Broken

by Rosie Lewis

  ‘Not to worry. I’ll speak to your social worker about it.’ A strange expression crossed his face and I wondered whether I had a school refuser on my hands. He ruffled his fringe and rearranged his features, quickly recovering.

  ‘So what time do you usually go to bed on a week night?’

  ‘Between about eight and half past. Mum lets me read in bed though.’

  ‘Oh, you like reading, do you?’ It seemed that my strategy for encouraging reluctant readers – allowing them an extra half an hour downstairs after their scheduled bedtime if they read with us – wouldn’t be needed for Archie.

  He nodded. ‘I’ve just got into Harry Potter. I finished Philosopher’s Stone a few weeks ago. I can’t wait to read Chamber of Secrets.’

  I stood up and walked to the bookshelf in the corner of the room. ‘I have a pack of Harry Potter playing cards here somewhere. Fancy a game now?’

  ‘Really? Yes please!’ His voice bubbled with excitement. It struck me as the first genuine reaction I’d seen since he’d arrived.

  His fingers trembled when he took the pack from me. He fanned through the cards, exclaiming every time he spotted a different character. ‘Who’s your favourite? Mine’s Professor McGonagall, I think, though I love that ghost as well; the one with the funny voice.’

  ‘Moaning Myrtle!’ he cried, flicking through the deck until he found a card featuring Professor McGonagall. He held it up for me to see, his eyes alight. ‘Why do you like her best?’

  I took the card from him and looked at it. ‘Because she’s fierce, but in a good way. She’s one of those people you’d love to have on your side when you’re in a fix. You know the type: firm but fair. How about you?’

  He flicked through the cards again. ‘I like Harry and Ron,’ he said, ‘but Mrs Weasley is my favourite.’

  ‘Oh yes, I like her too.’ I felt a rush of affection for him. Being one of the most sympathetic and cuddly characters in the Harry Potter series, the archetypal mum, there was no need to ask why she was the one who appealed to him most.

  ‘You remind me a bit of her,’ he added shyly, his eyes fixed on the deck of cards in his hand.

  I chuckled. ‘Well, thank you. At least, I think it’s a compliment!’ He grinned, fully meeting my eye for the first time since we’d met.

  Despite never having played before, he picked up the game of Rummy quickly enough, beating me on his second round. ‘Are you sure you’ve never played this before?’

  He grinned as I dealt another hand. ‘I don’t suppose you got a chance to pack much of your stuff before going to Joan’s, did you?’ I hadn’t seen what was in his rucksack, but there certainly hadn’t been any personal items in his suitcase when I’d unpacked it. Bobbi hadn’t brought any toys with her either.

  ‘No.’ He picked up a card from the deck on the sofa between us, looked at it, then placed it on the discard pile, straightening it until it was exactly in line with the rest. ‘The police packed a bag for us and then one of the social workers went to our house and grabbed some more of our clothes. She dropped it at Joan’s and said we should ask our social worker if we wanted anything else.’

  ‘And do you know who your social worker is?’ It was likely that the children would be allocated a different social worker now that they were looked-after children, rather than children in need.

  ‘I think his name began with a D, but I can’t remember. He came to see us at Joan’s but I forgot to ask about my stuff.’

  I nodded, picking up another card from the deck. ‘I can arrange for someone to collect some bits if you tell me what you’d like.’

  He bunched his lips together. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘How about some books? I mean, we have lots here, but if you were in the middle of reading one …’

  He shook his head. ‘Mum was going to get Chamber of Secrets for me but Jason said reading’s for wimps.’

  I peered at him over the top of my cards. ‘Oh, really? Is Jason your mum’s partner?’ I usually tried to employ a mild tone whenever a child told me anything about their parents, so as not to deter them from opening up about their home lives. On this occasion, though, surprise got the better of me.

  He nodded. ‘He says –’ he started to say, then seemed to think better of it and gave a little shrug.

  When it was clear he wasn’t going to say anything else I said: ‘Well, we’ve got a copy somewhere. I’ll ask Emily to dig it out for you.’

  ‘Wow! Cool!’ he said delightedly, as if I’d offered to take him to Disneyland.

