by Rosie Lewis
By lunchtime we were all ravenous, so I decided to treat us to some warm chips to go with our picnic sandwiches. The restaurant was located inside a converted stable with cosy seating areas built into each block, where horses had once slept. Large oak beams were a reminder of the building’s previous life, as well as the wrought-iron feeding troughs still fixed to the wall, now filled with geraniums and trailing ivy.
Jamie grabbed a tray and scanned the menu that was written on blackboards behind the counter. ‘Do you serve chips on their own?’ I asked the young girl by the till, closing my eyes and releasing a groan as Phoebe began retching behind me.
Emily and I exchanged glances. ‘It’s alright, Mum, I’ll take her outside and try to find a spare table.’
By the time I left the restaurant, with a tray with four bowls of chips balanced on my outstretched arms, Phoebe had worked herself up into a frenzy. ‘I WANT PORRIDGE!’ she screamed, stamping her feet. ‘Not chips or sandwiches or any disgusting stuff, just PORRIDGE!’
‘You can have porridge when we get home,’ I said soothingly, disguising my horror for Jamie and Emily’s benefit. I didn’t want to draw any more attention than we already had and the pair of them looked mortified. ‘For now, just try to nibble some chips, or even just a piece of bread.’
Two women planted their bags on a table a few feet away from the one Emily had claimed and gave us a cool inspection. They were well-dressed in trendy clothes, each with a patterned scarf arranged in evenly sized loops around her neck. I was accustomed to cupped whispers and double takes when I was with foster children, whether it was because of their bad behaviour, outlandish names or unusual physical appearance, but most people made a half-hearted effort to disguise their stares. But not this pair, with their flared nostrils and narrowed lips: they were looking at us as if we smelled bad.
I remembered the looks I got when I took three-year-old Alfie out. With patterns shaved into his number one crew cut, the centre of each eyebrow removed and a silver stud in one ear, we never failed to gain negative attention.
‘No, blwah.’ Phoebe doubled herself over, making a show of retching loudly. Although she had genuinely gagged in the past, I was beginning to suspect this current drama was an act.
There was a tensing in the posture of the two women as they each lowered an immaculate-looking toddler into a high chair, an indiscreet exchange of glances. I tried my best to ignore them, ushering the children to sit around our table. The two women drew out their own chairs and sat down, making sure they positioned themselves to get a good view. Their open-mouthed, unblinking expressions unnerved me but the more they stared, the less I felt like moving. I wasn’t going to be cowed into abandoning our table just to suit them. They continued to size us up as I finally managed to persuade Phoebe to take a seat next to me.
As if their smug superiority needed any more fuelling, Phoebe suddenly raised the stakes, angrily sweeping our bowls of chips from the table, then throwing her head back, screeching with alarming force.
One of the women winced at the sound, as if her eardrums had been physically twanged. Then, leaning in, the pair huddled together and spoke in loud whispers. A light wind masked their voices so I only caught the tail end of the sentence. ‘… people really need parenting classes … allowed to breed like that,’ said one. Her friend nodded in wholehearted agreement, shooting me a sharp look.
I drew a deliberately long breath, wanting to correct them but resisting the urge. My own pride shouldn’t come into it, I told myself. Phoebe had as much right to be there as they did, I thought, surprising myself with the strength of protectiveness I felt towards her. ‘I’m sorry for the noise,’ I called across to them, although it was clear that they weren’t interested in pleasantries from ‘someone like me’. What I really wanted to say was that they were in danger of indigestion with all the air they were sucking in through their gaping mouths.
‘That’s quite alright,’ one woman said airily, with the patronising air of an accomplished mother confronted with apparent Slummy Mummy. In spite of the politeness in her tone, I knew there was no genuine warmth there. I could have told them then that I wasn’t Phoebe’s mother, but suddenly I had no urge to do so. It was perverse, I suppose, but withholding information from them gave me a sense of satisfaction – I didn’t care, let them judge me.
In that moment I could understand why people sometimes behaved in outlandish ways as a form of protest, perhaps by having offensive tattoos or pierced body parts. It was a strangely pleasurable power, being able to irritate the snooty women simply by being there.
Later in the afternoon, as we were queuing for an ice cream, we encountered the same two women: they joined the queue just behind us, their toddlers standing patiently by their sides, still looking remarkably spotless.
‘Can I just have some chocolate, Rosie?’ Phoebe asked. ‘I don’t like ice cream, blwah, yuck!’
There was a quizzical cast to their eyes as they ran over our hotchpotch group, finally settling on Phoebe. One of the women opened her mouth to say something but perhaps she noticed a reserve in my stance because she faltered and closed it again.
‘Yes, OK, honey,’ I said, still aware of the woman’s internal battle. She was probably unsure as to whether to risk having a conversation with a mother so disgraceful as me. A moment later and curiosity had evidently got the better of her.
‘So, do your children not call you “Mummy” then?’ she asked, her face contorting like she was chewing a wasp; she couldn’t disguise her disapproval.
‘I’m a foster carer so, no, she doesn’t call me Mum.’
