Broken

by Rosie Lewis

  Bobbi looked vacant, as if nobody had said a word. Joan took another step towards her and leaned close. ‘Bobbi! Did you hear me?’ she demanded. From her middle came the tiniest mewing sound. Joan straightened, shifting once again from one foot to the other. ‘Poor Archie, look, you’ve hurt him. Say sorry. NOW please!’

  ‘S’alright, Joan,’ Archie said, still rubbing the back of his head. ‘She didn’t mean it.’

  ‘Hmm, I’m not so sure about that.’ Joan puffed out some air. ‘Bobbi, upstairs. Fetch your things.’

  After a resentful glance at her brother, Bobbi turned and stalked from the room. Archie rolled his eyes and limped after her. Joan gaped at me, her hand flapping towards the door. ‘Did you see that?! I don’t believe it!’

  ‘What? The head-butt?’

  She snorted. ‘No, I can believe that alright. I can’t believe she actually did what I asked.’

  I looked at her. ‘The placing social worker said you’re thinking ADHD.’

  ‘Yes, wouldn’t surprise me,’ Joan said. Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder is a prevalent condition in fostered children. Latest research suggests that there may be a genetic link and one emerging theory is that undiagnosed sufferers turn to drugs in an unconscious attempt at self-medication. It’s one of the reasons I feel sorry for birth parents who lose their children through substance addiction, although my sympathy never extends to those who have been deliberately cruel or abusive. ‘She’s all over the place from morning till night,’ Joan continued. ‘Can’t keep still for a second. Can’t stop fretting about food either, poor little lamb. She can’t sleep. And when she blows, well, you’ll need to dive for cover. She never stops making a noise. I mean, literally never. She’s a little tea leaf as well.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Joan nodded. ‘Yep. Pinches anything that’s not screwed down. And she bites.’

  I nodded slowly, absorbing her words. This placement was certainly going to be lively. ‘And Archie?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘I haven’t quite worked him out yet. He’s polite enough, I’ll give you that. And on the whole he’s been quiet.’

  ‘Yes, you’ve said.’

  She nodded, glancing down at the baby.

  ‘What is it, Joan?’

  She frowned. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said, giving me a long steady look. ‘Be careful is what I’m saying, I suppose, with your little one around.’

  I stared at her for a moment and then glanced away. My eyes were drawn to a lopsided Christmas tree draped with cracked baubles and balding tinsel. It was leaning cheerlessly against a side table, as if all the socialising of the festive season had literally drained the life out of it. Joan noticed my interest. ‘One of Bobbi’s recent victims,’ she said soberly. I laughed, but she shook her head woefully. ‘I’m not joking, Rosie. Be ready to hit the ground running. You’re in for a bumpy ride.’

  If I’m honest her words did worry me a little, but perhaps not as much as they should have.

  Chapter Two

  ‘You got food at your house, miss, have you? Have you got food?’

  ‘It’s Rosie. And yes, don’t worry, we have plenty of food.’

  ‘Cos I like bread and chocolate spread and crisps, have you got some? Have you, Rosie? Have you?’

  ‘Yes, Bobbi, we –’

  ‘I like jam as well but not peanut butter, I hate that. Have you got jam, Rosie? Have you got any jam?’

  And so it continued all the way home. She was a nervous passenger, startling every time I applied the brake, craning her head and strumming the window as we stopped at each red light. When we went over a sleeping policeman she clutched at the headrest in front of her and held on for dear life. My heart went out to her. She really was an anxious little girl. I glanced at her brother in the rear-view mirror. He sat gazing out of the window, quietly self-contained. I should have been grateful for his calm, but there was something unsettling about the glazed look in his eyes. I felt relieved when he finally spoke. ‘Shut it, Bobbi,’ he said, but mildly. I don’t think she heard him. She certainly didn’t react, or listen when I tried to get a response in.

  I suspected that her constant chatter was another sign that her reptilian brain stem was in control of her thinking, trying to ensure her survival by reminding me that she needed attention. I felt sad to think that a little girl had been so poorly treated that she feared for her life. That said, I also wondered how my three were going to react to her constant chatter.

