by Rosie Lewis
Zadie frowned as if she didn’t, but nodded anyway out of politeness.
‘I couldn’t put Zadie at risk by trying to contact her,’ Nadeen explained, turning to me. ‘Unless you’ve ever lived under the sort of complex code of honour we …’ she trailed off, the muscles around her jaw tensing with the memory. She lifted her chest and took another breath, trying to find the words to explain herself. ‘Soon after I ran away I rang home to try and talk to Zadie but Chit wouldn’t let me. He told me that our uncles had held a meeting. If I tried to take Zadie away with me there would be consequences for both of us.’ She turned back to Zadie, her eyes brimming with tears again. ‘If I’d known what was happening to you,’ she whispered, her eyes falling to Zadie’s rounded belly, ‘I would have …’ She stopped, her voice trailing into a sob.
‘Don’t,’ Zadie said, wiping away a tear of her own. ‘It’s all right.’
‘No, it’s not,’ Nadeen spat out. ‘It’s not all right, Zadie.’ She turned to me again. ‘She’s always been the peacemaker,’ she said with a teary, rueful smile. ‘Ever since Mama …’ She paused, her eyes flicking to Zadie again. She licked her lips and continued, ‘… left.’
‘Do you know what happened to her?’ I asked gently.
Again her eyes strayed to Zadie and she shook her head. ‘Soon after she left Papa brought us to England. I was seven and you had just turned four, do you remember, Zadie?’ She touched her chin, another tender, motherly gesture.
Zadie tilted her head to one side, considering, then shook it.
‘No, I think you blanked a lot of it out. It was all so bewildering, coming to England, and without our mama. We all missed her so much.’
About half an hour later, when Zadie went to the bathroom, I got the chance to talk to Nadeen alone. I was about to ask her where she had been living when she turned to me and opened her mouth to say something. Stopping herself, she glanced towards the door, then shuffled along the sofa, only speaking when she was close enough to talk under her breath. ‘It wasn’t exactly true, what I said about our mother,’ she said, twisting her mouth into a grimace. ‘There was some sort of trouble back in Egypt. Mama displeased the family in some way and …’ she hesitated, took a breath ‘… the community attacked her. Zadie was there when it happened. By the time we got home she was alone, traumatised, and Mama was gone. We left for England soon afterwards.’
‘Oh, Nadeen,’ I said, my hand migrating to my mouth. It sounded to me like their mother hadn’t turned her back on her family at all. I had a feeling that the truth was a lot more shocking than that.
‘I’m afraid they killed her,’ she said sadly, echoing my own thoughts. ‘Papa said that she abandoned us but Zadie is the only one who believes him.’
My heart ached with pity for their mother and for them. When Emily and Jamie were small I became acutely aware of my own health, worried that they might be left alone without the love of their mother. If that had happened I would have wanted someone to do all they could to take care of them and I determined to do just that for Zadie, and her sister, if she wanted me to. ‘Have you ever thought about reporting it?’
Nadeen shook her head. ‘We were too young when we left Egypt. I’ve spoken to a legal advisor at the women’s centre but she said that the police here have no jurisdiction to investigate anywhere else but the UK. I’m not sure we’d ever be able to find out what happened to her. One thing I do know, though – she would never have left us by choice. I was only young but I know that much. The boys never talk of it but I think they know the truth. Chit was never the same after she left: he’s always been so angry.’
For the first time, I felt a glimmer of sympathy for Zadie’s brother, although I quickly brushed it aside. I looked at Nadeen. ‘Is that why you ran away? Because of your brother?’
She tucked her chin in. ‘No, I never would have left Zadie there alone, not unless I had to. Papa had arranged to send me back to Egypt to be married. It was all arranged. The man was wealthy, well connected and 36 years old. So you see, I had to leave. I had no choice.’
I listened mutely, my only response a half-shake of the head. My thoughts drifted, quickly interrupted by the sound of a door opening upstairs, then light footsteps on the stairs, followed by heavier ones. I recovered my wherewithal. ‘You were very brave,’ I said under my breath.
She smiled, grateful, but quickly grew serious when Zadie came back in the room, closely followed by Emily.