  ‘How about Bobbi? Is there anything she’s particularly fond of at home? A cuddly toy or a blanket … something to help her settle?’

  He gave me a blank look. ‘She has a duvet in bed, not blankets.’

  I nodded. ‘Okay. Is she always tricky at bedtime?’

  His eyes surveyed his cards and then he looked up, not quite meeting my eyes again. ‘Yep. Takes me ages to get her into bed. If she has a sleep in the day it’s impossible. She gets up, she rolls around. I have to sleep next to her on the carpet sometimes to get her off.’

  Where was his mother while he was doing all of that, I wondered. ‘Well, I saw earlier what a knack you have with little ones. You were very good with Megan.’

  He smiled, pleased with the compliment. ‘I learned skills from dealing with her up there,’ he said ruefully, lifting his eyes to the ceiling.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ I said, wondering again just how much he might have been left in charge of his sister. Several of the children I’ve fostered had taken on the responsibility of caring for their younger siblings as well as themselves when they were at home. I’d once looked after an eighteen-month-old toddler who had insisted on changing his own nappy, so adept was he at taking on adult tasks. ‘You’ve got lots of experience then?’

  He nodded. ‘It’s hard though. She never does anything I tell her.’

  ‘Well, now you’re here you can leave Bobbi to me. I’ll take care of all the grown-up things. Your job is to make yourself comfortable and let me look after you.’

  He looked at me. ‘Rosie,’ he said hesitantly, ‘how can I find out if Mum’s okay?’

  ‘You’re worried about her?’

  He lifted his shoulders. ‘A bit.’

  ‘Did your social worker explain anything to you about contact?’ Contact refers to the regular meetings arranged between birth parents and their children. The meetings are usually held in a local family centre and monitored by contact supervisors who observe the family’s interactions and record their findings. In some cases, if there are no security concerns, contact takes place in the foster carer’s home. Some birth parents are permitted to spend time with their children unsupervised, although usually only when they have agreed to voluntary care, or during reunification, when their children make the transition from foster carer back to the birth family home.

  He nodded. ‘He said he couldn’t arrange anything until he’s had a meeting with Mum though.’

  ‘That’s right, that’s what usually happens. I expect the holiday period has delayed things a bit, but I’ll get in touch with him tomorrow and see if I can find out how she is. Is there anything else you’re worried about?’

  ‘Not really. No, wait …’ He looked at me hopefully. ‘Do you think I might be able to see my dad?’

  From the brief conversation I’d had with the placements team social worker, I got the impression that the children’s birth father hadn’t been on the scene for quite some time. ‘I’ll certainly ask. Do you see your dad often?’

  He shook his head, his expression downcast. ‘We used to. He used to come and take us out, but Mum says he doesn’t want to see us anymore.’

  ‘How long is it since you’ve seen him?’

  He shrugged. ‘I dunno. Ages. I sort of saw him on my birthday.’

  ‘In October?’

  He looked at me and nodded. ‘He came round with loads of presents, but he had a row with Jason and Mum wouldn’t let him in.’ He rubbed his for
ehead brusquely.

  ‘That’s tough,’ I said.

  ‘I waved out the window but he didn’t see me.’ A shadow crossed his eyes but then he quickly added: ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter. It’s nice here, I really like it.’

  I felt another twist of sympathy for him. Many of the children I have cared for display hair-trigger anger because it makes them feel less vulnerable than sadness, but Archie didn’t seem able to express either. ‘Things haven’t been easy for you, have they, honey?’

  He shook his head stiffly but then gave me a hopeful, not quite meeting my eyes, look. ‘Maybe now I’m here though … if I can see my dad?’

  I patted his hand. ‘I’ll see what I can find out.’

  Chapter Five

  The next day, Friday 2 January, began peacefully enough. I woke at just after 5 a.m. to the gentle sound of glass bottles clinking against doorsteps as the milkman made his deliveries. Hoping for half an hour to myself, I got up immediately and went downstairs. Mungo greeted me, tail wagging, in the hall and followed me as I switched on the computer and went into the kitchen. I made myself a coffee and fussed him while I waited for it to boot up.