  The roads narrowed as we neared home; a typical Edwardian semi-detached house of red brick in the north of England, with a windswept garden and a river beyond. Our surrounding towns are lively enough to keep the youngsters interested once they hit their teens, but small enough to retain some of their old-world charm.

  ‘Here we are,’ I said cheerfully over the top of Bobbi’s monologue. I pulled up outside our house and peered through the windscreen. Emily was holding Megan up at the living-room window. I waved as I got out of the car and Megan jumped up and down in Emily’s arms. ‘Looks like we have a welcoming committee,’ I said as I opened one of the rear doors and helped Bobbi release her seatbelt. Archie climbed out the other side, threw his rucksack over his shoulder and came to stand beside me.

  ‘I can do it,’ Bobbi said, refusing my proffered hand and slinking out of the seat herself. As soon as her feet touched the driveway, Megan appeared in front of her, a big beaming smile on her face. Mungo skidded over as well and, just over Bobbi’s hip-height, sniffed excitedly at her armpits and then at her feet.

  Bobbi grinned and screamed excitedly. Mungo turned tail and shot off back to the house. A bit taken aback, Megan stared at her for a second, but then reached for her hand. ‘Come and play!’ she chirped, her breath misting the cold air. Bobbi, who was over a year older but only about two inches taller, scowled and shrank away. Megan gave me a bewildered look and my heart lurched. She had been so excited yesterday when I told her that two new children were coming to stay.

  Archie leaned over and rested his hands on his knees. ‘Hello, what’s your name?’ he asked engagingly, his whole demeanour softening.

  ‘Meggie,’ she said with a smile, noticing him properly for the first time.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Meggie. I’m Archie.’

  ‘Arty,’ Megan repeated as best she could, a big grin on her face.

  ‘Hi, Archie,’ Emily said with casual friendliness. She had been welcoming little strangers into our home since she was around eight years old and seemed to have a natural ability for making them feel at ease. Archie flushed and leaned down to stroke Mungo’s floppy brown ears.

  Megan made another attempt at grabbing Bobbi’s hand. With her effusive spirit and tactile nature, it was hard for her to comprehend anyone turning down the offer of instant friendship.

  ‘I know!’ Emily said, eyeing me over the top of the girls’ heads. ‘Let’s go back inside and find some toys for Bobbi.’ She swept Megan up and headed back towards the door.

  ‘Yay!’ Megan shouted over her shoulder. I felt a swell of gratitude for Emily’s quick thinking. Since Megan’s adoption I had been more careful when considering referrals, only accepting those I was confident would allow me to give her plenty of individual attention. Being born with a cleft palate had left her hard of hearing so she needed more support than other children her age, though she managed well with the use of a hearing aid. Besides struggling with transitions, her exposure to drugs and alcohol in utero had left its mark developmentally. She struggled to learn at nursery, partly because of her hearing difficulties but also because she was easily distracted – a common legacy of exposure to dangerous substances in the womb.

  She was a confident girl though, with an awe-inspiring zest for life. She loved the company of other children and was used to fostering – she had grown up with it – but still, she was a vulnerable child with her own set of challenges. I had to bear that in mind.

  ‘I want fooooood!’ Bobbi whined as I carried their suitcases into the h
all. Still wearing her hat, coat and gloves, she charged off up the hall. ‘Where’s the fridge, Rosie? Is it in here? Rosie, is it here?’

  ‘Come in, love,’ I said to Archie, who was hovering at the open door. I smiled at him. ‘I’ll just see to your sister and then I’ll give you a tour.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said politely as I stowed their belongings in front of the stairs. ‘You have a nice house,’ he added as I straightened. I did a double take. Compliments from a child of his age were unexpected, and even more so from someone with a background of domestic abuse. Whenever I accepted a placement I braced myself for verbal insults and even physical abuse. Charming behaviour wasn’t something I’d prepared myself for.

  I smiled at him then draped my coat over the banister and went through to the kitchen, where Bobbi had already opened several cupboard doors. ‘Here you are, Bobbi, you can have this for now,’ I said, planting a banana in her hand. I shepherded her out of the kitchen and pulled out one of our dining chairs. She threw herself onto it and immediately began kicking the legs. I bent down and slipped off her shoes. The kicking stopped but almost instantly she began banging her free hand on the table and shouting at the top of her voice.