As soon as I uttered the word ‘foster’ they both noticeably thawed. One of them clapped her hands to her face: ‘Oh, I could never do that! Could you, Celia?’
I cringed, wondering how on earth Phoebe must feel being spoken about as if she was a hot potato that no one wanted to be left holding.
‘Oh no, I just couldn’t!’ Celia cried. ‘I’d get too attached.’
Somehow I doubted that to be true. The pair of them hunkered round to include me and suddenly I was part of a triangle. Shifting uneasily, I turned back to the children, trying not to notice that I was being rewarded me with benevolent, apologetic smiles.
Chapter 10
Over the next couple of days Phoebe’s behaviour began to improve and her symptoms seemed to lessen. Not to the point where she could be regarded as an ordinary eight-year-old girl, far from it, but as the Easter holidays drew to a close, and Phoebe had been living with us for almost two weeks, I noticed a definite reduction in her parroting and arm flapping.
I also became aware of a growing warmth between the two of us. It was strange, but the disapproving ‘shiny’ mums from our day out had stirred the instinct of a lioness within me and I felt an increasing protectiveness towards Phoebe. The experience had definitely brought us closer and she began to ‘accidentally’ brush against me as she passed by. It was more of an aggressive lunge than a hug, but still, I felt the right sentiment was there. Perhaps she sensed my growing fondness and was merely responding to that.
Jamie was also spending more time with Phoebe, something I hadn’t bargained on. She followed him around like a loyal puppy in awe of its owner, but rather than being irritated by it, as I would have expected Jamie to be, he tolerated the attention with good humour. An easy intimacy crept into their play and I began to suspect that he actually enjoyed having someone look up to him. I knew he welcomed the privileges that came with no longer being the youngest, like not being the first to bed, for instance.
There was also more coherence to Phoebe’s conversation, less ‘off the wall’ rambling. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was Emily and Jamie’s influence that had helped her to ‘normalise’ her behaviour.
So it was that once more I felt hopeful that we were over the worst and Phoebe wouldn’t feel unhappy enough to need to soil herself again. But at 8.30am on the first Monday after the holidays, as I stood next to her in the playground of Engleb
rook House School, I felt an unpleasant ache rising in my throat. Watching the other children play, I couldn’t help but feel that Phoebe didn’t belong there. Her body language told me that she felt exactly the same way.
Despite being away from her friends for two weeks, she showed no interest in seeing any of them, and they certainly made no attempt to include her in their games. Instead Phoebe hovered at my side, her face turned into my shoulder, staring avidly at my coat. Looking around, there were several children I recognised as having Down’s syndrome, a few that were wheelchair bound and others who walked with strange gaits, much as Phoebe had done when she arrived, two weeks earlier.
The playground itself was cheerful and welcoming, with lots of different play areas marked out in bright colours, and shiny mobiles hanging from the gables of various school huts. There was a fenced zone with adventure play equipment and, beyond a concrete area, a large grassed field with a running track and football nets.
‘Can you see any of your classmates here yet?’ I asked Phoebe. Reluctantly she pointed a number of children out to me and I gently placed my hand on her back. ‘Go on then, go and say hello to them. Have a play.’
She groaned, then wandered a few feet away, before turning around to look at me. I flapped my hand at her. ‘Go on,’ I said, trying to encourage her to join in. ‘Off you go.’
She rolled her eyes and shuffled along, turning in one direction and then the other. She seemed to fix her gaze on someone, then head towards them only to change her mind at the last minute and do an about turn. After a few minutes she began circuiting the playground, trudging unhappily along with her head lowered. Weirdly, her strange gait had returned. It was a heartbreaking sight and I really felt for her as I watched her loping along.
And that’s when it hit me.
I sensed the realisation with full force, a jolt to my stomach so strong that I felt my chest constrict. It was a moment when everything else seemed to move in slow motion, only my thoughts sharpening as they raced around my mind. Phoebe wasn’t stumbling along because she was struck intermittently by faulty wiring in her brain, a symptom of her autism, she was choosing to copy the children around her.
It was a feeling, I came to realise, that I had held in the deep recesses of my gut for several days, but now it had risen, embedding itself as a conviction firmly in the forefront of my mind.
When the school bell rang and the children were asked to line up outside the assembly hall my thoughts were still tumbling over themselves, but my shoulders sagged with relief. It had been difficult to watch her regress and I was glad that she would soon be out of my sight. Phoebe gave me a small wave before heading off to join the back of one of the lines. To me she looked to be on the verge of tears. There was lots of noisy, excited chatter as the classes filed in, though no one turned to talk to her.
The playground gradually emptied around me as parents headed for the school gates. I had phoned ahead and asked if I could have a brief chat with Phoebe’s class teacher, largely to introduce myself but also to see if I could glean any more information about her condition.
The receptionist smiled brightly after buzzing me in through the main school entrance doors. She made a quick phone call and a few minutes later a rotund woman of around 50 or so arrived in reception, smiling warmly.
‘You must be Rosie?’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m Miss Angel, Phoebe’s class teacher. It’s lovely to meet you.’
‘What a wonderful name!’ I smiled.
‘Yes, you wouldn’t believe how much it helps the children who are worried about moving classes. They think I couldn’t possibly be anything other than kind to them.’