  With the steaming drink at my side and Mungo at my feet, I sat at my desk to type up the previous day’s notes into my foster-carer diary. Foster carers are expected to keep detailed daily notes for each child they care for, recording such things as times and dates when babysitters are used, incidents of difficult behaviour and potential triggers, periods away from home, illnesses, medication, doctor’s visits, meetings, any disagreements that may have occurred – either with the child, their birth family during contact or with professionals – damage, theft, or involvements with police, and then email them at the end of each week to the child’s social worker for uploading onto social services’ computer system.

  Record keeping is an important part of a foster carer’s role, not only to protect against possible allegations (emailing the diaries provides the foster carer with proof that nothing has been added to the record or altered at a later stage) but also to provide a detailed history for the child in the future, should they choose to read their file when they reach adulthood. When I’d finished, I set the table for breakfast so that it was ready for the children as soon as they came down.

  Megan was first to rise, if you discounted Bobbi’s six wake-ups during the night. As Joan had mentioned, she talked a lot in her sleep, and every hour or so she called out to me. The first time I went in she complained that she didn’t like the dark, so I put a couple of plug-in night lights in the room. I went back to bed and she called me ten minutes later to tell me that the teddies I’d arranged around her bed were too starey. I collected them up and put them in the hall but she still woke an hour or so later.

  I went in to her each time and reassured her she was safe, but no sooner had I gone back to sleep than she was calling out again. The noise woke Megan several times as well, who was finding it difficult to sleep anyway because of a stomach ache. I gave her some Calpol and a hot-water bottle to ease her cramps, but she still tossed and turned, groaning whenever Bobbi called out. Tucked away in the top bunk, Archie somehow slept through the entire racket.

  ‘Morning, my angel,’ I whispered, lifting Megan into my arms. ‘How’s your tummy this morning?’

  She frowned, her disturbed night all forgotten. She cuddled close as I carried her downstairs, her head resting on my shoulder. I could feel the hard plastic of her hearing aid pressing into my skin and felt a swell of pride at her resourcefulness; over the last week or so she had taken to fitting the aid herself each morning. Sometimes she forgot to switch it on, but negotiating it into her ear was a feat in itself.

  I told her how clever she was and she beamed – her reaction evidence that she had managed to switch it on. I gave her some milk and we cuddled up on the sofa, the soft fur of Mungo’s head warming my feet. I buried my head in Megan’s hair, relishing the opportunity to hug her while she was in a sleepy state of early morning calmness, and so unusually still. It was still only half past six and I was hoping to spend at least half an hour of one-to-one time with her, as I had always tried to do with Emily and Jamie when they were younger. Megan, it seemed, had other ideas.

  ‘No, sweetheart, let them rest,’ I said, when she slipped off the sofa and tried to pull me upstairs. ‘Let’s make the most of some Mummy and Meggie time.’ She didn’t look entirely convinced on the merits of just having me to play with, but she acquiesced. We read Felicity Wishes, one of her favourite books of the moment, and then we read it again.

  Just as I was about to embark on a third reading, there was a thump overhead. Mungo’s ears pricked up. Megan was off the sofa and at the bottom of the stairs within a few seconds. As I followed her up the sound of arguing reached me, followed by another loud clunk.

  Megan stopped short at Archie and Bobbi’s bedroom door. At first I thought she was respecting the house rules and was about to congratulate her for being so vigilant, when I caught a glimpse of the room. All of the clothes that I had folded neatly away in the drawers were scattered all over the floor. The wardrobe doors hung open, the clothes inside dangling precariously from their hangers.

  Lidless felt-tip pens were strewn here and there, two upended water bottles leaking over them and creating a rainbow effect on the beige carpet. And just visible at the edge of all the mess, I could see a few food wrappers sticking out from under the bed. Megan and I exchanged mutually shocked glances.

