Betrayed

by Rosie Lewis

  Rachel, Liz and I each found a spot on the comfortable sofa or matching armchairs and Jenny, after taking drinks out for the children and a blanket for them to sit on, brought us some tea. I took one of the steaming mugs, then curled up, relaxing into the sofa. Tucking my feet between the cushioned end and my hips, I let out a gasp, the unforgiving arm of a Transformers toy catching the delicate area between my toes.

  As usual, the conversation drifted to fostering and we began comparing notes. Besides Kingsley, Liz was fostering a teenage boy who had been with her for almost three months. ‘Feels like so much longer, though,’ she said, collapsing at her middle so that her shoulders sagged in a mime of exhaustion. ‘Bless him, he’s amazingly sweet. It’s just the tunnelling that gets me down.’

  ‘Tunnelling?’ Jenny asked, incredulous.

  Liz first noticed something awry a few days into Ryan’s stay when little mounds of dust began to appear in random places. She had no idea where they came from and no one in the house would admit to knowing anything about them. Liz became convinced that they must have been invaded by an army of mice or some sort of insect.

  She decided to blitz the place, working methodically around the house to search for signs of infestation. It was as she was stripping Ryan’s bedroom of posters and photos that she found the source of the problem; he had punctured several holes in the wall, each narrowing so that they were almost invisible on the other side. When Liz confronted the 13-year-old he broke down, admitting that he found it impossible to relax unless he was able to keep a constant eye on the people around him.

  ‘Tony goes around filling the holes when he gets in from work but within a day or two the little piles of dust are back. It’s driving us round the bend.’

  Liz had called me in despair late one evening when her husband was working late and so I had already heard about Ryan’s habit but Jenny held her hand over her mouth, shaking her head. ‘Why does he do it, do you think?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s scared one of us will creep up on him when he’s not expecting it.’

  Jenny dropped her hand. ‘Oh, poor love. I can guess what sort of home life he’s had then.’

  Liz nodded grimly. ‘He’s beginning to open up so I can sort of understand his reasoning.’ She pulled her hands down her face. ‘But it’s just so hard to keep my patience with him, you know?’

  We nodded in unison. All of us understood how trying some days could be, especially when a problem seemed to be irresolvable. If any of us embarked on our fostering ‘careers’ seeking perfection we had long since abandoned the aspiration, each of us content to get through the day with the children in one piece and our reputations intact. None of us ever tried to pretend that we found it easy. Fostering is a great leveller in that way. I’m not sure whether it attracts the sort of person who doesn’t bother to put up a front or whether it quickly strips away the usual façade that people construct, but I felt completely at ease with Jenny, Rachel and Liz; I hadn’t felt as comfortable amongst a group of people since my school days.

  We fell silent for a moment while we sipped our tea. ‘How about Levi? How’s he settling?’ Jenny asked Rachel. After moving little Katy, a girl of 18 months, on to adoption, Rachel had accepted a new placement, a young lad of 11, even though he was outside of her approved age range.

  ‘Hmmm, good days and bad,’ she said, rocking her hand one way then the other. ‘See what he did the other day when I tried to stop him taking his phone to bed?’

  Rachel pulled up the hem of her jeans to reveal her shin. There was a huge bruise the size of a pineapple between her knee and ankle, the skin mottled red, purple and blue where Levi had kicked her. We shook our heads in stunned silence. ‘He’s got an unfortunate fascination for animal intestines too,’ she added with a grimace.

  There were occasions when one of us would come up with a suggestion or strategy we may have used in the past that had been helpful, but sometimes there wasn’t a lot we could say other than offering the support of listening. I felt a rush of admiration for them all.

  ‘And how are the boys doing?’ I asked Jenny eventually, finishing the last of my tea.

  ‘Well, I suddenly feel like I’ve got it easy,’ she said, laughing. ‘Kane doesn’t say much. Carl’s the demanding one. He’s been diagnosed with ADHD but I must admit he’s calming down since I got really firm with him. I’m not sure he even has ADHD. I think he’s just another child who’s never been taught that life has rules.’