‘Which you are, of course.’
She laughed, gesturing me through to a small side room off a corridor decorated with children’s paintings. ‘So, how’s she been?’ she asked once the door closed behind us. Her face was full of concern. ‘We were all so shocked about what happened. We had to report what she’d told us, of course, but we never expected her to be taken so suddenly.’
‘Erm, well, she’s coping OK,’ I said slowly, ‘though we’ve had a few challenges so far.’
Miss Angel nodded. ‘Phoebe does have complex needs. We’ve had a few frights along the way but her parents cope marvellously with her. They must be devastated. Such a lovely couple, they’ve done such a lot for Englebrook. Been very generous. It was Mr Steadman who donated the sundial in the main playground, you know.’
‘How does she cope at school from day to day? Does she have any friends?’
‘She’s not terribly popular with her classmates, I’m afraid. She tends to hit out quite a lot and they’ve learnt to avoid her.’ She grimaced. ‘I’m afraid the staff have had their fair share of problems with her too.’
‘Do you ever get the impression that she’s …?’ I hesitated, licking my lips. What I was about to say seemed disingenuous to imply, but if my suspicions were correct, something needed to be done to help her. ‘Do you ever get the impression that she’s putting her symptoms on?’
Miss Angel looked taken aback. ‘No, of course not – why would she?’
Yes, why would she? I thought, as I made my way back to the car park. It was something I was to spend many hours puzzling over. Poor Phoebe, she didn’t seem to have anyone who really understood her. Nowhere she truly belonged.
From the midst of my dreams that night, I became aware of a continuous, unsettling sound. Suspended in the free-falling world of half-sleep, I turned and bent the pillow over my ear in an effort to cling on to my relaxed state. All at once the muted, ghostly wails became increasingly shrill. Gasping, I propped myself up on one elbow, trying to gauge the time from the dim rays of moonlight dancing through a gap in the curtains. Frowning, I stayed motionless for a moment, listening to the innocuous tinkle of water running through the central heating system.
Moments after I had sunk my head back onto the pillow I heard a scream so piercing that I shot out from underneath the duvet, grasping for my dressing gown. Catching the rim of a glass of water on the bedside table, I knocked it over and it soaked the floor.
Disorientated, I stubbed my toes on the skirting board as I dashed along the hall, just as Emily and Jamie were emerging from their rooms in bleary-eyed confusion.
‘It’s alright, it’s just Phoebe,’ I reassured them.
Jamie rolled his eyes and groaned.
‘You two go back to bed,’ I said, a ripple in my stomach telling me that I was moments away from something incendiary. Sure enough, when I switched on Phoebe’s light there it was: the explosive, grisly scene hitting my senses with full force.
Blood stains covered every visible surface of the room. The cuddly toys, so attentively arranged by Emily earlier in the week, lay scattered across the floor. With limbs and heads missing and blood-spattered stuffing strewn across the carpet, the room resembled the set of some macabre fairy tale.
My ears closed up and my vision tunnelled when I noticed that Phoebe’s bed was empty. Fearing the worst, I was almost too terrified to search for her. Part of me was tempted to run back to my bedroom and crawl under the duvet. Feeling giddy, I swerved through the carnage then pulled up short.
My heart reared up with shock, slamming against my ribcage with such force that my vision wavered for a moment. Blinking, I saw Phoebe slumped lifelessly in the corner of the room; her face was white as fresh paper.
Chapter 11
Phoebe was withdrawn when I drove her home from hospital later that day. She sat listlessly in the back of the car, her head resting against the interior of the door. Her face was still pale, although now I realised this was probably more down to shock than anaemia. The emergency paediatrician had kindly reassured me that blood loss from the deep cut she had scored into her arm was unlikely to have been more than a few dessertspoons, despite the scene of massacre in her bedroom. She’d been lucky, though: if she’d hit on an artery it could have been a different story. I shuddered at the thought.
‘You must b
e exhausted, honey,’ I said, glancing at her reflection in the rear-view mirror. It was the first time I had actually willed her to mimic me. She didn’t, hardly reacting at all. Her blue eyes stared glassily ahead. I wasn’t even going to attempt to discuss what she’d done to herself, not yet. She needed time to recover physically before I drained her further, I felt. But how long to leave it? I wondered. And would she even remember doing it by the time we spoke?
I winced as I cast my mind back to the early morning, ambulance men negotiating their way through the decapitated teddies to reach the injured patient. Phoebe lay in a hysterical heap on the floor, spurred into life by the sight of strangers in her room. I watched as the paramedics knelt beside her, trying to examine her wounds, her fending them off with wild kicks and ferocious screeches. All I felt then was relief; at least she was conscious.
The police had interviewed me while Phoebe’s injury was glued together by a doctor. It was only a formality and yet I couldn’t help but feel responsible for the whole episode. Upon interrogation from nursing staff, Phoebe had admitted to stealing a pair of scissors from the kitchen while I was washing up. Children in foster care often become experts in subterfuge and although I never suspected that she was likely to self-harm at such a tender age, I felt I should have been more alert to the possibility.