Книга - The Child Bride

The Child Bride
Cathy Glass


Cathy Glass, international bestselling author, tells the shocking story of Zeena, a young Asian girl desperate to escape from her family.When 14 -year-old Zeena begs to be taken into care with a non-Asian family, she is clearly petrified. But of what?Placed in the home of experienced foster carer Cathy and her family, Zeena gradually settles into her new life, but misses her little brothers and sisters terribly. Prevented from having any contact with them by her family who insist she has brought shame and dishonour on the whole community, Zeena tries to see them at school. But when her father and uncle find out, they bundle her into a car and threaten to set fire to her if she makes anymore trouble. Zeena is too frightened to press charges against them despite being offered police protection in a safe house.Eventually, Cathy discovers the devastating truth from Zeena, and with devastation she believes there is little she can do to help her.










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Copyright (#u59db0d86-5327-55b2-a880-7d5f28b5b6ba)


Certain details in this story, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the children.

HarperElement

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published by HarperElement 2014

FIRST EDITION

© Cathy Glass 2014

A catalogue record of this book

is available from the British Library

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014

Cover photography by Nicky Rojas (posed by model)

Cathy Glass asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780007590001

Ebook Edition © September 2014 ISBN: 9780007590018

Version: 2016-04-22




Contents


Cover (#u4af22811-27e4-530b-935f-4b667541a831)

Title Page (#u1a61c02d-2abc-50db-a07c-0b6c0efbb46e)

Copyright (#u1aa00aa6-c61e-51e2-a8ff-c1db5891e901)

Also by Cathy Glass (#ulink_d3e9bff2-4b5e-57cc-80a6-0da5411c739f)

Acknowledgements (#ulink_f2c58a6f-d035-539f-8234-5a433ed5a312)

Prologue (#ulink_5d3951a2-f906-533a-a6d3-9202b7be7994)

Chapter One: Petrified (#ulink_9b4647f9-d1fc-5135-9001-689205811ddb)

Chapter Two: Different House (#ulink_ce8cc55e-be63-53b4-b466-bcf8b940fc76)

Chapter Three: Good Influence (#ulink_a690ce59-5c7f-54cc-a8d9-2d1ca47f9701)

Chapter Four: Sobbing (#ulink_e1e832e4-a1af-5941-8343-5508e726e0b9)

Chapter Five: Scared into Silence (#ulink_3aba872c-fab4-5156-a718-4abff5cbd668)

Chapter Six: Dreadful Feeling (#ulink_d6248a15-6e77-5ed5-97ae-07b1fa5ef8ee)

Chapter Seven: Desperate (#ulink_df7275ca-31c9-5209-b726-b96d19ce8930)

Chapter Eight: Lost Innocence (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine: Ordeal (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten: Optimistic (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven: Worries and Worrying (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve: Only Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen: Consequences (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen: Review (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen: Vicious Threats (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen: Zeena’s Story (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen: A Special Holiday (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen: Overwhelmed (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen: Atrocity (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty: I Miss Hugs (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One: Police Business (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Suitcase (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three: Other Victims (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Silence Was Deafening (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five: Heartbreaking (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Six: Turn of Events (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Seven: More than I Deserve (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue: Deserves the Best (#litres_trial_promo)

Contacts (#litres_trial_promo)

Exclusive sample chapter (#litres_trial_promo)

Cathy Glass (#litres_trial_promo)

If you loved this book … (#litres_trial_promo)

Moving Memoirs eNewsletter (#litres_trial_promo)

A note from The Fostering Network (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Also by Cathy Glass (#u59db0d86-5327-55b2-a880-7d5f28b5b6ba)


Damaged

Hidden

Cut

The Saddest Girl in the World

Happy Kids

The Girl in the Mirror

I Miss Mummy

Mummy Told Me Not to Tell

My Dad’s a Policeman (a Quick Reads novel)

Run, Mummy, Run

The Night the Angels Came

Happy Adults

A Baby’s Cry

Happy Mealtimes for Kids

Another Forgotten Child

Please Don’t Take My Baby

Will You Love Me?

About Writing and How to Publish

Daddy’s Little Princess




Acknowledgements (#u59db0d86-5327-55b2-a880-7d5f28b5b6ba)


A big thank-you to my editor, Holly; my literary agent, Andrew; Carole, Vicky, Laura, Hannah, Virginia and all the team at HarperCollins.




Prologue (#u59db0d86-5327-55b2-a880-7d5f28b5b6ba)


A small child walks along a dusty path. She has been on an errand for her aunt and is now returning to her village in rural Bangladesh. The sun is burning high in the sky and she is hot and thirsty. Only another 300 steps, she tells herself, and she will be home.

The dry air shimmers in the scorching heat and she keeps her eyes down, away from its glare. Suddenly she hears her name being called close by and looks over. One of her teenage cousins is playing hide and seek behind the bushes.

‘Go away. I’m hot and tired,’ she returns, with childish irritability. ‘I don’t want to play with you now.’

‘I have water,’ he says. ‘Wouldn’t you like a drink?’

She has no hesitation in going over. She is very thirsty. Behind the bush, but still visible from the path if anyone looked, he forces her to the ground and rapes her.

She is nine years old.




Chapter One

Petrified (#u59db0d86-5327-55b2-a880-7d5f28b5b6ba)


‘And she wouldn’t feel more comfortable with an Asian foster carer?’ I queried.

‘No, Zeena has specifically asked for a white carer,’ Tara, the social worker, continued. ‘I know it’s unusual, but she is adamant. She’s also asked for a white social worker.’

‘Why?’

‘She says she’ll feel safer, but won’t say why. I want to accommodate her wishes if I can.’

‘Yes, of course,’ I said, puzzled. ‘How old is she?’

‘Fourteen. Although she looks much younger. She’s a sweet child, but very traumatized. She’s admitted she’s been abused, but is too frightened to give any details.’

‘The poor kid,’ I said.

‘I know. The child protection police office will see her as soon as we’ve moved her. She’s obviously suffered, but for how long and who abused her, she’s not saying. I’ve no background information. Sorry. All we know is that Zeena has younger siblings and her family is originally from Bangladesh, but that’s it I’m afraid. I’ll visit the family as soon as I’ve got Zeena settled. I want to collect her from school this afternoon and bring her straight to you. The school is working with us. In fact, they were the ones who raised the alarm and contacted the social services. I should be with you in about two hours.’

‘Yes, that’s fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll be here.’

‘I’ll phone you when we’re on our way,’ Tara clarified. ‘I hope Zeena will come with me this time. She asked to go into care on Monday but then changed her mind. Her teacher said she was petrified.’

‘Of what?’

‘Or of whom? Zeena wouldn’t say. Anyway, thanks for agreeing to take her,’ Tara said, clearly anxious to be on her way and to get things moving. ‘I’ll phone as soon as I’ve collected her from school.’

We said a quick goodbye and I replaced the handset. It was only then I realized I’d forgotten to ask if Zeena had any special dietary requirements or other special considerations, but my guess was that as Tara had so little information on Zeena, she wouldn’t have known. I’d find out more when they arrived. With an emergency placement – as this one was – the background information on the child or children is often scarce to begin with, and I have little notice of the child’s arrival; sometimes just a phone call in the middle of the night from the duty social worker to say the police are on their way with a child. If a move into care is planned, I usually have more time and information.

I’d been fostering for twenty years and had recently left Homefinders, the independent fostering agency (IFA) I’d been working with, because they’d closed their local branch and Jill, my trusted support social worker, had taken early retirement. I was now fostering for the local authority (LA). While it made no difference to the child which agency I fostered for, I was having to get used to slightly different procedures, and doing without the excellent support of Jill. I did have a supervising social worker (as the LA called them), but I didn’t see her very often, and I knew that, unlike Jill, she wouldn’t be with me when a new child arrived. It wasn’t the LA’s practice.

It was now twelve noon, so if all went to plan Tara and Zeena would be with me at about two o’clock. The secondary school Zeena attended was on the other side of town, about half an hour’s drive away. I went upstairs to check on what would be Zeena’s bedroom for however long she was with me. I always kept the room clean and tidy and with the bed made up, as I never knew when a child would arrive. The room was never empty for long, and Aimee, whose story I told in Another Forgotten Child, had left us two weeks previously. The duvet cover, pillow case and cushions were neutral beige, which would be fine for a fourteen-year-old girl. To help her settle and feel more at home I would encourage her to personalize her room by adding posters to the walls and filling the shelves with her favourite books, DVDs and other knick-knacks that litter teenagers’ bedrooms.

Satisfied that the room was ready for Zeena, I returned downstairs. I was nervous. Even after many years of fostering, awaiting the arrival of a new child or children is an anxious time. Will they be able to relate to me and my family? Will they like us? Will I be able to meet their needs, and how upset or angry will they be? Once the child or children arrive I’m so busy there isn’t time to worry. Sometimes teenagers can be more challenging than younger children, but not always.

At 1.30 the landline rang. It was Tara now calling from her mobile.

‘Zeena is in the car with me,’ she said quickly. ‘We’re outside her school but she wants to stop off at home first to collect some of her clothes. We should be with you by three o’clock.’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘How is she?’

There was a pause. ‘I’ll tell you when I see you,’ Tara said pointedly.

I replaced the receiver and my unease grew. From Tara’s response I guessed something was wrong. Perhaps Zeena was very upset. Otherwise Tara would have been able to reassure me that Zeena was all right instead of saying, ‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’

My three children were young adults now. Adrian, twenty-two, had returned from university and was working temporarily in a supermarket until he decided what he wanted to do – he was thinking of accountancy. Lucy, my adopted daughter, was nineteen, and was working in a local nursery school. Paula, just eighteen, was in the sixth form at school and had recently taken her A-level examinations. She was hoping to attend university in September. I was divorced; my husband, John, had run off with a younger woman many years previously, and while it had been very hurtful for us all at the time, it was history now. The children (as I still referred to them) wouldn’t be home until later, and I busied myself in the kitchen.

At 2.15 the telephone rang again. ‘We’re leaving Zeena’s home now,’ Tara said tightly. ‘Her mother had her suitcase packed ready. We’ll be with you in about half an hour.’