  ‘Shhh,’ Liz said in mock horror, peering over her shoulder theatrically. ‘You’re bordering on inappropriate.’ Any foster carer harbouring the view that ADHD was a medical diagnosis of naughtiness would be swiftly sent for retraining.

  A flash memory surfaced from the last local authority course I had attended. The tutor had told us of the many bizarre techniques desperate parents and doctors had employed in the past to ‘cure’ children of their bad or defiant behaviour. I had been shocked to hear that until 1930 frazzled parents of over-energetic children had been able to pop to their local apothecary and buy a bottle of Mrs Winslow’s soothing syrup, a cocktail of morphine and opium powders. Intended to soothe restless youngsters, it was so potent that it often killed them instead. Even more extreme, some children were lobotomised at the request of harassed mothers or sometimes step-parents who found them difficult to live with.

  Jenny flapped her hand. ‘Can’t say anything these days, even if it’s true.’

  ‘And?’ I prompted. ‘Any news on Billy? Did the adoption team get back to you?’

  The amused light in Jenny’s eyes dimmed.

  ‘Oh no, what have they said?’

  ‘They’ve got adopters lined up. My rights only kicked in a few weeks ago and they said they’d already told the adopters about him.’ She sighed, drawing her lips into a thin line. ‘The handover starts at the beginning of next month.’

  I had heard of several cases where foster carers were discouraged from adopting the children they were looking after. If a foster carer adopts it means that they have less capacity to offer the local authority in the future and, with such a shortage of carers nationwide, social workers are often reluctant to support their application. I could understand the temptation to keep experienced foster carers in the system but it seemed unfair on the individual children, particularly when someone like Billy was clearly so settled and attached. Rachel, hopelessly soft, flattened her hand to her chest in sympathy.

  Jenny stared into the garden, her eyes misting over.

  ‘How long have you known he was going?’ Rachel asked.

  ‘They told me a couple of weeks ago. Until then I thought it was just a case of completing the paperwork so that I could adopt him.’

  ‘No,’ Liz said, lowering her chin and giving Jenny a meaningful stare. ‘You knew he’d be going the day he arrived. You shouldn’t have allowed yourself to get so attached.’

  Liz had a point. Strictly speaking she was absolutely right, but when it comes to children, emotional responses are automatic. It can be difficult and sometimes impossible to rein in such a natural instinct. Jenny pulled a face but it was good natured; there was enough affection and respect between us to talk frankly, and I knew that, when I moved much-loved children on to adoption, trying to see things from Liz’s practical perspective had helped to ease the heartache. And if the truth be told Liz wasn’t so very different from the rest of us, when it came down to it. I remembered when she had cared for a newborn baby a couple of years earlier; she came out with her usual rhetoric about how it was the basic duty of a foster carer to move children on, but the weepy expression and grainy voice hadn’t been lost on me. When I had draped an arm around her shoulder and gave it a squeeze, a little sob had escaped her throat, her head lingering on my chest a touch longer than it would normally have done.

  ‘So did you ask Des why he hadn’t mentioned anything to you?’ Liz asked, angling herself to face me from the other end of the sofa.

  ‘He planned to mention it on his next vis
it,’ I said lightly with a wave of my hand, hoping to move the conversation swiftly in another direction. I felt I could say anything during one of our meet-ups, knowing it wouldn’t be met with shocked gasps or awkward silences. It was a relief to be somewhere you could lay all your cards on the table and not have to pretend to be anything other than fallible. Having said that, there were still some cards I preferred to keep close to my chest.

  Some chance of that with three perceptive women around.

  ‘You know, I always got the feeling that you two might get together one day,’ Liz said, giving me a significant look.

  ‘Me and Des?!’ I shrieked with exaggerated shock. ‘Goodness, no. I don’t know why you’d think that.’ I held my tea out at an angle and swept imaginary crumbs from my lap with the other hand. When I looked up, everyone still had their eyes on me. ‘What?’

