice; she was just a child. Was she with a boy right now? A boy she thought was her prince? Was she trying to be all grown up, staying in someone’s house, drinking, smoking, having sex? What if she really did get pregnant?’
‘You look lovely,’ Jonathan said, admiring my reflection in the dressing table mirror.
‘Thanks!’ I stuttered, having jumped when he walked up behind me. It was obvious my mind was elsewhere but Jonathan knew better than to offer a penny for my thoughts; we were going out and there really was no point in spoiling the evening by picking over how horrendous it was to be in limbo like this, waiting for news of Melissa.
All week long my sleep had been disturbed. I’d woken in the dead of night to the sound of Melissa opening the back door, climbing the stairs, creeping into bed. But it wasn’t Melissa, of course. It was a tree branch creaking in the garden, an air bubble in the plumbing working itself through the pipes, or one of the boys getting up to use the toilet. I’d dreamed of Melissa appearing in the kitchen with a sheet of shimmering red hair tumbling down her back, looking like one of the cartoon princesses she had on some of her socks and clothing. I’d also ‘seen’ her in what can only be described as a nightmare. I woke with a start, thinking all over again that Melissa had been involved in that horrific car crash, only this time PC Jones was not calling to tell me Melissa was safe and well – the police were knocking at the door to tell me they had the worst news.
Before we went out for our meal, Jonathan and I went into the lounge to say goodbye to Mum, Ryan and Marty. To our dismay, Ryan was as white as a sheet, Marty was sitting on his hands and looking awkwardly at the floor and Mu
m was apologising and saying she hadn’t meant any harm.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ Jonathan said.
Ryan and Marty looked away and Mum launched into a description of what had just gone on.
‘I’m really sorry. I seem to have upset Ryan but I really didn’t mean to. I only suggested a game of . . . well, I won’t mention it again. Shall we play dominoes instead?’
‘Can we just play our computer game?’
It was Marty who spoke.
Jonathan and I looked at each other and then at Mum. Jonathan replied, ‘That’s fine by me, as long as you’re OK with that, Thelma.’
‘It’s fine by me. I’ve never much liked ha—, I mean that game much in any case. And there’s a good weepie on TV.’
Ryan gave us a thin smile and I was pleased to see he already had a bit of colour back in his cheeks. Jonathan looked at his watch. We really did have to leave now if we were going to make our table.
‘OK boys, you can have an hour on the game. You both have school tomorrow, so it goes off at half eight. And please be in bed on time.’
They both grinned and ran down to the dining room, where the computer was plugged in.
‘What game was it, Mum?’ I asked when the boys had disappeared.
‘Hangman. I’m quite sure those computer games are far more offensive!’
Jonathan caught my eye. As I’ve said before, we had not been told how Ryan’s brother had taken his life. After the upset with him thinking Melissa’s red hair dye was blood I’d had my suspicions, but now it was impossible not to have other ideas. However Ryan’s brother had died, I thought how terribly sad it was that a boy as young as Ryan had experience of such a devastating tragedy.
I reassured Mum that she mustn’t worry. ‘The boys seem perfectly happy now. We’ll just not mention that game again. Here’s the number of the restaurant. Don’t hesitate to call us if you need to get hold of us. We won’t be late.’
‘OK dear. You two have a lovely meal. I’m glad you’re going out. I thought you might not have bothered.’
‘Why?’
‘I thought you were on a diet, dear.’
‘Yes, Mum. I am. But I’m having a night off.’
‘Oh, is that allowed?’
Mum had never had any trouble with her weight and didn’t really understand the world of dieting. I was an expert, having dieted on and off ever since my teens, but nevertheless Mum often pulled me up on my habits, thinking she knew best. This wound me up sometimes, but I knew she didn’t mean any harm.
‘Yes it is allowed!’ I said. ‘Cheat days are the latest thing – didn’t you know? See you later, Mum!’
We left her shaking her head and saying, ‘Well I never!’
Jonathan and I were just about to order dessert when the restaurant manager came over to our table, saying my mother had called and was holding the line. Fortunately, we’d known the manager for many years and he also knew my mum, as when my dad was alive he used to take Mum to the same restaurant on special occasions.
‘Thanks, I’ll take it,’ Jonathan said, immediately getting to his feet. ‘Probably one of the kids!’ he added, smiling apologetically at the manager.
‘No problem, Mr Hart. Happy to help. Please, step this way.’
I hoped to goodness Mum hadn’t inadvertently run into any more problems with Ryan, or with Marty, for that matter. As Jonathan crossed the restaurant I had a fantastic thought, immediately followed by a negative one. Had Melissa turned up? Or what if Mum had suggested another game that might trigger bad memories for Ryan? I pictured all the games we had. What about Cluedo? Oh no, there was the rope and . . . my mind spun. I’d have to talk to Wilf about this issue. Maybe I should have made an exception in Ryan’s case, and confided in my mum about his history, so she wasn’t at risk of saying or doing the wrong thing? Of course, that would have gone against our confidentiality training and I wouldn’t have done so without taking advice. I thought that it was probably too late now in any case, given that both boys were moving out very soon, but I’d still mention it to Wilf so it could be passed on to others involved in Ryan’s care.