I thanked her for letting me know and replaced the receiver. I sensed there was trouble in what Tara had left unsaid, and I was surprised Zeena’s mother had packed her daughter’s case so quickly. She couldn’t have known for long that her daughter was going into care – Tara hadn’t known herself for definite until half an hour ago – yet she had spent that time packing. Usually parents are so angry when their child first goes into care (unless they’ve requested help) that they have to be persuaded to part with some of their child’s clothes and personal possessions to help them settle in at their carer’s. I’d have been less surprised if Tara had said there’d been a big scene at Zeena’s home and she wouldn’t be coming into care after all, for teenagers are seldom forced into care against their wishes, even if it is for their own good.

Now assured that Zeena was definitely on her way, I texted Adrian, Paula and Lucy: Zeena, 14, arriving soon. C u later. Love Mum xx.

I was looking out of the front-room window when, about half an hour later, a car drew up. I could see the outlines of two women sitting in the front, and then, as the doors opened and they got out, I went into the hall and to the front door to welcome them. The social worker was carrying a battered suitcase.

‘Hi, I’m Cathy,’ I said, smiling.

‘I’m Tara, Zeena’s social worker,’ she said. ‘Pleased to meet you. This is Zeena.’

I smiled at Zeena. ‘Come on in, love,’ I said cheerily.

Had I not known she was fourteen I’d have said she was much younger – nearer eleven or twelve. She was petite, with delicate features, olive skin and huge dark eyes. But what immediately struck me was how scared she looked. She held her body tense and kept glancing anxiously towards the road outside until I closed the front door. Then she put her hand on the door to test it was shut.

Tara saw this and asked me, ‘You do keep the door locked? It can’t be opened from the outside?’

‘Not without a key,’ I said.

‘Good. And there’s a security spy-hole,’ Tara said, pointing it out to Zeena. ‘So you or Cathy can check before you open the door.’

Zeena gave a small polite nod but didn’t look reassured. Clearly security was going to be an issue, and I felt slightly unsettled. Zeena slipped off her shoes and then lowered her headscarf, which had been draped loosely over her head. She had lovely long, black, shiny hair, similar to my daughter Lucy’s. It was tied back in a ponytail, which made her look even younger. She was wearing her school uniform, with leggings under her pleated skirt.

‘Leave the case in the hall for now,’ I said to Tara. ‘I’ll take it up to Zeena’s room later. Let’s go and sit down.’

Tara set the case by the coat stand and I led the way into the living room, which was at the rear of the house and looked out over the garden. When I fostered young children I always had toys ready to help take their minds off being separated from their parents, and on fine days the patio doors would be open. But not today – the air was chilly, although we were now in the month of May.

Tara sat on the sofa and Zeena sat next to her.

‘Would you like a drink?’ I asked them both.

‘Could I have a glass of water, please?’ Tara said. Then, turning to Zeena, she added, ‘Would you like one too?’

‘Yes, please,’ Zeena said quietly.

‘Or I have juice?’ I suggested.

‘Water is fine, thank you,’ Zeena said very politely.

I went into the kitchen, poured two glasses of water and, returning, placed them on the coffee table within their reach. I sat in one of the easy chairs. Tara drank some of her water, but Zeena left hers untouched. I could see how tense and anxious she was. It was as though she was on continual alert, ready to flee at a moment’s notice. I’d seen this before in children I’d fostered who’d been badly abused. They were always on their guard, listening out for any unusual sound and continually scanning their surroundings for signs of danger.

‘Thank you for looking after Zeena,’ Tara began, setting her glass on the coffee table. ‘This has all been such a rush I haven’t had a chance to look at your details properly and tell Zeena. You’ve got three adult children, I believe?’

‘Yes, one boy and two girls,’ I said, smiling at Zeena and trying to put her at ease. ‘You’ll meet them later.’

‘And you don’t have any other males in the house, apart from your son?’ Tara asked.

‘No. I’m divorced.’

She glanced at Zeena, who seemed to draw some comfort from this and gave a small nod. Tara had a nice manner about her, gentle and considerate. I guessed she was in her mid-thirties; she had short, wavy brown hair and was dressed in a long jumper over jeans.

‘Zeena is very anxious about her safety,’ Tara said to me. ‘She has a mobile phone, and I’ve put my telephone number in it, also the social services’ emergency out-of-hours number, and the police. It’s a pay-as-you-go phone. She has credit on it now. Can you make sure she keeps the phone in credit, please? It’s important for her safety.’

‘Yes, of course,’ I said, and felt my anxiety heighten.

‘Zeena knows she can phone the police at any time if she’s worried about her safety,’ Tara said. ‘Her family won’t be given this address. No one knows where she is staying, and the school know they mustn’t give out this address. We weren’t followed here, but please be cautious and check before answering the door.’

‘I always check at night,’ I said, uneasily. ‘But what am I checking for?’

Tara looked at Zeena.

‘My family,’ Zeena said very quietly, her hands trembling in her lap.

‘Please try not to worry,’ I said, feeling I should reassure her. ‘You’ll be safe here with me.’

Zeena’s eyes rounded in fear as she finally met my gaze, and I could see she dearly wished she could believe me. ‘I hope so,’ she said almost under her breath. ‘Because if they find me, they’ll kill me.’




Chapter Two

Different House (#u59db0d86-5327-55b2-a880-7d5f28b5b6ba)


I looked at Tara. My mouth had gone dry and my heart was drumming loudly. I could see that Zeena’s comment had shaken Tara as much as it had me. Zeena had her head slightly lowered and was staring at the floor, wringing the headscarf she held in her lap. Suddenly the silence was broken by the sound of the front door opening. Zeena shot up from the sofa.

‘Who’s that?’ she cried.

‘It’s all right,’ I said, also standing. ‘That’ll be my daughter, Paula, back from sixth form.’

Zeena didn’t immediately relax and return to the sofa but remained standing, anxiously watching the living-room door.

‘We’re in here, love,’ I called to Paula, who was taking off her shoes and jacket in the hall.

Paula came into the living room, and I saw Zeena relax. ‘This is Zeena and her social worker, Tara,’ I said, introducing them.

‘Hi,’ Paula said, glancing at them both.

‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ Zeena said quietly. ‘Thank you for letting me stay in your home.’

I could see Paula was as touched as I was by Zeena’s politeness.

‘Do you think Paula could wait here with Zeena while we go and have a chat?’ Tara now asked me.

‘Sure,’ Paula said easily.

‘Thanks, love,’ I said. ‘We’ll be in the front room if we’re needed.’

Tara stood and Zeena returned to the sofa. Paula sat next to her. Both girls looked a little uncomfortable and self-conscious, but then teenagers often do when meeting someone new.

In the front room Tara closed the door so we couldn’t be overheard, and we sat opposite each other. Now she no longer needed to put on a brave and professional face for Zeena’s sake, she looked very worried indeed.

‘I don’t know what’s been going on at home,’ she began, with a small sigh. ‘But I’m very concerned. Zeena’s father and another man went to her school today. They were shouting and demanding to see Zeena. They only left when the headmistress threatened to call the police. Zeena was so scared she hid in a cupboard in the stockroom. It took a lot of persuading to get her to come out after they’d gone.’

‘What did they want?’ I asked, equally concerned.

‘I don’t know,’ Tara said. ‘But they’d come for Zeena. There was no sign of them when I arrived at the school, but Zeena begged me to take her out the back entrance in case they were still waiting at the front. As soon as we were in my car she insisted I put all the locks down and drive away fast. She phoned her mother from the car. It was a very heated discussion with raised voices, although I don’t know what was said as Zeena spoke in Bengali. She was distressed after the call but wouldn’t tell me what her mother had said. I’m going to have to take an interpreter with me when I visit Zeena’s parents.’

‘And Zeena won’t tell you why she’s so scared?’ I asked. ‘Or why she thinks her family want to kill her?’

‘No. I’m hoping the child protection police officer will have more success. She’s very good.’

‘The poor child,’ I said again. ‘She looks petrified. It’s making me nervous too.’

‘I know. I’m sorry to have to put you and your family through this. It seems to be escalating. But don’t hesitate to call the police if you need to.’ Which only heightened my unease.

‘Perhaps her parents will calm down once they accept Zeena is in care,’ I suggested, which often happened when a child was fostered.

‘Hopefully,’ Tara said. ‘Zeena told me in the car that she needed to see a doctor.’

‘Why? Is she hurt?’ I asked, concerned.

‘No. I asked her if it was an emergency – I would have taken her straight to the hospital, but she said she could wait for an appointment. Can you arrange for her to see a doctor as soon as possible, please?’

‘Yes, of course. Will she want to see her own doctor, or shall I register her with mine?’

‘We’ll ask her. When we stopped off to get her clothes her mother had the suitcase ready in the hall. She wouldn’t let Zeena into the house and was angry, although again I couldn’t understand what she was saying to Zeena. Eventually she dumped the case on the pavement and slammed the door in our faces. Zeena pressed the bell a few times, but her mother wouldn’t open the door again. When we got in the car Zeena told me she had asked her mother if she could say goodbye to her younger brothers and sisters, but her mother had refused and called her a slut and a whore.’

I flinched. ‘What a dreadful thing for a mother to say to her daughter.’

‘I know,’ Tara said, her brow furrowing. ‘And it raises concerns about the other children at home. I shall be checking on them.’

‘Will Zeena be going to school tomorrow?’ I thought to ask.

‘We’ll see how she feels and ask her in a moment.’ Tara glanced at her watch. ‘I think I’ve told you everything I know. Let’s go into the living room and talk to Zeena. Then I need to get back to the office and make some phone calls. At least Zeena has some clothes with her.’

‘Yes. That will help,’ I said. Often the children I looked after arrived in what they stood up in, which meant they had to make do from my supply of spares until I had the chance to go to the shops and buy them new clothes.

Paula and Zeena were sitting on the sofa, still looking self-conscious, but at least talking a little.

‘Thanks, love,’ I said to Paula, who now stood.

‘Is it OK if I go to my room?’ she asked. ‘Or do you still need me?’

‘No, do as you like,’ I said. ‘Thanks for your help.’

‘Thank you for sitting with me,’ Zeena said politely.