  ‘Erm, let’s see now, why would we think that?’ Liz scratched her chin theatrically. ‘Because he’s funny and kind. Because your kids love him. And because you’re lonely …’

  ‘Really, I’m not,’ I insisted, aware of the heat rising in my face. Liz was a straight-talker, one of the reasons she was so well suited to fostering teenagers, but sometimes her blunt approach left me a little breathless. ‘I don’t know why you keep saying that.’

  ‘They don’t believe anyone can manage without a man in their life,’ Rachel joked, though I sensed a sour undertone. Rachel’s husband ran off with a hairdresser during an extended trip to the US and she could always be relied upon for a bitter remark if our conversation strayed towards men. Like me, she was fostering as a single carer, although she had recently started a low-key relationship with a physiotherapist. I sometimes wondered whether he was ever subjected to some of the scathing comments she made when she was with us.

  ‘He’s got a soft spot for you,’ Jenny added a little more gently than Liz, a teasing smile on her face. ‘We can see it a mile off, even if you can’t.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ I said, dismissing them with a strained laugh.

  ‘It certainly won’t be the same without him around,’ Rachel said, kindly taking the heat away from me. ‘He’s one of those rare guys that actually listens to women. I really like him.’

  High praise indeed, I thought.

  ‘Yes, I wonder what the Americans will make of him, though,’ Liz said. We all chortled.

  ‘Oh, they’re very welcoming,’ Rachel said acidly, and our smiles withered a fraction.

  Of all of them, Rachel was the foster carer I was most in tune with. Jenny and Rachel both had a different supervising social worker, but Des, being a live wire, was one of those staff members that everyone got to know well. We all agreed that he would be missed.

  ‘She seems lovely,’ Rachel said, tilting her head towards the patio doors. In the garden Zadie was on her knees rolling a ball across the neatly trimmed grass. The boys sat opposite and she had them taking turns to bowl it back to her, Bobby the puppy bounding excitedly between the three of them. The teenager was beaming at them, no trace of the frozen smile she reserved for everyone else.

  ‘Oh she is, absolutely,’ I said, grateful that the conversation had been steered away from me. ‘And she’s so helpful. It’s like having a live-in au pair and virtual assistant rolled into one. I only have to mention something that needs organising and she produces a colour-coded spreadsheet for me. She’s intelligent, polite and so quiet. In fact if it wasn’t for all the cleaning and tidying up she does I’d hardly know she was there.’

  ‘But?’ Jenny asked, her head cocked.

  ‘There’s something not quite right,’ I said in a hushed tone. ‘She’s hinted at some problems at home but …’

  ‘No, don’t do that, Kingsley!’ Liz yelled, already on her feet and charging towards the garden. All of us were used to disjointed conversations, one or the other of us regularly leaping up to head off a tantrum or avert some other drama.

  Jenny and I followed closely behind. ‘What happened?’ I asked Zadie. She was sitting with Billy cradled gently on her lap, a mortified expression on her face.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, almost in tears.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault, honey. I saw what happened. Kingsley whacked him on the head with this,’ Liz said, brandishing a metal toy car in the air. ‘What do you say to Billy?’ she demanded, kneeling in front of Kingsley. The toddler wore a thoughtful expression, then blew a raspberry in Liz’s face.

  Leaving Liz to talk to a now prostrate and screaming Kingsley, we came back into the house. Billy was in Jenny’s arms and Rachel and I watched as she sang softly to him. Billy gave her a watery, loving smile and she gently ruffled his hair. Watching my friends showing such tender care to other women’s children has always restored my faith in human nature and a lump rose in my throat. Rachel tilted her head and pouted, her expression saying ah-bless-them.

  On the way home we made a detour via the post office to collect some parcels for my mother. Several large companies had donated their off-cuts to the WEPH’s quilt-making project and Mum had asked if I would mind picking them up and taking them to the church hall. At the collection depot there was a pile of boxes labelled ‘Project Congo’. Zadie’s eyes brightened with interest, her sallow skin temporarily aglow.