‘This is my daughter, Emily,’ I said. Emily smiled and perched on the arm of my chair. Zadie returned to her place next to her sister. Almost as soon as she had sat down Nadeen turned to her. She reached out for Zadie’s robe, pinching some material from the sleeve and stretching it outwards before letting it drop. ‘Why are you still wearing this?’ she asked with an undertone of annoyance. ‘There’s no need for you to dress like that any more, Zadie. You’re letting men trample all over your rights, just like Mama did.’
‘It’s to keep the patriarchy alive,’ Emily piped up beside me. I threw her a meaningful hard stare but she either didn’t notice or chose to ignore it. ‘We’re analysing A Doll’s House in school and Mrs Roberts says that men love to objectify women because it gives them a feeling of power. Telling a woman how to dress is a man’s way of removing her identity. Your robe is a symbol of oppression, Zadie.’
I glared at Emily in silent rebuke but she held my gaze, unrepentant. Whenever she sensed an injustice she would go off on a rant and there would be no stopping her until she either burnt out or ran out of words. Zadie’s sister could say whatever she liked but I knew we could get into no end of trouble for putting forward our own opinions. Foster carers are supposed to remain neutral.
‘She’s right, Zadie,’ Nadeen said, picking up the thread and continuing. ‘Men buckle in the presence of attractive women, everyone knows that. If women cover themselves up, men feel less threatened because they’re always in control. I’m not saying you should start wearing mini-skirts, Zadie. The Koran tells us that we should dress and behave modestly, but that doesn’t mean we have to cloak ourselves from top to toe in black.’
Zadie’s brow furrowed as she looked between Emily and her sister. Even though her pregnancy was no longer a secret, Zadie chose to keep wearing her robes. I suspected that it was more a case of hiding behind them than a conscious choice, but, even so, I didn’t want her to feel pressured into turning her back on them. After a moment her eyes fell on mine and she asked, ‘What do you think, Rosie?’
‘Don’t get me involved,’ I said with an evasive laugh. ‘It doesn’t matter what I think.’
‘Oh, but I really want to know.’
I thought of all the magazines in the newsagents that made me cringe when I had little ones in placement, particularly those that had come from an abusive background and then the over-sexualised adverts on television that were so difficult to avoid. I pursed my lips. ‘I don’t think you’re being oppressed by your robe unless you’re being forced to wear it,’ I said, trying to take a mild line. ‘And I think western culture is as guilty of objectifying women as anyone else. Having said that, it takes courage to question what your parents taught you, Zadie. I think it’s important to follow your own heart. If you’re wearing a burqa because you truly want to,’ I waved my hand between Nadeen and Emily, ‘then you mustn’t listen to these two.’
Chapter 18
Peggy called just after lunch the next day. ‘The brother has been arrested,’ she said, launching straight into conversation. ‘He’s being interviewed at the moment.’
‘Oh, goodness,’ I said, feeling a little breathless. I hadn’t expected things to move so quickly. ‘Does her father know why?’ I asked, trying to imagine how guilty he must feel, knowing that he had turned his back on his daughter when she was harbouring such an awful secret and all the while protecting the people around her from the knowledge.
‘Oh, yes, he knows all right,’ she said with a click of her tongue. ‘But I’m afraid I can’t tell you wha
t you’re hoping to hear, Rosie.’
I frowned. Surely her father would be horrified by the news, I thought, expecting him to plead for Zadie’s forgiveness and beg her to return home.
‘Don’t get me wrong, I get the feeling that he’s genuinely shocked. I don’t think he had any idea what was going on. But he feels that Zadie is tainted by sin for allowing it to happen.’
I gave a little disbelieving laugh, pressing a hand against my cheek. ‘She was 13 years old, Peggy,’ I said, astonished.
‘I know, Rosie. I know. You’re preaching to the converted, remember? But he sees her as culpable and blames western culture for influencing her.’