‘You’re welcome,’ Paula said, smiling at Zeena. ‘Catch up with you later.’ She left the room.

Tara returned to sit on the sofa and I took the easy chair.

‘I’ve explained to Cathy what happened at school this morning,’ Tara said to Zeena. ‘Also that you need to see a doctor.’

Zeena gave a small nod and looked down.

‘Would you like to see your own family doctor?’ Tara now asked her.

‘No!’ Zeena said, sitting bolt upright and staring at Tara. ‘No. You mustn’t take me there. Please don’t make me see him. I won’t go.’

‘All right,’ Tara said, placing a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘I won’t force you to see him, of course not. You can see Cathy’s doctor. I just wanted to hear your views. You may have preferred to see the doctor you knew.’

‘No!’ Zeena cried again, shaking her head.

‘I’ll arrange for you to see my doctor then,’ I said quickly, for clearly this was causing Zeena a lot of distress. ‘There are two doctors in the practice I use, a man and a woman. They are both lovely people and good doctors.’

Zeena looked at me. ‘Are they white?’ she asked.

‘Yes. But I can arrange for you to see an Asian doctor if you prefer. There is another practice not far from here.’

‘No!’ Zeena cried again. ‘I can’t see an Asian doctor.’

‘All right, love,’ I said. ‘Don’t upset yourself. But can I ask you why you want a white doctor? Tara told me you asked for a white foster carer. Is there a reason?’ I was starting to wonder if this was a form of racism, in which case I would find Zeena’s views wholly unacceptable.

She was looking down and chewing her bottom lip as she struggled to find the right words. Tara was waiting for her reply too.

‘It’s difficult for you to understand,’ she began, glancing at me. ‘But the Asian network is huge. Families, friends and even distant cousins all know each other and they talk. They gossip and tell each other everything, even what they are not supposed to. There is little confidentiality in the Asian community. If I had an Asian social worker or carer my family would know where I was within an hour. I have brought shame on my family and my community. They hate me.’

Zeena’s eyes had filled and a tear now escaped and ran down her cheek. Tara passed her the box of tissues I kept on the coffee table, while I looked at her, stunned. The obvious question was: what had she done to bring so much shame on her family and community? I couldn’t imagine this polite, self-effacing child perpetrating any crime, let alone one so heinous that she’d brought shame on a whole community. But now wasn’t the time to ask. Zeena was upset and needed comforting. Tara was lightly rubbing her arm.

‘Don’t upset yourself,’ I said. ‘I’ll make an appointment for you to see my doctor.’

She nodded and wiped her eyes. ‘Thank you. I’m sorry to cause you so much trouble when you are being so kind to me, but can I ask you something?’

‘Yes, of course, love,’ I said.

‘Do you have any Asian friends from Bangladesh?’

‘I have some Asian friends,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think any of them are from Bangladesh.’

‘Please don’t tell your Asian friends I’m here,’ she said.

‘I won’t,’ I said, as Tara reached into her bag and took out a notepad and pen. However, it occurred to me that Zeena could still be seen with me or spotted entering or leaving my house, and I thought it might have been safer to place her with a foster carer right out of the area, unless she was overreacting, as teenagers can sometimes.

Tara was taking her concerns seriously. ‘Remember to keep your phone with you and charged up,’ she said to Zeena as she wrote. ‘Do you have your phone charger with you?’

‘Yes, it’s in my school bag in the hall,’ Zeena said.

‘Will you feel like going to school tomorrow?’ I now asked – given what had happened at school today I thought it was highly unlikely.

To my surprise Zeena said, ‘Yes. The only friends I have are at school. They’ll be worried about me.’

Tara looked at her anxiously ‘Are you sure you want to go back there?’ We can find you a new school.’

‘I want to see my friends.’

‘I’ll tell the school to expect you then,’ Tara said, making another note.

‘I’ll take and collect you in the car,’ I said.

‘It’s all right. I can use the bus,’ Zeena said. ‘They won’t hurt me in a public place. It would bring shame on them and the community.’

I wasn’t reassured, and neither was Tara.

‘I’d feel happier if you went in Cathy’s car,’ Tara said.

‘If I’m seen in her car they will tell my family the registration number and trace me to here.’

Whatever had happened to make this young girl so wary and fearful, I wondered.

‘Use the bus, then,’ Tara said, doubtfully. ‘But promise me you’ll phone if there’s a problem.’

Zeena nodded. ‘I promise.’

‘I’ll give you my mobile number,’ I said. ‘I’d like you to text me when you reach school.’

‘That’s a good idea,’ Tara said.

There was a small silence as Tara wrote, and I took the opportunity to ask: ‘Zeena, do you have any special dietary needs? What do you like to eat?’

‘I eat most things, but not pork,’ she said.

‘Is the meat I buy from our local butchers all right?’

‘Yes, that’s fine. I don’t eat much meat.’

‘Do you need a prayer mat?’ Tara now asked her.

Zeena gave a small shrug. ‘We didn’t pray much in my family, and I don’t think I have the right to pray now.’ Her eyes filled again.

‘I’m sure you have the right to pray,’ I said. ‘Nothing you’ve done is that bad.’

Zeena didn’t reply.

‘Can you think of anything else you may need here?’ Tara asked her.

‘When you visit my parents could you tell them I’m very sorry, and ask them if I can see my brothers and sisters, please?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Tara said. ‘Is there anything you want me to bring from home?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘If you think of anything, phone me and I’ll try to get it when I visit,’ Tara said.

‘Thank you,’ Zeena said, and wiped her eyes. She appeared so vulnerable and sad, my heart went out to her.

Tara put away her notepad and pen and then gave Zeena a hug. ‘We’ll go and have a look at your room now before I leave.’

We stood and I led the way upstairs and into Zeena’s bedroom. It was usual practice for the social worker to see the child’s bedroom.

‘This is nice,’ Tara said, while Zeena looked around, clearly amazed.

‘Is this room just for me?’ she asked.

‘Yes. You have your own room here,’ I said

‘Do you share a bedroom at home?’ Tara asked her.

‘Yes.’ Her gaze went to the door. ‘Can I lock the door?’ she asked me.

‘We don’t have locks on any of the bedroom doors,’ I said. ‘But no one will come into your room. We always knock on each other’s bedroom doors if we want the person.’ Foster carers are advised not to fit locks on children’s bedroom doors in case they lock themselves in when they are upset. ‘You will be safe, I promise you,’ I added.

Zeena gave a small nod.

Tara was satisfied the room was suitable and we went downstairs and into the living room where Tara collected her bag.

‘Tell Cathy or phone me if you need anything or are worried,’ she said to Zeena. I could see she felt as protective of Zeena as I did.

‘I will,’ Zeena said.

‘Good girl. Take care, and try not to worry.’

Zeena gave a small, unconvincing nod and perched on the sofa while I went with Tara to the front door.

‘Keep a close eye on her,’ she said quietly to me so Zeena couldn’t hear. ‘I’m very worried about her.’

‘I will,’ I said. ‘She’s very frightened and anxious. I’ll phone you when I’ve made the doctor’s appointment.’

‘Thank you. I’ll be in touch.’

I closed the front door and returned to the living room where Zeena was on the sofa, bent slightly forward and staring at the floor. It was nearly five o’clock and Lucy would be home soon, so I thought I should warn Zeena so she wasn’t startled again when the front door opened.

‘You’ve met my daughter Paula,’ I said, sitting next to her. ‘Soon my other daughter, Lucy, will be home from work. Don’t worry if you hear a key in the front door; it will be her. Adrian won’t be home until about eight o’clock; he’s working a late shift today.’

‘Do all your children have front-door keys?’ Zeena asked, turning slightly to look at me.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m not allowed to have a key to my house,’ she said.

I nodded. Different families have different policies on this type of responsibility; however, by Zeena’s age most of the teenagers I knew had their own front-door key, as had my children.

‘What age will you have a key?’ I asked out of interest, and trying to make conversation to put her at ease.

‘Never,’ she said stoically. ‘The girls in my family don’t have keys to the house. The boys are given keys when they are old enough, but the girls have to wait until they are married. Then they may have a key to their husband’s house, if their husband wishes.’

Zeena had said this without criticism, having accepted her parents’ rules. I appreciated that hers was a different culture with slightly different customs. I had little background information on Zeena, so as she’d mentioned her siblings I thought I’d ask about them.

‘How many brothers and sisters do you have?’

‘Four,’ she said. ‘Two brothers and two sisters.’

‘How lovely. I think Tara told me they’re all younger than you?’

‘Yes, I am the eldest. The boys are aged ten and eight, and my sisters are five and three. They’ll miss me. I’m like a mother to them.’ Her eyes filled again and I gently touched her arm.

‘Tara said she’d speak to your parents about you seeing your brothers and sisters,’ I reassured her. ‘Do you have any photographs of them?’

‘Not with me; they’re at home.’

‘We could ask Tara to get some when she visits your parents?’ I suggested. I usually tried to obtain a few photographs of the child’s natural family, as it helped them to settle and also kept the bond going while they were separated. ‘Shall I phone Tara and ask her?’

‘I can text her,’ Zeena said.

She now drank some of her water and finally allowed her gaze to wander around the room and out through the patio windows to the garden beyond.

‘You have a nice home,’ she said, delicately holding the glass in her hands.

‘Thank you, love. I want you to feel at home here. I know it’s probably very different from your house, and our routines will be different too, so you must tell me if there is anything you need.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, and set her glass on the coffee table. ‘I expect I’ll have to ask you lots of questions,’ she added quietly.

‘That’s fine. Do you have any questions now?’

She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Yes. What time would you like me to serve you dinner?’




Chapter Three

Good Influence (#u59db0d86-5327-55b2-a880-7d5f28b5b6ba)


‘Serve dinner?’ I asked, thinking I’d misheard. ‘What do you mean?’

‘What time shall I make your evening meal?’ Zeena said, rephrasing the question.

‘You won’t make our evening meal,’ I said. ‘Do you mean you’d like to make your own?’ This seemed the most likely explanation.

‘No. I have to cook for you and your family,’ Zeena said.

‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ I asked.

‘I cook for my family at home,’ she said. ‘So I thought it would be the same here.’