  Her brother appeared at the doorway. ‘Would you like some fruit, Archie? Or do you want to wait for lunch? It won’t be long.’

  ‘I can wait,’ he said quietly. ‘I need the toilet though.’ At that moment Megan scooted in, carrying a box of Duplo, closely followed by Emily and Jamie.

  ‘Rosie, Rosie, Rosie!’ Bobbi shouted with a mouth full of banana. She pulled on my top. When I didn’t turn around she picked up one of the placemats from the table and jabbed me in the back with it.

  ‘Just a minute, Bobbi,’ I said firmly, stepping out of her reach. ‘The bathroom’s straight ahead at the top of the stairs, Archie. This is Jamie, by the way.’

  ‘Hi, Archie,’ Jamie said easily, as if he were already part of the furniture. And then to me, ‘I’m off to band practice, Mum. See you later.’

  Archie, still wearing his rucksack on top of his coat, studied Jamie with interest then followed him up the hall. Emily planted a kiss on my cheek. ‘Sorry to run out on you so quickly, Mum, but I said I’d meet Holly at the library.’ In her middle year of nurse training, Emily spent much of her time off duty from the local university teaching hospital either at the library or bent over the desk in her room.

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ I said chirpily. I was a big fan of subliminal messages and I was talking as much to the children as to her. I usually muddle through the first few days after children arrive, doing my best to keep a calm environment while everyone adjusts to the changing family dynamics.

  Employing foster carers is a snip for local authorities, who have to pay upwards of £5,000 a week if a child is placed in a residential unit or care home. Apart from financial considerations, a care home is usually the last resort for any child. Establishing them in a safe, family environment is the best way for them to build self-esteem as well as a sense of belonging and fair play.

  It’s much cheaper for local authorities to place children with their own in-house carers than with those registered with private fostering agencies like Bright Heights, but recruitment challenges mean that it often isn’t possible.

  While the allowances I receive as an agency foster carer are on a par with the amounts paid to carers registered with the local authority, the heavy fees charged by the agencies make fostering a profitable business; one of the reasons that hedge-fund investors have been so keen to get involved. It’s a fact I’m uncomfortable with and I’m often tempted to jump ship and transfer to my local authority.

  ‘Would you two like to do some colouring while I rustle up some lunch?’ I said as Emily and Jamie left.

  The suggestion was not to Bobbi’s liking. ‘No, I want food now!’ she shouted, underlining the sentiment by flinging one of the placemats across the room.

  It isn’t unusual for fostered children to have issues with food. The digestive discomfort caused by a surge in stress hormones can be difficult to distinguish from hunger pangs, and lots of children seek to cure their ‘funny tummy’ by feeding it. Megan’s exposure to drugs and alcohol had left her with her own digestive difficulties and she suffered with frequent tummy aches, as well as bouts of unexplained sickness. ‘It’s coming very soon, Bobbi. You don’t need to worry; they’ll always be enough food for you here.’ I quickly set out some paper and colouring pens on the table and Megan climbed up onto the chair next to Bobbi.

  Thanks to a knock-through by the previous owner our house is open-plan downstairs, so I could see the girls from the kitchen as I prepared some sandwiches. Bobbi chattered continuously as she drew, the noise rising as she washed her hands at the kitchen sink. ‘Rosie, it is ready now? Is it? Is it ready?’

  ‘Yes, my sweet, it’s here.’ There was still no sign of Archie so as the girls sat next to each other at the table I called up to him.

  ‘Coming!’ he called back. ‘This looks nice,’ he said when he eventually came down. I smiled at him as he sat next to me but he kept his gaze averted. I noticed a few dark blotches that looked suspiciously like chocolate sticking to his chin and, poking out through the zipped opening of the rucksack at his feet, a shred of clear cellophane wrapping.

  ‘Rosie, have you got more food in the kitchen?’ Bobbi asked, her faint eyebrows furrowed with anxiety.

  I laughed. ‘I have, but we have enough here for now.’ I had placed a platter of nibbles at the centre of the table and sandwiches with a variety of fillings, giving everyone a plate so that they could help themselves. Bobbi already had eight triangles piled high on her plate, as well as some crisps and about ten cherry tomatoes.