I’d been torn between the banoffee pie and the raspberry sorbet before we were interrupted. I’d completely lost my appetite by the time Jonathan returned from taking Mum’s call. On balance, I’d decided this was most likely to be bad news and I braced myself for what he had to say.
‘It’s Melissa,’ Jonathan said, unexpectedly. ‘She’s been found. The message from your mum is that the police want us to go and fetch her.’
I couldn’t believe my ears and I grinned with delight. That was the best news I could have had.
‘Is she OK?’
‘She’s safe. She’s with the police. That’s as much as I can tell you.’ He finally allowed himself to smile: poor Jonathan had also thought we were going to receive bad news and was still trying to take this latest news in.
19
‘Do you know why your head’s busy?’
‘I think we should go straight there,’ I said, without hesitation.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to nip home first?’ Jonathan gestured towards our clothes. I was in a dress and a pair of heels and he was wearing his best shirt and jacket. We hadn’t dressed for the cold night at all. I only had a thin coat with me, and Jonathan had a mac in the car but no winter coat, as we’d driven and knew there was ample parking right in front of the restaurant.
‘Yes. It makes sense to go straight away. Mum is already babysitting and we can be on our way as soon as we’ve paid the bill. The quicker we get to Melissa, the better.’
And that is exactly how our Valentine’s night out ended – or should I say, how it panned out. The manager knew we were foster carers and probably guessed there was some drama with the kids. We didn’t enlighten him, but he generously told Jonathan to feel free to use the restaurant phone if he needed to make any other calls. After quickly speaking to my mum again to warn her we’d be later than we first expected, Jonathan called the police. He spoke as quietly as he could in the noisy restaurant, trying to be as discreet as possible as the phone was right at the front, on a small desk where taxi and table bookings were made. A group sitting near the entrance looked up and stopped talking when they heard Jonathan asking to be put through to the duty sergeant. In return he gave them a big, generous smile; he says that’s always the best way to deal with nosy parkers!
It seemed Melissa had turned up at her auntie’s house. From the name the police gave we knew this was the same auntie whose stepson Melissa had described as a ‘weirdo’ and had disgusted her with his comment about wanting to ‘do it’ with her. That was all we knew as we set off on the hour-long drive to collect her from the police station, where she was now being looked after.
‘It’s lucky I hadn’t had a drink,’ Jonathan said, though the truth was he very rarely had one. He preferred to drive rather than take taxis, and he always said he liked to have his wits about him, as you never knew what might crop up with the kids. I’d had a glass of sparkling wine as the restaurant offered all guests a complimentary drink with the Valentine’s menu that evening.
‘It’s not luck, it’s good judgement,’ I said. I was glad I’d only had the one glass, but wished I hadn’t bothered.
As we headed out of town we went past a parade of shops, outside which a large gang of youths was congregated. Some were smoking and a couple of the older-looking boys were drinking from cans, while a few had spilled over onto the road. Two boys were leaning up against a large black sports car that had a silver spoiler on the back. Jonathan slowed down to a snail’s pace in order to steer past the gang as safely as possible. As he did so I spotted TJ with a petite blonde girl. He had his arm around her and was gazing into her eyes. They looked very much like an item, despite the fact the girl looked even younger than Melissa. In the centre of the group was a man who looked to be in his twenties. He had a thick black beard, but what really made him stand out was the fact he was dressed in a flas
hy designer Puffa jacket and had a gold baseball cap on his head. He was clearly the leader of the pack; kids were swarming around him, laughing and taking cigarettes from the packet he was passing around. TJ didn’t notice us; he was kissing the blonde girl now. Jonathan accelerated as we left the group behind us and headed in the direction of the motorway.
‘D’you think we should stop and call the police?’
‘And say what?’ Jonathan said wearily.
‘Well, you know, one of those young girls could be missing from home. It’s clearly one of those gangs Melissa gets caught up with.’
Jonathan sighed. ‘I think we’ll have to leave the police to do their job. What crime would we say they are committing? Hopefully a routine patrol will pick up on them.’
I knew Jonathan was right. They weren’t making enough noise to be accused of breaching the peace or causing a public nuisance. It was impossible to know for sure, from a brief glance, which of the kids who were smoking and drinking were too young to do so. As for the fact the girls appeared to be younger than most of the boys they were hanging around with, that wasn’t a crime either – at least not as far as we could see. On the face of it they were simply a group of young people hanging around the streets and letting their hair down a bit, as kids had always done. I had to agree that we couldn’t feasibly call the police out to report this gang. Just like Social Services, the police were already stretched to breaking point and were far too busy to speculatively investigate a group of kids like this. Still, I didn’t like what I’d seen. Even if no criminal activity was taking place, those young girls were clearly in a vulnerable position.
Once we were on the motorway and had worked out which junction we had to come off at, Jonathan and I started to talk about Melissa.
‘Why on earth did she go to this auntie’s house if what she says about the stepson is true?’
‘Maybe he’s not living there any more? He could have moved out. Mind you, we don’t even know what age he is, do we?’
This was true – we had no idea if the stepson was a child or an adult. We knew very little about Melissa’s family and extended family. We also had no information about who else lived in her auntie’s house, if anybody. With the scant detail we had, it was impossible for us to work out how and why Melissa had left school on Monday morning and turned up at this auntie’s house today. She’d been gone for six days, and her movements in that time were a mystery to us.