‘No, love,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t expect you or any child I looked after to cook for us. You can certainly help me, if you wish, and if there’s something I can’t make that you like, then tell me. I’ll buy the ingredients and we can cook it together.’

Zeena looked at me, bemused. ‘Do your daughters do the cooking?’ she asked.

‘Sometimes, but Lucy’s at work and Paula is at sixth form. They help at weekends. Adrian does too.’

‘But Adrian is a man,’ she said, surprised.

‘Yes, but there’s nothing wrong in men cooking. Many of the best chefs are men. How often do you cook at home?’

‘Every day,’ Zeena said.

‘The evening meal?’

‘Yes, and breakfast. At weekends I cook lunch too. In the evenings during the week I also make lunch for my youngest sister who doesn’t go to school, and my mother heats it up for her.’

While I respected that individual cultures did things in their own way and had different expectations of their children, this seemed a lot for a fourteen-year-old to do every day. ‘Does your mother go out to work?’ I asked, feeling this might be the explanation.

‘No!’ Zeena said, shocked. ‘My father wouldn’t allow her to go out to work. Sometimes she sews at home, but sometimes she is ill and has to stay in bed.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said. ‘I hope she fully recovers soon.’

Zeena gave a small shrug. ‘She has headaches. They come and go.’

It didn’t sound as though her mother was very ill, and Zeena didn’t appear too worried about her. I was pleased she was talking to me. It was important we got to know each other. The more I knew about her, the more I should be able to help her.

‘Shall we take your case up to your room now?’ I suggested. ‘You’ll feel more settled once you’re unpacked and have your things around you.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry I’m such a burden. It’s kind of you to let me stay.’

‘You’re not a burden, far from it,’ I said, placing my hand lightly on her arm. ‘I foster children because I want to. We’re all happy to have you stay.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive.’

‘That’s very kind of you.’ She was so unassuming and grateful I was deeply touched.

We stood, but as we left the living room to go down the hall a key sounded in the front door. Zeena froze before she remembered. ‘Is that your other daughter?’

‘Yes, it’s Lucy. Come and say hello.’

We continued down the hall as Lucy let herself in.

‘This is Zeena,’ I said.

‘Hi, good to meet you,’ Lucy said easily, closing the door behind her. ‘How are you doing?’

‘I’m well, thank you,’ Zeena said politely. ‘How are you?’

‘Good.’

I kissed Lucy’s cheek as I always did when she returned home from work. ‘I’m taking Zeena’s case up to her room,’ I said. ‘Then I’ll start dinner.’

‘Is Paula back?’ Lucy asked, kicking off her shoes.

‘She’s in her room.’

‘Great! She’ll be pleased. I’ve got tickets for the concert!’

Lucy flew up the stairs excitedly, banged on Paula’s door and went in. ‘Guess what!’ we heard her shout. ‘The tickets are booked! We’re going!’ There were whoops of joy and squeals of delight from both girls.

‘They’re going to see a boy-band concert,’ I explained to Zeena.

She smiled politely.

‘They go a couple of times a year, when there is a group on they want to see. If you’re still here with us, you could go with them next time,’ I suggested.

‘My father won’t allow me to go to concerts,’ she said. ‘Some of my friends at school go, but I can’t.’

‘Maybe when you are older he’ll let you go,’ I said cheerfully, and picked up her case.

Zeena gave a small shrug but didn’t reply, and I led the way upstairs and into her room.

‘I’m pleased you’ve got some of your clothes with you,’ I said, positively. ‘I’ve plenty of spare towels and toiletries if you need them.’

‘Thank you.’

Zeena set the case on her bed, but then struggled to open the sliding lock. It wasn’t locked but the old metal fastener was corroded. I helped her and between us we succeeded in releasing the catch. She lifted the lid on the case and cried out in alarm. ‘Oh no! Mum has packed the wrong clothes.’ The colour drained from her face.

I looked into the open case. On top was what appeared to be a long red beaded skirt in a see-through chiffon material. As Zeena pushed this to one side and rummaged beneath, I saw some short belly tops in silky materials, glittering with sequins. I also saw other skirts and what looked like pantaloons, all similarly embroidered with sequins and beads, similar to the clothes Turkish belly-dancers wear. Zeena dug to the bottom of the case and then closed the lid.

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. She was clearly upset.

‘Mum hasn’t packed my jeans or any of my ordinary clothes,’ she said, flustered and close to tears.

‘What are these clothes for, then?’ I asked, puzzled.

‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘They’re not mine.’

I looked at her, confused. ‘What do you wear when you’re not in your school uniform?’ I asked.

‘Jeans, leggings, T-shirts – normal stuff.’

‘I see,’ I said, no less confused but wanting to reassure Zeena. ‘Don’t worry, I keep spares. I can find you something to wear until we can get your own clothes from home. I guess your mother made a mistake.’

Zeena’s bottom lip trembled. ‘She did it on purpose,’ she said.

‘But why would your mother give you the wrong clothes on purpose?’ I asked.

Zeena shook her head. ‘I can’t explain.’

I’d no idea what was going on, but my first priority was to reassure Zeena. She was visibly shaking. ‘Don’t worry, love,’ I said. ‘I’ve got plenty of spares that will fit you. I can wash and dry your school uniform tonight and it will be ready for tomorrow.’

‘I can’t believe she’d do that!’ Zeena said, staring at the case.

Clearly there was more to this than her mother simply packing the wrong clothes, but I couldn’t guess what message was contained in those clothes, and Zeena wasn’t ready to talk about it now.

‘I’ll phone my mother and tell her I’ll go tomorrow and collect my proper clothes,’ Zeena said anxiously.

‘Do you think that’s wise?’ I asked, concerned. ‘Perhaps we should wait, and ask your social worker to speak to your mother?’

‘No. Mum won’t talk to her. My phone and charger are in my school bag in the hall. Is it all right if I get them?’

‘Yes, of course, love. You don’t have to ask.’

As Zeena went downstairs to fetch her school bag I went round the landing to my bedroom where I kept an ottoman full of freshly laundered and new clothes for emergencies. I knew I needed to tell Tara the problem with the clothes and that Zeena was going to see her mother. I would also note it in my fostering log. All foster carers keep a daily log of the child or children they are looking after. It includes appointments, the child’s health and well-being, significant events and any disclosures the child may make about their past. When the child leaves, this record is placed on file at the social services and can be looked at by the child when they are an adult.

I lifted the lid on the ottoman and looked in. Zeena was more like a twelve-year-old in stature, and I soon found a pair of leggings and a long shirt that would fit her to change into now, and a night shirt and new underwear. Closing the lid I returned to her room. She had moved her suitcase onto the floor and was now sitting on her bed with her phone plugged into the charger, and texting. In this, at least, she appeared quite comfortable.

‘I think these will fit,’ I said, placing the clothes on her bed. ‘Come down when you’re ready, love.’

‘Thank you,’ she said absently, concentrating on the text message.

I went into Paula’s room where she and Lucy were still excitedly discussing the boy-band concert, although it wasn’t for some months yet.

‘When you have a moment could you look in on Zeena, please?’ I asked them. ‘She’s feeling a bit lost at present. I’m going to make dinner.’

‘Sure will,’ Lucy said.

‘She seems nice,’ Paula said.

‘She is. Very nice,’ I said.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll look after her,’ Lucy added. Lucy had come to me as a foster child eight years before and therefore knew what if felt like to be in care. She was now my adopted daughter.

I left the girls and went downstairs. I was worried about Zeena and also very confused. I thought the clothes in the case were hers, although they seemed rather revealing and immodest, considering her father appeared to be so strict. But why had her mother sent them if Zeena couldn’t wear them? It didn’t make sense. Hopefully, in time, Zeena would be able to explain.

Downstairs in the kitchen I began the preparation of dinner. I was making a pasta and vegetable bake. Zeena had said she ate most foods but not a lot of meat. I’d found in the past with other children and young people I’d fostered that pasta was a safe bet to begin with.

After a while I heard footsteps on the stairs, and then Zeena appeared in the kitchen. She was dressed in the leggings and shirt and was carrying her school uniform.

‘They fit you well,’ I said, pleased.

‘Yes, thank you. Where shall I wash these?’ she asked.

‘Just put them in the washing machine,’ I said, nodding to the machine. ‘I’ll see to them.’

Zeena loaded her clothes into the machine and then began studying the dials. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s different from the one we have at home. Can you show me how it works, please?’

‘Do you do the washing at home, then?’ I asked as I left what I was doing and went over.

‘Yes. My little brothers and sisters get very messy,’ Zeena said. ‘Mother likes them looking nice. I don’t mind the washing – we have a machine. I wish it ironed the clothes as well.’ For the first time since she’d arrived, a small smile flicked across her face.

I smiled too. ‘Agreed!’ I said as I tipped some powder into the dispenser, and set the dial. ‘Although many of our clothes are non-crease, and Lucy and Paula usually iron their own clothes.’

‘And your son?’ Zeena asked, looking at me. ‘He doesn’t iron his clothes, surely?’

‘Not yet,’ I said lightly. ‘But I’m working on it.’

Zeena smiled again. She was a beautiful child and when she smiled her whole face lit up and radiated warmth and serenity.

‘There’s a laundry basket in the bathroom,’ I said. ‘In future, you can put your clothes in that and I’ll do all our washing together.’

‘Thank you. I don’t want to be any trouble.’

‘You’re no trouble,’ I said.

Zeena hesitated as if about to add something, but then changed her mind. ‘I tried to phone my mother,’ she said a moment later. ‘But she didn’t answer. I’ll try again now.’

‘All right, love.’

She left the kitchen and I heard her go upstairs and into her bedroom. I finished preparing the pasta bake, put it into the oven and then laid the table. A short while later I heard movement upstairs and then the low hum of the girls’ voices as the three of them talked. I was pleased they were getting to know each other. I’d found in the past that often the child or young person I was fostering relaxed and got to know my children before they did me.

Presently I called them all down for dinner and they arrived together.

‘Zeena phoned her mum,’ Lucy said. ‘She’s going to collect her clothes tomorrow.’

‘And your mum was all right with you?’ I asked Zeena.

She gave a small nod but couldn’t meet my eyes, so I guessed her mother hadn’t been all right with her but she didn’t want to tell me.