  She glugged down a cupful of water and picked up two more triangles, squashing them together and ramming them into her mouth. ‘Slow down, sweetie, there’s no rush!’ I said. I preferred not to worry too much about table manners early on in a placement – I usually had plenty of other fish to fry – but Bobbi was almost gagging on her food. I was worried that she might actually choke.

  ‘We have plenty of food for everyone here,’ I repeated. Her eyes flicked in my direction. She slowed her chewing, but within a few seconds later she had renewed her mission with gusto. Archie ate with less abandon, but had probably already partaken of a starter in the loo.

  I remembered reading something about babies and young children who have experienced real hunger internalising the idea that no one will keep them safe. Once hardwired into their brain, it can take years to overwrite such a deeply ingrained belief. A pat on my arm from Megan interrupted my thoughts. ‘Did you see my cloptiker, Mummy?’ she said, pointing to the picture at the top of a pile of drawings at the side of the table.

  ‘Wow, that’s great, Meggie!’ Already showing a flair for art, she would sit for hours drawing and colouring. She looked at me, her eyes shining with pride.

  ‘It’s horse shite,’ Bobbi piped up, her voice thick with food. I gave her a sharp glance and looked back at Megan, who, thankfully, seemed not to have heard. Though her hearing difficulties were only mild and her hearing aid helped, she still struggled to make out words when they were muffled.

  ‘I think it’s cool, Megan,’ Archie chipped in kindly. She beamed.

  I gave him a grateful smile then looked at Bobbi. ‘We don’t use rude words like that, Bobbi.’

  ‘Huh?’ She folded another triangle of bread in half and rammed it into her mouth.

  ‘I said, you mustn’t use rude words. Say “fiddlesticks” if you can’t think of anything nice to say.’

  She swallowed hard and then giggled. Megan laughed too. The pair of them grinned at each other and shouted ‘Fiddlesticks!’ at the tops of their voices. It was the first positive interaction between them and I couldn’t help but smile.

  Ten minutes later as I piled the plates together, Bobbi asked for more sandwiches. ‘You’ve had enough for now, sweetie,’ I said gently. ‘But next time you feel hungry, I promise there wi
ll be food for you. There’s always fruit, whenever you want it. And we’ll be having dinner in a few hours, okay?’

  She scowled at me and went red in the face. I thought she might protest further but, with every last crumb consumed, she agreed to join us for a tour of the house.

  Megan led the way upstairs. Mungo waited obediently at the bottom, head cocked with interest. ‘This is my room,’ Megan announced proudly at her open door. ‘None of you are definitely not allowed in here.’

  ‘Alright, Meggie,’ I said, dropping a hand to her shoulder. Every foster carer is obliged to draw up a Safer Caring policy detailing a set of house rules that every house member must comply with. Designed to keep everyone safe, one of the universal rules is that everyone must stay covered up at all times, whether in pyjamas and dressing gown or fully clothed. Every member of the house must also stay out of every bedroom but their own. Even as the children’s foster carer, I was supposed to knock before entering their room, and should never, under any circumstances, sit on their beds.

  Strictly speaking, only the under-fives or same-sex siblings should share bedrooms, but with foster placements in short supply there’s sometimes no alternative but to stretch the rules. I knew that if a vacancy became available with a foster carer who could provide the children with a room of their own, it was likely that Bobbi and Archie would be moved on.

  ‘But it’s a rule,’ Megan said with feeling. She yawned and leaned against my leg, looking crestfallen.

  I smiled. ‘You’re right, sweetie, it is.’ We’d spent most of yesterday evening at my mother’s house and, being New Year’s Eve, she hadn’t gone to bed until late. I could tell she was flagging so I quickly showed Bobbi the bathroom, pointed out where I’d be sleeping, and then opened the door to the room opposite my own.

  ‘Wow!’ Bobbi shouted, running in and diving face down on the sheepskin rug in the middle of the floor. We had spent yesterday afternoon filling the room with Lego and Bratz dolls, Transformers and Brio; anything we thought might appeal to children of Archie and Bobbi’s age. There was a large purple beanbag beside the bunk bed and a giant teddy next to the bookshelf in one of the alcoves. Of all the accessories, it was the furry rug that always seemed to appeal most to the children I looked after.