To think that her brother had taken the life of his young sister and changed it irrevocably and yet it was still Zadie who was thought of as indecent beggared belief. How, in the twenty-first century, was it still possible for a woman, no, not even a woman, a child, to be blamed for rape? I was so incensed that I hardly listened to the rest of the conversation and when Peggy rang off I replaced the receiver with a flourish. My mind flashed back to a history lesson at school and the women condemned to burning in the thirteenth century by the Inquisition, their sin – having sexual intercourse with Satan. To my mind, tarnishing Zadie because of her brother’s abuse was as skewed as burning ‘witches’. It was hypocrisy beyond the pale.
I felt a sudden, overwhelming gratitude to Sofia for her tireless efforts to locate Nadeen. Since visiting, the teenager had emailed Zadie at least once, sometimes two or three times a day, her messages supportive and uplifting. Still strong in her faith, Nadeen encouraged Zadie to make the best of the hand she had been dealt. I got the feeling she was devastated about the pregnancy but also pragmatic. Her positivity would be invaluable to Zadie, I was certain.
My rage over the injustice shown by the rest of Zadie’s family was still simmering as I loaded some bed linen into the washing machine that evening. I felt so frazzled that when the doorbell went I started, spilling a few flakes of washing power over the floor. Emily answered the door and before I even realised that it was Des he had picked Megan up from her carry-cot. Seconds later she was in his arms, her head tucked into his neck, a crocheted blanket tucked around her back. ‘She’s a wee cutie,’ he said, bobbing from one foot to the other.
‘Lovely, isn’t she,’ I said from the kitchen as I turned the dial on the washing machine. Ever so gently, Des transferred Megan to the crook of his arm, faintly humming an uncatchable tune. Probably one of his rock songs, I thought, twisting round to get a better view of the pair. There was something appealing about the sight: Des bobbing his head and smiling, Megan reaching out a tiny hand to touch his bristly chin.
‘Look, Mum,’ Emily called out. ‘Des has been humanised.’
Des stopped humming and laughed. ‘Watch it, wee lass.’
Just after 7 p.m., when Megan had finally managed to take a couple of ounces of milk, I prised her away from Des and tucked her up for a sleep. It was a lovely evening so I abandoned the washing up and, barefoot, we wandered into the garden to talk, closing the patio doors so that we couldn’t be overheard. Warm air infused with a hint of honeysuckle drifted towards us as we sat at the patio table, but the beauty of the day and the vivid colours felt wrong somehow. After my earlier discovery I felt that it should have been stormy, the flowers jagged and strewn across a windswept lawn.
‘It’s just not fair, Des,’ I said, as Emily had so succinctly put it when I told her the news. The words felt childish on my lips but fitting all the same. It simply wasn’t fair. ‘She’s so lovely,’ I said, my hand picking at the wickerwork on the seat of my chair. ‘She doesn’t deserve this.’ My voice cracked and I cleared my throat. I had spent all day trying to keep my emotions in check and I wasn’t sure I could hold out until later, when I would be alone. I tucked my hands at the nape of my neck and scrunched my neck back against clasped fingers, telling myself that I really didn’t have a right to be so self-indulgent when Zadie was being so brave.
Des scratched his stubble, studying me intently.
‘I just don’t know how to help her,’ I said. ‘What is she supposed to do for the best?’
He gave a little shrug, then leaned across the table and touched my hand. ‘It’s difficult to know what the best thing would be. For now I think we just have to get her through the next few months. Put the big decisions on hold for a wee while.’
I sucked in an impatient breath. ‘I just wish I’d noticed sooner. It might have simplified things.’
Des pouted, considering. He tilted his head. ‘You mean a termination? Making a decision like that wouldnae be simple, Rosie. And I’m almost certain it would go against her faith.’
I rubbed my left hand over my nose so firmly that my eyes smarted. I swiped a few tears away. ‘I know. I know you’re right. I just feel sick to my stomach that I allowed Chit near her at contact. He was leaning over her, being intimidating, and I sat on a bench reading a book.’ I leaned my elbows on the table and grabbed at my hair, pulling it roughly back from my forehead. ‘Why wasn’t I stronger? Why didn’t I stand up to him?’
‘Supervising contact isnae easy, Rosie,’ Des said softly, shunting his chair around the table until it was next to mine. ‘Spotting the moment to intervene is something even social workers struggle with, and you havenae even had any training on it. Don’t be so hard on yourself.’