‘Does she always speak in Bengali?’ Lucy asked, sitting at the table.

‘Yes,’ Zeena said.

‘Can she speak English?’ Paula asked, also sitting at the table.

‘A little,’ Zeena said. ‘But my father insists we speak Bengali in the house, so Mum doesn’t get much chance to practise her English.’

‘You’re very clever speaking two languages fluently,’ Paula said. ‘I struggled with French at school.’

‘It’s easy if you are brought up speaking two languages,’ Zeena said.

While Paula and Lucy had sat at the table ready for dinner, Zeena was still hovering. ‘Sit down, love,’ I called from the kitchen.

‘I should help you bring in the meal first,’ Zeena said.

Lucy and Paula looked at each other guiltily. ‘So should we,’ Lucy said.

‘It’s OK. The dish is very hot,’ I said. ‘You sit down, pet.’

Zeena sat beside Paula and opposite Lucy. Using the oven gloves I carried in the dish of pasta bake and set in on the pad in the centre of the table, next to the bowl of salad. I returned to the kitchen for the crusty French bread, which I’d warmed in the oven, and set that on the table too.

‘Mmm, yummy,’ Paula said, while Lucy began serving herself.

‘It’s just pasta, vegetables and cheese,’ I said to Zeena. ‘Help yourself. I hope you like it.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m sure I will.’

When a child first arrives, mealtimes can be awkward for them. Having to sit close to people they don’t know and eat can be quite intimidating, although I do all I can to make them feel at ease. Some children who’ve never had proper mealtimes at home may have never sat at a dining table or used cutlery, so it’s a whole new learning experience for them. However, this wasn’t true of Zeena. As we ate I could see that Lucy and Paula were as impressed as I was by her table manners. She sat upright at the table and ate slowly and delicately, chewing every mouthful, and never spoke and ate at the same time. Every so often she would delicately dab her lips with her napkin. All her movements were so smooth and graceful they reminded me of a beautiful swan in flight or a ballet dancer.

When she’d finished she paired her cutlery noiselessly in the centre of her plate and sipped her water. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s such a treat to be cooked for.’

‘Good. I’m pleased.’ I smiled.

We just had fruit and yoghurt for dessert and Zeena thanked me again. Then we stayed at the table and talked for a while. Lucy did most of the talking and kept us entertained with anecdotes about the children she looked after at the nursery. A couple of times Zeena joined in with reminiscences about one of her younger siblings, but she looked sad when she spoke of them, and said she missed them and they would miss her. I reassured her again that Tara would try to arrange for her to see them as soon as possible. Zeena’s mobile phone had been on her lap during dinner and while I didn’t usually allow phones, game consoles or toys at the meal table, it was Zeena’s first night and I hadn’t said anything. It now rang.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, standing, and left the room to take the call.

We could hear her talking in the hall in a mixture of Bengali and English, effortlessly alternating between the languages as bilingual people can do. We didn’t listen but continued our conversation, with Zeena’s voice in the background.

‘We were with Zeena when she spoke to her mother before,’ Lucy said. ‘I don’t know what her mother said to her but it wasn’t good.’

‘What makes you say that?’ I asked.

‘Zeena was upset and her mum sounded angry on the phone.’

‘Why is she in care?’ Paula asked.

‘Zeena asked to come into care,’ I said. ‘She hasn’t told the social worker what happened; only that she’s been abused.’

‘Oh dear,’ Paula said sadly.

‘Zeena needs to start talking about what happened to her,’ Lucy said, speaking from experience.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘If she does tell you anything, remember you need to persuade her to tell me.’

The girls nodded solemnly. Sometimes the child or young person we were fostering disclosed the abuse they’d suffered to my children first. Lucy, Paula and Adrian knew they had to tell me if this happened so that I could alert the social worker and better protect the child. It was distressing for us all to hear these disclosures, but it was better for the child when they began to unburden themselves and share what had happened to them, as Lucy knew.

When Zeena had finished her telephone call she didn’t return to sit with us but went straight up to her room. I gave her a few minutes and then I went up to check she was all right. Her door was open so I gave a brief knock and went in. She was sitting on the bed with her phone in her hand, texting. ‘Are you OK?’ I asked.

‘Yes, thank you.’ She glanced up. ‘I’m texting my friends from school.’

‘As long as you are all right,’ I said, and came out.

I returned downstairs to find Lucy and Paula clearing the table and stacking the dishwasher. ‘We should help you more,’ Paula said.

‘Starting from now, we will,’ Lucy added.

I thought that Zeena’s stay was going to have a very good influence on them!

Shortly before eight o’clock Adrian arrived home. All three girls and I were in the living room watching some television when we heard a key go in the front-door lock and the door open. ‘It’s my son, Adrian,’ I reminded Zeena as she instinctively tensed.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said, relieved.

I went down the hall to greet him and then we returned to the living room so he could meet Zeena. She stood as we entered and Adrian went over and shook her hand. ‘Very pleased to meet you,’ he said.

‘And you,’ she said, shyly.

At twenty-two he was over six feet tall and towered over the rest of us, especially Zeena, who was so petite she looked like a doll beside him.

‘I hope you’re settling in,’ he said to her.

‘Yes, thank you,’ she said, again shyly.

Adrian then said hi to Lucy and Paula and went to shower before eating. The girls and I watched the news on television and then Zeena asked me if it was all right if she had an early night.

‘Of course, love,’ I said. ‘You must be exhausted. I’ll show you where everything is in the bathroom and get you some fresh towels.’

‘Thank you. It’s strange not having to put my little brothers and sisters to bed,’ she said as we went down the hall.

‘I’m sure they’ll be fine. Your mum will look after them.’

‘I hope so,’ she said, thoughtfully.

At the foot of the stairs Zeena suddenly put her hand on my arm. ‘Do you lock the back door as well as the front door at night?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Yes, and bolt it. Don’t worry, you’re safe here.’

‘What about the windows?’ she asked. ‘Are those locked too?’

‘No, but they can’t be opened from the outside.’

I looked at her; she was scared, and worried for her safety, but why?

‘Trust me, love,’ I said. ‘No one can get in.’

‘Thank you. I’ll try to remember that,’ she said.




Chapter Four

Sobbing (#u59db0d86-5327-55b2-a880-7d5f28b5b6ba)


Zeena slept well that night, although I didn’t. I’m always restless the first few nights after a new child arrives, listening out in case they are out of bed or upset and need reassuring. Nevertheless, I was awake as usual at six o’clock and fell out of bed and into the shower while the rest of the house slept. When I came out, dressed, I was surprised to see Zeena on the landing in her nightshirt and looking very worried.

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked her quietly, so as not to wake the others.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I should have set the alarm on my phone.’

‘It’s only early,’ I said. ‘I was going to wake you at seven when I wake Lucy and Paula.’

‘But I have to do my chores before I go to school,’ she said.

‘What chores?’ I asked.

‘The ironing, and cleaning the house. I always do that before I go to school.’

To have a teenager up early and expecting to do the housework was a first for me, although there was a more serious side to this.

‘Is that what you do at home?’ I asked.

‘Yes. I do the ironing and cleaning before I get the little ones up or they slow me down and I’m late for school.’

The expectations I had in respect of the household duties a fourteen-year-old should be responsible for were clearly very different from those of Zeena’s parents, and I realized it would help Zeena if I explained to her what my expectations were.

‘While you’re here,’ I said, still keeping my voice low, ‘I expect you to keep your bedroom clean and tidy, but not the rest of the house. You can help me with the cooking and cleaning, but the main responsibility for the housework is mine. If I need help, which I will do sometimes, I’ll ask you, or Adrian, Lucy or Paula. Is that all right?’

‘Yes. It’s different in my home,’ she said.

‘I understand that.’ I smiled reassuringly.

She hesitated. ‘Shall I make my lunch now or later?’

‘When I asked you yesterday about lunch I thought you said you had a school dinner?’

‘Yes, but my father used to give me the money for it, and he won’t be doing that now.’

‘I should have explained,’ I said. ‘I’ll give you the money for your school dinner. And also for your bus fare and anything else you need while you’re here. You’ll also have a small allowance for clothes and pocket money, which I’ll sort out at the weekend. As a foster carer I receive an allowance towards this, so don’t worry, you won’t go short of anything.’

‘Thank you so much,’ she said. ‘What shall I do now?’

‘It’s up to you, love. It’s early, so you can go back to bed if you wish.’

‘Really? Can I listen to music on my phone?’

‘Yes, as long as you don’t disturb the others.’

‘I’ll use my earphones. Thank you so much,’ she said. She went to her room with the gratitude of someone who’d just received a much-wanted gift, which in a way I supposed she had: the gift of time. For without doubt at home Zeena had precious little time to herself, and the more I learned – even allowing for cultural differences – the more I felt her responsibilities were excessive for a child of her age. I’d mention it to Tara when we next spoke.

At seven o’clock I knocked on the girls’ bedroom doors to wake them. Adrian, having worked an evening shift, didn’t have to be up until 9.30 to start work at 10.30. I gave Zeena her freshly laundered school uniform, checked she had everything she needed and left her to wash and dress. Zeena, Lucy and Paula would take turns in the bathroom and then arrive downstairs for breakfast as they were ready. When my children were younger I used to make breakfast for us all and we ate together, but now they were older they helped themselves to cereal and toast or whatever they fancied, while I saw to the child or children we were fostering. We all ate together as much as possible in the evenings and at weekends.

When Zeena came down washed and dressed in her school uniform, I asked her what she liked for breakfast. She said she usually had fruit and yoghurt during the week, and eggs or chapri (a type of pancake) at the weekend. I showed her where the fruit and yoghurt were and she helped herself. I then sat at the table with her and made light conversation while we ate. I also asked her if she needed me to buy her anything, as I could easily pop to the local shops, but she said she didn’t think so as she would collect what she needed from home after school.

‘Are you sure you’ll be all right going home alone?’ I asked her, still concerned that this wasn’t the right course of action.

‘Yes. Mum said it was all right for me to have some of my things.’

‘Why didn’t she give them to you yesterday instead of packing clothes you couldn’t wear?’ I asked, baffled.