  As I lowered the back seats of my car to make more room in the boot, Zadie chattered animatedly about how the members of the group would feel when they found out exactly how much material they had to choose from and whether they would be surprised to see it all. As soon as we pulled up outside the hall she jumped out, keen to see Mum’s reaction.

  Mum greeted us at the door, clapping her hands in delight when she saw the boot so heavily laden. Zadie, bless her, insisted on helping me to carry the boxes in and when Mum brought out some sample quilts that had already been made she and Zadie were chatting away like old friends. It was lovely to see.

  And then a strange thing happened. Just as we were carrying the last box into the hall there was a bright flash behind us. Spinning around, I caught a glimpse of the tail end of a dark-blue car before it disappeared from view behind a hedge. At first I wondered whether the car had been travelling too fast and triggered a speed camera, but then, with an uncomfortable jolt in my chest, I began to suspect that someone had taken a photo of us.

  That evening Zadie sat with the rest of the family and played board games. I was delighted that we seemed to have forged a new understanding but my worries stayed with me and I was particularly bothered by the thought that our photo may have been taken. I had heard stories of birth families putting pictures of their children’s foster carers on Facebook in the hope that their whereabouts could be located. It was an unnerving thought. I kept telling myself to forget it but my mind seemed unwilling to tidy it away. The flash might have been headlamps from the car but, equally, it could have been a member of Zadie’s family wanting to let us know that they were watching.

  If Zadie had reason to be afraid of them, I reasoned, perhaps we did too.

  Chapter 11

  It was early in June when Peggy called with details of Zadie’s first LAC (looked-after child) review. When a child is taken into care, the local authority is legally required to hold a meeting, inviting everyone involved in looking after their welfare, including their parents. The purpose of the LAC review is to ensure the child’s needs are being met and that there is a suitable care plan in place. The child’s education, health, conduct and any contact arrangements are usually discussed, as well as any problems they may be experiencing.

  The first review often takes place within the first week of placement but it can sometimes be tricky to arrange a time that fits in with all the professionals involved as well as finding a suitable venue. With a shortage of meeting rooms at the civic centre, the local authority sometimes resorts to hiring private rooms, and on this occasion Peggy had arranged for us to meet in a disused classroom in a local private girls’ school.

  Zadie, though she was far more comfortable in our company, still seem
ed reluctant to leave the house, and on the morning of the review she was visibly shaken. She knew that her father had been invited to the meeting, and though she had nodded politely when I told her and made no comment other than ‘Thank you, Rosie,’ I got the feeling she was terrified of facing him.

  The day of the review was bright and clear and so we sat outside to have our breakfast; well, Jamie, Emily and I ate, while Zadie pummelled her wrist with the bands. I sat in my favourite wicker chair gazing at some overgrown bushes near the stone wall at the bottom of our garden, the ragged, untended leaves glistening from earlier rainfall. A light breeze played with the apple blossom that had fallen from our tree, sweeping the delicate petals up then casting them adrift over the garden. Some fluttered across the table like tiny butterflies.

  I reached out to touch one as it floated past. ‘We need to have a chat later about what we’re doing in the summer,’ I said to no one in particular, trying to ignore the regular ping as another band hit her skin, ‘or everywhere will be booked.’ If Zadie was still with us by the time Emily and Jamie broke up from school it would be nice for her to get away and have a break from staring at the same four walls.

  Zadie, distracted, gave a half-hearted smile.

  ‘We can’t go the first week of the summer holidays,’ Jamie said as he shovelled the last of his cornflakes into his mouth.

  ‘Slow down, Jamie. It’s not a race,’ I said, grimacing, only half-aware that Emily had stilled, her hand hovering in the air so that the piece of toast she was about to bite hung an inch from her mouth. ‘Actually, if I can find a finishing school for boys I’ll book you in there for the summer. The rest of us will go on holiday.’

  Jamie chewed quickly, then wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his blazer. ‘Fine by me,’ he said, throwing me a disarming smile.

  Zadie hid her amusement under lowered eyelids. Emily’s brows were drawn in a frown.