‘I just feel so angry.’
Des let out a little snort and shook his head. ‘Sounds like a perfectly normal reaction to me.’
‘Then how come you’re so composed?’ I asked with a touch of fierceness, wanting him to mirror my own rage. It was almost as if his stillness was acceptance, and acceptance was offensive.
He let out a humourless laugh. ‘Social workers visit families in the aftermath of abuse, we type up reports containing the most sickening information and we read them out in the witness box, but seeing the effect it has on a child’s life from the perspective of a foster carer, that’s tough, Rosie. It’s normal to feel the way you do.’ Des paused for a moment. ‘If it makes you feel any better, I feel exactly the same.’ He made a fist and landed it in the palm of his other hand. Slap. ‘I’ve just learnt over the years to contain it. If you don’t,’ he said softly, ‘it might just break your heart.’
My head banged with the effort of holding myself together and I pressed my index fingers into my temples, releasing the pressure. Abruptly, Des stood, took me by the hand and pulled me into a bear hug. At first I was so surprised that I laughed out loud but the steady heat from his hands on the small of my back and the soft breeze brushing the back of my neck were so soothing that I closed my eyes and laid my head on his shoulder. Almost a foot taller than me, he stood at the perfect height, just right for me to relax into him. With the grass soft and warm beneath my feet and my ear pressed against his chest, so that all I could hear was the low thump of his heart, all the problems of the day were momentarily absorbed. I was filled with a warm rush of gratitude.
Chapter 19
By August, once Zadie really started to show, we barely made it 50 metres to the shops before someone had their hands on her belly or their head in Megan’s pram. It’s funny how the promise of new life seems to draw people in, inspiring genuine warmth even in complete strangers. I think many people long to reach out to their neighbours but fear of rejection keeps them locked up in their own solitary world. Perhaps the presence of little ones provides an immediate talking point, an opening. Whatever the reason, pregnancy certainly seemed to bring out the best in people.
There were occasional unpleasant vibes from passers-by, lips pursed in disapproving pouts, low whispers or prolonged stares. Zadie would freeze under all the attention and once or twice I felt like taking them aside and telling them the full story, asking them how disapproving they were then, but I would never have embarrassed Zadie in that way. I just wished that people would realise that things weren’t always as they seemed.
The shock of acknowledging that she really
was pregnant seemed to fade with each passing day, releasing Zadie from a tight grip of anxiety. Though she would obviously never have chosen to be in the position she found herself in, she was learning to cope with it so well, bearing the discomfort of pregnancy with a stolidity I could barely believe. Our relationship was definitely closer after all she had been through since coming to stay with us. As a consequence she was learning to confide in me instead of bottling everything up. It should have felt weird, discussing heartburn, sciatica and sore ribs with a 14-year-old girl, but it was easy to forget that Zadie, with her tummy ballooning and ankles swelling, was still a young girl and not a grown woman.
Towards the end of the month when Megan had just turned six weeks old, she blessed us with her first, fleeting smile. Dressed only in a pink cotton vest and nappy, she was laying on a rug in the conservatory, her arms batting the air as if trying to catch the light breeze drifting in from the open door. Kneeling at her side, I leaned over and she reached out a dimpled hand, extending her tiny fingers as she tried to touch my hair. I shook my head gently from side to side so that my curls swayed above her and her eyes widened in wonder. ‘Swish-swish,’ I said softly, smiling as she finally managed to clamp her fist around a lock of hair. ‘Ow! That actually hurts,’ I squealed, easing a forefinger into her palm to release her grip. ‘You rascal,’ I said, smiling and tickling her tummy.
And then it happened, and it was sheer luck that we all had our eyes on her at the time. Emily and Jamie cheered so loudly that Megan startled, her bottom lip jutting out with the threat of tears. Zadie was on her knees in an instant. ‘There, it’s all right,’ she cooed, taking Megan’s tiny hand in her own. I turned to Emily and she met my meaningful glance with a raised eyebrow. I began to hope then that Megan’s arrival was going to be a blessing in disguise.