Zeena concentrated on her food as she replied. ‘I guess she made a mistake,’ she said quietly. It seemed an odd mistake to me, and that wasn’t what Zeena had said when she’d opened the case, but I didn’t challenge her; I let it go.

Lucy left first to go to work and as usual she was five minutes late. Calling a hurried goodbye from the hall she slammed the door with such haste that the whole house shook. I was used to it but it made Zeena jump. It was a regular week-day occurrence. Lucy had tried setting her alarm five minutes early, but then compensated by allowing herself another five minutes in bed. She was never late for work as far as I knew; it just meant she left the house in a rush every morning and then had to run to catch the bus. She told me a car was the answer, and I told her she’d better start saving.

When it was time for Zeena to leave I gave her the money she needed for her bus fare and lunch, as well as some extra. Again I offered to take her to school in my car, but she said she’d be all right on the bus and promised to text me to say she’d arrived safely.

‘All right, if you’re sure,’ I said, and opened the front door.

She had the navy headscarf she’d worn when she’d first arrived around her shoulders and draped it loosely over her head as she stepped outside. I went with her down the front-garden path to see her off and also check that there were no strangers loitering suspiciously in the street. Although Zeena seemed more relaxed about her security this morning after a good night’s sleep, I still had Tara’s words about being vigilant ringing in my ears. As a foster carer I’d been in this position before when an angry parent had found out where their child had been placed and was threatening to come to my house. But with Zeena believing her life was in danger, this had reached a whole new level.

As far as I could see the street was clear. Zeena kissed me goodbye and then I watched her walk up the street until she disappeared from sight. The bus stop was on the high road, about a five-minute walk away.

Paula left for sixth-form at 8.30. Then a few minutes later the landline rang. I answered it in the kitchen where I was clearing up and was surprised to hear from Tara so early in the morning. She was calling from her mobile and there was background noise.

‘I’m on the bus, going to work,’ she said. ‘I’ve been worrying about Zeena all night and wanted to check she’s OK.’

It must be very difficult for social workers to switch off after leaving work, I thought.

‘She’s all right,’ I said. ‘She’s on her way to school now. I asked her again if I could drive her but she wanted to go by bus. She promised she’d text me when she gets there. She seemed a bit brighter this morning.’

‘Good,’ Tara said. ‘And she got some sleep and has had something to eat?’

‘Yes. And she’s getting on well with my daughters, Lucy and Paula.’

‘Excellent.’

‘There are a few issues I need to talk to you about though,’ I said. ‘Shall I tell you now or would it be better if I called you when you’re in your office?’ I was mindful of confidentiality; Tara was on a bus and might be overheard.

‘Go ahead,’ Tara said. ‘I can listen, although I may not be able to reply.’

‘Zeena’s clothes,’ I began. ‘You remember the suitcase she brought from home?’

‘Yes.’

‘When we opened the case yesterday evening we found it was full of lots of flimsy skirts and belly tops with sequins and beads. Zeena can’t wear any of them. She seemed shocked, and said her mother had packed the wrong clothes on purpose. Then she said the clothes weren’t hers, and this morning she said it must have been a mistake. I’ve no idea whose clothes they are or what they are for, but she can’t wear them.’

‘Strange,’ Tara said. ‘And she can’t wear any of them?’

‘No. I’ve given her what she needs from my spares. I offered to go shopping and buy her what she needs, but she says she’s going home after school to collect some of her proper clothes.’

‘I’m not sure that’s wise,’ Tara said.

‘That what I said. I suggested she speak to you, but she telephoned her mother and apparently she is all right about Zeena going over for her things. However, Lucy said that her mother sounded angry on the phone, although she didn’t know what she’d said.’

‘Thanks. I’ll phone Zeena,’ Tara said, even more concerned. Then, lowering her voice so she couldn’t be overheard, she added, ‘Has Zeena said anything to you about the nature of the abuse she’s suffered?’

‘No, but she has told me a bit about her home life. Are you aware of all the responsibility she has – for the cooking, cleaning, ironing and looking after her younger siblings?’

‘No. I hardly know anything about the family. They’ve never come to the notice of the social services before. What has Zeena said?’

I now repeated what Zeena had told me, and also that she’d been up early, expecting to clean the house before she went to school. As a foster carer I’m duty-bound to tell the social worker what I know and to keep him or her regularly informed and updated, as they are legally responsible for the child while in care. The child or children I foster know I can’t keep their secrets, and if they tell me anything that is important to their safety or well-being then I have to pass it on so the necessary measures can be taken to protect and help them.

‘It does seem excessive,’ Tara said when I’d finished. ‘I know that the eldest girl in some Asian families often has more responsibility for domestic chores than her younger siblings, or the boys, but this sounds extreme. I’ll raise it when I see her parents, which I’m hoping to do soon. Thanks, Cathy. Was there anything else?’

‘I don’t think so. I’ll make the doctor’s appointment as soon as the practice opens.’

‘Thank you. I’ll phone Zeena now. I also want to speak to her school.’

She thanked me again and we said goodbye. Tara came across as a very conscientious social worker who genuinely cared about the children she was responsible for and would go that extra mile. That she’d telephoned me on her way into work because she was worrying about Zeena said it all. She was as concerned as I was about her using the bus, and when Zeena hadn’t texted me by 8.50 a.m. – the time she should have arrived at school – my concerns increased.

I gave her until 9.00 a.m. and then texted her: R u at school? Cathy x.

She replied immediately: Srry. 4got 2 txt. I’m here with friends x.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

I now telephoned my doctor’s practice to make the appointment for Zeena. The doctors knew I fostered and I’d registered other children I’d looked after with them before, using a temporary patient registration, which could be converted into a permanent registration if necessary. This was how I registered Zeena over the phone. A registration card would need to be completed at the first visit. As Zeena’s appointment wasn’t an emergency and to save her missing school, I took the first evening slot that was available – five o’clock on Tuesday. It was Thursday now, so not long to wait. I thanked the appointments’ secretary, noted the time and date in my diary and then woke Adrian with a cup of tea.

‘You spoil me, Mum,’ he mumbled, reaching out from under the duvet for the cup.

‘I know. Don’t spill it,’ I said. ‘Time to get up.’

Since Adrian had returned from university and was working irregular hours I’d got into the habit of waking him for work with a cup of tea, although I’d assured him it was a treat that could be stopped if he didn’t clear up his room. And while we both saw the humour in little me disciplining a big lad of twenty-two (he had been known to pick me up when I was telling him off), like many young adults he still needed some guidelines. I’d read somewhere that the brain doesn’t completely stabilize until the age of twenty-five, and I’d mentioned this to all three of my children at some point.

I had coffee with Adrian while he ate his breakfast and then he went to work. I was tempted to text Zeena to make sure she was all right, but I thought she would be in her lessons now, when her phone should have been switched off and in her bag. I waited until twelve o’clock, which I thought might be the start of her lunch break to text: Hi, is everything all right? Cathy x.

It was twenty minutes before she texted back and I was worrying again: Yes. I’m ok. Thnk u x.

Tara telephoned an hour later. She’d spoken to Zeena earlier and had agreed that she could go home to collect her clothes and see her siblings, but told her to call her, me or the police if there was a problem.’

‘To be honest, Cathy,’ Tara said, ‘at her age, I can’t really stop her from going home if she’s determined. So it’s better to put in place some safeguards rather than just say no. Zeena seems sensible and I’m sure she won’t go into the house if she doesn’t feel safe.’

I agreed.

Tara then said she had telephoned Zeena’s school and had given them my contact details, and she’d been trying to make an appointment to visit Zeena’s parents, but no one was answering the landline, which was the only number she had for them. ‘Zeena tells me her mother doesn’t answer the phone unless she’s expecting a call from a relative,’ Tara said. ‘Apparently her father makes all the calls, but he isn’t home until the evening. If I can’t get hold of them I’ll just have to turn up. Also, I’ve spoken to the child protection police officer and given her your telephone number. She’ll phone you to make an appointment to see Zeena. I’ve also spoken to the head teacher at the primary school Zeena’s siblings attend, as there maybe some safeguarding issues there.’ This was normal social-work practice – if there were concerns about one child in a family then other children in the family were seen and assessed too, and part of this involved contacting their school and their doctor.

‘Thank you,’ I said, grateful for the update. ‘You have been busy.’

‘I’ve been on this case all morning,’ Tara said. ‘I’m in a meeting soon and then I have a home visit for another case. Zeena should be at her parents by three forty-five – her home is only a ten-minute walk from the school. I’ve suggested she spends no more than an hour there – to collect what she needs and see her siblings – so she should be with you by half past five. If there’s a problem, call me on my mobile.’

‘I will,’ I said. ‘I’ve made a doctor’s appointment for Zeena at five o’clock on Tuesday.’

‘Thanks,’ Tara said, and then asked for the name and contact details of my doctor’s practice, which I gave her.

Tara repeated again that if there was a problem I should phone her, but otherwise she’d be in touch again when she had any more news, and we said goodbye.

I spent the rest of the afternoon making notes in preparation for foster-carer training I was due to deliver on Monday. As an experienced carer I helped run training for newer carers as part of the Skills to Foster course. I’d been doing similar for Homefinders and when I’d transferred to the local authority they’d asked me to participate in their training. With this, fostering, some part-time administration work I did on an as-and-when basis, running the house and looking after everyone’s needs, I was busy and my days were full, but pleasantly so. I’d never remarried after my divorce but hadn’t ruled out the possibility; it was just a matter of finding the right man who would also commit to fostering.

Presently I heard a key go in the front door. Paula was home. ‘Hi, Mum,’ she called letting herself in. ‘Guess what?’

I packed away my papers as Paula came into the living room. ‘Adrian phoned,’ she said excitedly. ‘There’s some student summer work going at the place where he works. He said if I’m interested to put in my CV as soon as possible.’

‘Great,’ I said. ‘That sounds hopeful.’ Paula had been looking for summer work for a while. As well as giving her extra money the work experience would look good on her CV and help to take her mind off her A-level results, which weren’t due for another three months.

‘I’ll print out my CV now,’ she said. ‘And write a covering letter.’

‘Yes, and in the letter include the date you can start work,’ I suggested. ‘The twenty-second of July – when school officially finishes.’ Although Paula had sat her exams she was still expected to attend the sixth form until the end of term. ‘I’ll help you with the letter if you like,’ I added.