  I picked my way through the rubbish. Megan followed. She stood next to me, hands on her hips. ‘What’s happened here?’ I asked, trying to keep my tone neutral. Between the ages of eighteen months and seven years, children are convinced that they are responsible for everything that happens to them. This so-called magical thinking, a natural phase of development, leaves children convinced that they are responsible for their own plight when they come into care. Instead of placing any fault with their parents, they assume that they are not worthy of being loved. I was worried that if I made a big deal of it, I could add to the toxic shame the siblings probably already felt. Besides, in my experience, most everyday upsets resolved themselves quickly if ignored.

  Bobbi, still in her nightdress and pull-up nappy, was sitting in amongst the mess with a few pens clasped in one of her hands, the rabbit I had given her in the other. She looked blank, as if I hadn’t even spoken. I took another step towards her, noticing as I did that her picture had been torn from the wall, a few fragments of jagged paper left behind. The drawing, I presumed, lay somewhere beneath her. I wondered who had taken it down, and why. I looked at Archie, who was already dressed and standing by the window. He was staring into the garden, his face angled away.

  ‘We’ll clear this up later,’ I said firmly. By messing up the room, there was every chance that Bobbi had been unconsciously re-creating her home environment. Home might have been an awful place to be, but it was familiar and probably strangely comforting. Having noticed Archie’s fastidiousness, I had already decided that Bobbi was responsible for the mess. ‘Now, who’s ready for breakfast?’ I asked. Archie turned to me in surprise.

  Bobbi jumped up. ‘Me! I am! I want cornflakes and toast and yoghurt and chocolate.’

  ‘I don’t know about chocolate!’ I said, laughing. ‘Right, we must all try to keep quiet as we go down. Emily and Jamie want a lie-in today. Bobbi, let’s get you sorted.’ The smell from her soiled nappy was overpowering, even from where I was standing. I wanted to shower her down before we went downstairs.

  ‘No, I want breakfast now.’ Bobbi’s tone was flat but insistent.

  ‘Yep, soon. Let’s go the bathroom and get you cleaned up first.’

  She eyed me defiantly. Sensing a sharpening of the atmosphere, I turned to Megan. ‘Meggie, would you like to go and choose yourself something to wear?’ She nodded enthusiastically and trotted off to her room. I craned my head around the door and called out: ‘Don’t forget, it’s winter!’ She loved getting herself dressed but more often tha
n not she’d appear wearing a swimming costume or a pair of hot pants, even on the iciest of days. ‘Right,’ I held out my hand. ‘Come on then, pickle, let’s sort you out.’

  ‘Nooooo!’ Bobbi yelled, her cheeks turning puce. ‘I want food!’

  ‘Tell you what. I’ll go to the bathroom and wait for you. If you come within ten seconds I’ll give you a sticker. Archie, you go downstairs whenever you’re ready. Emily found The Chamber of Secrets when she came in last night. She’s left it on the table for you.’

  Archie tiptoed around the mess to the landing, still looking a bit taken aback. Clearly he was expecting a different reaction to the one I’d given.

  Bobbi scooted after him but I caught her around the middle and lifted her up, careful not to touch her full nappy. ‘Gotcha,’ I said playfully, trying to avoid her kicks while not breathing too deeply; her nappy really did smell bad. She dropped the rabbit and lashed out, catching my cheek in the exact spot that had only just scabbed over. My skin prickled and stung. ‘Let’s try and stay calm,’ I said, my own adrenaline kicking in.

  ‘Nooooo!’ she screeched again, pummelling my face and neck with closed fists as I carried her to the bathroom and knelt in front of her. ‘Kind hands, Bobbi,’ I said, my voice sounding strained as I fended her hands away. She clawed at my arm by way of reply, her nails digging at the bare skin on my wrist until tiny spots of blood appeared.

  ‘Bobbi, you’re safe, sweetie. No one’s going to hurt you. Let’s just calm down and get you cleaned up.’

  She was screaming so hysterically that I wasn’t even sure she heard me. Even if she had been able to process what I was saying, part of me knew that ‘calm down’ probably didn’t mean much to a child who had grown up amid chaos. ‘Be kind’ was a meaningless instruction to someone who had, in all likelihood, been mistreated since birth. I knew that. But with adrenaline surging through my veins, it was difficult to think of anything else to say but ‘calm down’.