‘Thanks.’

She returned down the hall and to the front room where we kept the computer. As she did so the front doorbell rang. I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece; it was half past four – too early for Zeena, I thought.

‘I’ll get it,’ Paula called.

‘Thanks. Don’t forget to check the security spy-hole first,’ I reminded her.

‘I know,’ she called. Then, ‘It’s Zeena, Mum.’

‘Oh,’ I said, surprised. I went into the hall as Paula opened the front door and Zeena came in, carrying a large laundry bag and sobbing her heart out.




Chapter Five

Scared into Silence (#u59db0d86-5327-55b2-a880-7d5f28b5b6ba)


‘Whatever is the matter, love?’ I asked, going up to her as Paula closed the front door.

‘My mother wouldn’t let me see my brothers and sisters,’ Zeena sobbed. ‘They were there, but she wouldn’t let me near them.’

‘Oh, love. Why not? And you’ve come all the way home on the bus in tears?’ I said, very concerned and taking her arm. ‘You should have phoned me and I could have collected you.’

‘I was too upset,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t thinking straight.’ Her eyes were red and her face was blotchy from crying.

‘All right, calm yourself. Let’s go and sit down and you can tell me what happened.’

Leaving the laundry bag in the hall, Zeena slipped off her shoes and headscarf and came with me into the living room, where we sat side by side on the sofa.

‘Do you need me, Mum?’ Paula asked, worried, having followed us in.

‘No, love. We’ll be all right. You get on with what you have to do. Perhaps you could fetch Zeena a glass of water.’

‘Sure.’

I passed Zeena the box of tissues and, taking one, she wiped her eyes. Paula returned with the glass of water and placed it on the coffee table.

‘Thank you,’ Zeena said quietly, and took a sip.

Paula went to the front room and I waited while Zeena drank a little water and then placed the glass on the table, wiping her eyes again.

‘What happened, love?’ I asked gently.

‘I went home and rang the doorbell,’ she said, with a small sob. ‘Mum took a long time to answer. As I waited I could hear my little brothers and sisters in the hall calling my name. They sounded so excited to be seeing me. I couldn’t wait to see them too. But then it all went quiet and I couldn’t hear them. When Mum answered the door she was very angry. She pulled me inside and began calling me horrible names. She told me to get my things quickly and never set foot in the house again.’

Zeena took a breath before continuing. ‘I went upstairs, but I couldn’t see my brothers and sisters anywhere. Usually they’re all over the house, running and playing, but there was no sign of them. Then I heard their voices coming from the front bedroom. The door was shut and I tried to open it, but it was locked. Mum had locked them in and had the key. She’d stayed downstairs and I called down to her and asked her why they were shut in the bedroom. She said it was to keep them safe from me. She said if they got close they might catch my evil.’ Zeena began crying again and I put my arm around her and held her close until she was calm enough to continue.

‘I spoke to them through the bedroom door,’ she said. ‘They thought it was a game to begin with and were laughing, but when the little ones realized they couldn’t get out and see me they started crying. Mum heard and yelled that I had five minutes to get my things and get out of the house or she’d call my father. I grabbed what I could from the bedroom and fled the house. I know I might never see my brothers and sisters again,’ she cried. ‘I have no family. My parents have disowned me. I should have stayed quiet and not said anything.’

Her tears fell and I held her hand. And again I thought what could she have done that was so horrendous for her mother to call her evil and stop her from seeing her little brothers and sisters? But now wasn’t the right time to ask; she was too upset. I comforted her and tried to offer some reassurance. ‘Zeena, I’ve been fostering for a very long time,’ I said. ‘In my experience, parents are often angry when their child or children first go into care. They can say hurtful things that they later regret. I think if you allow your mother time, she may feel differently. Your brothers and sisters will be missing you; they’re bound to ask for you.’

‘You don’t understand,’ she said. ‘In my family everyone does as my father says. If he tells my mother that I am evil and my brothers and sisters mustn’t have anything to do with me, then that’s that.’

‘Let’s wait and see,’ I said, feeling that perhaps Zeena was so upset that she was overstating the situation. ‘But we do need to tell Tara what’s happened. When she visits your parents she can talk to them. Social workers are used to dealing with difficult family matters. I’m sure she’ll know what to say so you can see your family.’

She shrugged despondently. ‘I suppose it’s worth a try,’ she said. ‘Shall I phone her now?’

‘If you wish, or I can?’

‘I’ll tell her,’ Zeena said.

‘If her voicemail is on, leave a message and ask her to call back,’ I said.

At Zeena’s age and with her level of maturity she could reasonably telephone her social worker if she wished. When younger children or those with learning difficulties were in foster care then it was usually the carer who made the telephone calls. However, as Zeena took another tissue from the box and blew her nose the landline rang. Paula, aware I was busy with Zeena, answered it in the hall.

‘Mum, it’s for you,’ she called.

‘Who is it?’ I asked.

‘A police lady.’

‘Thank you. I’ll take it in here.’

Zeena looked at me anxiously as I picked up the handset on the corner table.

‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ I said. ‘It’ll be the child protection officer – Tara said she would phone.’ Then I said into the receiver, ‘Hello, Cathy speaking.’

‘Hello, Cathy. It’s DI Norma Jones, child protection. I believe you have Zeena P— staying with you.’

‘Yes. She’s with me now.’

‘Can I speak to her, please?’

‘Yes, of course.’

I held the phone out to Zeena, but she shook her head and looked even more worried. ‘You talk to her, please,’ she said quietly.

I returned the phone to my ear. ‘She’s a bit upset at present,’ I said. ‘Can I give her a message?’

‘I need to make an appointment to see her as soon as possible. Can I visit you tomorrow after school? About five o’clock?’

‘Yes. That’s fine,’ I said. ‘Just a moment.’ I looked at Zeena, who was now mouthing something.

‘What, love?’ I asked her.

‘Is she Asian?’ Zeena whispered.

I can’t ask that, I thought, but then given Zeena’s concerns about the Asian network I thought I had to. ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘but Zeena wants to know if you’re Asian?’

‘No. I’m white British,’ she said, easily. ‘Please tell her there is nothing to worry about and I’m aware of her concerns. But I will need to interview her about the allegations she’s made.’

I repeated this to Zeena and she gave a small, anxious nod.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘We’ll see you tomorrow, at five. You’ve got my address?’

‘Yes, and Zeena has my mobile number. Tell her to phone me if she’s worried at all.’

‘I will,’ I said.

We said goodbye and I repeated what Norma had said to Zeena. I also told her that while I hadn’t personally met this police officer, all the others I’d worked with had been very nice and were specially trained and highly sensitive to children’s feelings, so to try not to worry.

I then reminded Zeena that we had to telephone Tara.

‘Can you do it, please?’ she said, now clearly overwhelmed.

I dialled Tara’s number but it went through to her voicemail, so I left a message asking her to phone back when she was free. When a child first comes into care there are always a lot of appointments and telephone calls, and then it usually calms down a little.

Paula appeared from the front room carrying printed copies of her CV and covering letter. ‘Can you check them, please, Mum?’ she asked.

‘Of course, love.’ Zeena stayed on the sofa as I read through Paula’s application. ‘It’s good,’ I said. ‘Well done.’

‘I’ll put it in the post on the way to school tomorrow,’ she said. Then, looking at Zeena and seeing how dejected she was, she asked her: ‘Would you like some help with your unpacking?’

Zeena’s little face brightened. It was so sad and touching. ‘Yes, please,’ she said politely. ‘That’s very kind of you. You’re all being so nice to me. I don’t deserve it.’ Her eyes filled, as did Paula’s.

‘Of course you deserve it,’ I said. ‘You’re a lovely girl, and don’t ever forget that.’

While I made dinner, Paula helped Zeena unpack the laundry bag she’d brought from home. They also put the first case – with all the beaded outfits – out of the way under her bed. Lucy arrived home and, saying hi to me, went upstairs and joined Paula and Zeena in her room. I could hear them talking and then laughing and all getting along. It was just what Zeena needed, I thought. I also thought that Paula and Lucy were appreciating Zeena’s company. We often fostered much younger children, many with challenging behaviour, which meant Lucy’s and Paula’s roles and the way they had to relate to the children were very different. Now they could all get along as friends and equals, and it was lovely to hear them.

Tara returned my phone call as I was making dinner and I took the call in the kitchen. I told her about Zeena’s visit home. She was shocked and said she’d raise it with Zeena’s parents when she saw them – she still hadn’t managed to speak to them yet. I also told her that Norma had telephoned and was coming to see Zeena the following day at five. Tara thanked me and then asked what Zeena was doing now.

‘She’s with Paula and Lucy,’ I said. ‘They helped her unpack and now they are chatting.’

‘OK. I won’t disturb her. Tell her I phoned, please.’

‘I will.’

I hung up and went upstairs. Zeena’s bedroom door was open and the three girls were sitting on her bed, chatting. Zeena had changed out of her school uniform into a pair of jeans and a long shirt she’d brought from home. She looked more relaxed. I told her that Tara had telephoned and what she’d said.

‘Thank you,’ she said politely.

I smiled and came out.

The four of us ate together and then the girls disappeared back upstairs, this time to Paula’s bedroom, where they continued chatting and laughing. I took the opportunity to write up my log notes and also put the finishing touches to the foster-carer training I was presenting on Monday. Adrian came in at eight, showered, ate and said he was going out to meet ‘a friend’. This was happening more frequently recently and judging from the amount of aftershave and body spray he used in the bathroom, I guessed he had a new girlfriend. Adrian was a private person and I knew he would bring her home to meet us when he felt the time was right.

At nine o’clock I went upstairs to Paula’s room where the girls were still gathered and suggested that as everyone had to be up in the morning they’d better start taking turns in the bathroom. ‘You’re the youngest, so you can go first,’ Lucy said jokingly to Zeena.

‘That’s fine with me,’ Zeena said lightly. ‘It’ll be a treat. I’m usually last at home. I have to bath the little ones first and get them into bed.’

‘Not all of them? Every night?’ Lucy asked.

Zeena nodded and went to fetch her wash things from her room before going to the bathroom.

‘She’s treated like a slave at home!’ Lucy said, annoyed, once Zeena was in the bathroom and couldn’t hear.

‘I think she’s expected to do too much,’ I said. ‘I’ve raised it with Tara. Has Zeena said anything to you about abuse?’ I asked them both.

‘Not really,’ Paula said. ‘Just what her life is like at home and that she’s missing her brothers and sisters.’

‘I know. Tara’s hoping to arrange some contact soon. The child protection police officer is coming at five tomorrow,’ I reminded them, so that they wouldn’t be surprised when they walked in and found a stranger in the house.

When I went into Zeena’s room to say goodnight she was talking on her mobile. She cut the call as soon as I entered and I thought she looked almost guilty.

‘Is everything all right?’ I asked her.

‘Yes. It was just a friend,’ she said, not meeting my eyes.

Like many teenagers, Zeena spent a lot of time on her phone, texting, and sometimes she would leave the room to answer a call. However, I was slightly surprised to see a second mobile phone lying on her bed. ‘Lucky you. Two phones?’ I said, nonchalantly.

‘I don’t use that one, it doesn’t work properly,’ she said, and quickly pushed it under the pillow.

I thought no more about this at the time. It was later that I learned the horrific significance of that second phone.

DI Norma Jones’s visit the following day didn’t go well. Despite her being a very pleasant plain-clothed officer with a reassuring, confident manner, Zeena wouldn’t talk to her. When she arrived she asked to see Zeena alone, so I left the two of them in the living room and busied myself in the kitchen. When a younger child had to see a child protection officer I was usually asked to stay to help reassure them. Fifteen minutes later Norma came to find me. ‘Zeena isn’t able to tell me anything at present, so I’ll be going,’ she said. I could see she was disappointed.

‘Is Zeena upset?’ I asked.

‘No. But she won’t give me any details of her abuse or abuser, so there is very little I can do at present. I’ve done all I can to try to reassure her but she’s been scared into silence. We’ll keep the file open and hope that she’ll be able to tell me in time. She has my telephone number, but here’s my card if you need me.’

I took the business card, which had the police insignia in one corner and Norma’s rank, name and contact details beneath. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted trip.’

‘It’s frustrating,’ she admitted. ‘I’m a hundred per cent certain she’s been badly abused, but with no evidence I can’t proceed. Tara told me about the run-in she had with her mother last night. I’ll be seeing both her parents soon. I take it Zeena hasn’t disclosed anything to you?’

‘No, I would have told Tara,’ I said. ‘Zeena talks about her family and all the work she’s expected to do, but that’s all.’

‘All right,’ Norma said, with a small sigh. ‘When she’s been here a while and feels safer she may start to open up.’

‘I hope so,’ I said.

I saw her out, and then checked on Zeena, who was still in the living room. She asked if it was all right if she went up to see Paula.

‘Yes, of course,’ I said.

Zeena looked sad and worried but wasn’t visibly upset. Like Norma, I, too, hoped that once Zeena felt more settled with me she would be able to talk.

I finished making the dinner and then called the girls. Adrian would eat later again, when he returned home from work. Zeena was quiet over dinner, but after we’d finished she went into the front room and to the computer with Paula and Lucy, as Lucy wanted to show them a website someone had recommended to her. Before long I could hear them all laughing and I went in to have a look at what was causing all the fun. It was a fashion website where a visitor could upload an image of themselves and then ‘try on’ different outfits. Lucy had uploaded a photograph of herself, where she was pulling a silly face and was now ‘trying on’ different designer outfits in various sizes. It was funny, and Zeena was laughing like the rest of us. Her ability to ‘switch off’ from the trauma she’d suffered was something I’d seen before in children I’d fostered who’d been badly abused. In order to function in everyday life, their brains compartmentalize their bad experiences and hive it off. It’s not healthy, and eventually the horror of what has happened comes to the surface, often with catastrophic results.




Chapter Six

Dreadful Feeling (#u59db0d86-5327-55b2-a880-7d5f28b5b6ba)


Zeena didn’t want to go out at all over the weekend, despite having her pocket money and allowance. She said that as most people didn’t work at the weekend they were likely to be out and about shopping, so she felt safer staying at home with me. She asked Paula if she would buy her more phone credit when she went out, and gave her the money from the allowance that I’d given to her.

I would normally have gone out at the weekend, taking any child I was fostering with me, but as Zeena hadn’t been with us for long and there were concerns about her safety I stayed in with her. The weather turned warmer so I did some gardening. Adrian, Paula and Lucy were in and out as usual, making the most of their time off. I didn’t expect them to change their plans for Zeena and neither did she. ‘Have a good time and thanks for getting my phone credit,’ Zeena said to Paula when she went shopping with her friends on Saturday afternoon.

‘You’re welcome,’ Paula said.

‘I hope you have a nice evening,’ Zeena called to Lucy when she went out all dressed up on both Saturday and Sunday evening.

‘Thank you,’ Lucy returned, slamming the front door behind her, late as usual.

Lucy’s, Adrian’s and Paula’s lifestyles were very different to Zeena’s, and I wondered if she resented the freedom my children enjoyed compared with the servitude of her life at home, but Zeena was such an unassuming and compliant child, I doubt it crossed her mind. She was also very humble and self-effacing, and I thought she could easily be taken advantage of. She spent most of Saturday trying to please me and kept asking me if there was anything she could do to help. I found her a few little jobs and then suggested she might like to cook – perhaps the chapris she’d mentioned? She liked the idea and I checked in the cupboard for the ingredients she needed and then texted Paula to ask her to buy what we didn’t have. On Sunday morning delicious smells came from the kitchen as Zeena cooked the chapris (savoury pancakes), leaving out the chilli from ours as we weren’t used to highly spiced food first thing in the morning. They were delicious and we all agreed we’d be happy if this became a regular occurrence. Zeena was pleased.

By the end of the weekend Zeena appeared to be more relaxed and had stopped asking me each and every time she wanted to do something, like have a glass of water or go to her room. However, despite her appearing to feel more at ease, she still hadn’t said anything of her abuse or suffering or the reason she’d asked to come into care, and I hadn’t brought up the subject. It was early days yet, and my role was to support and look after her. If and when she wanted to confide in me, as I hoped she would, then I would be ready to listen, but I wouldn’t be pushing her to do so. She knew she could talk to me any time and could also telephone Norma or Tara. Zeena was coping in her own way, but I did wonder how she could concentrate on her school lessons with so much on her mind. She’d had some homework to do over the weekend and from what I’ve seen she was achieving a high standard, despite everything. Perhaps school was a safe haven for her, as it was for many children with difficult home lives.

Having stayed in all weekend, security hadn’t been an issue, but on Monday morning I again asked Zeena if I could take her to school in the car. She said it wasn’t necessary, and that she would phone if she needed help, which I had to accept. I went with her to the front gate to say goodbye and also to check there were no strangers in the street. I reminded her to text me when she arrived at school, and before she left she gave me a hug and a kiss and thanked me for a nice weekend – although in truth we hadn’t really done anything. I watched her walk up the street until she was out of sight and then I returned indoors. If I entertained any thoughts that Zeena was exaggerating the threat to her safety, they vanished later that morning.

Dressed smartly in a blouse and skirt, I left the house twenty minutes later to drive to the council offices where the foster-carer training I was delivering was being held. Although the training wasn’t due to start until ten o’clock I wanted to arrive early to set up the PowerPoint presentation and generally organize myself with the handouts. Zeena texted confirming she’d arrived safely at school and I was pleased she’d remembered to let me know.

Carers began arriving at 9.45 a.m. and I greeted each of them as they entered, ticking their names off the registration sheet. When I’d fostered for Homefinders I’d been with them for so long that I knew most of the carers, but since changing to the local authority there were many I didn’t know. Not all carers attended every training session as the groups were limited in size, and sessions were repeated so that carers could choose a date that suited them and met their training needs. Ongoing training is now part of fostering and compulsory in the UK.

The carers, like students in a classroom, filled the chairs at the back of the room first, and began chatting to those they knew. A middle-aged Asian lady dressed attractively in a sari came in and I smiled at her, introduced myself and then ticked her name off the list. She sat alone at one of the front tables and watched me as I sorted through my paperwork. I smiled at her again and then she beckoned me over as though wanting to say something. I leaned forward so I was within earshot, and she said quietly, ‘Are you fostering Zeena?’

I drew back slightly and tried to hide my shock, but my mouth had gone dry and my heart was drumming loudly. ‘Pardon?’ I said, pretending I hadn’t heard.

‘Are you fostering Zeena P—?’ she said again. ‘She’s fourteen and has run away from home. Her parents are sick with worry. She needs to contact them and go home.’

‘No, sorry. I can’t help you,’ I said, forcing a small smile.

I picked up my notes and pretended to read them again as I fought to regain my composure. How on earth did she know Zeena was with me? And what was that about Zeena running away and not being in touch? Zeena had seen her mother on Friday and she’d been aggressive and rude to her. Yet clearly we were talking about the same child.

The last of the carers came in and I closed the door and tried to rein in my thoughts. Picking up my notes, I began by welcoming everyone to the training, and then went through what’s referred to as ‘housekeeping’, which includes where the fire exits are, a reminder to turn off mobiles, confidentiality and a timetable for the day. As I spoke I avoided meeting the woman’s gaze, although I felt her eyes on me. My heart was still racing and my hands felt clammy, but once I began the PowerPoint presentation and everyone was concentrating on the screen it became a little easier. I stood to the side of the room and allowed my gaze to wander as I talked. Who was the woman and how did she know Zeena? Was she a relative, a member of her extended family and part of the Asian network Zeena had spoken of? I had no idea, but I needed to find out. This could be a huge threat to Zeena’s security.

Somehow I got through the next two hours and then at noon I broke the training for lunch. I reminded everyone that they needed to return by one o’clock for the afternoon session, and slipping the registration list into my bag I left the room. I went upstairs to where the social workers had their desks. It was a large open-plan office and I looked around for Edith, my supervising social worker (sometimes called a link worker), but I couldn’t see her. I saw another social worker I knew and she looked over and smiled. I went to her desk. ‘I’m looking for Edith or Tara,’ I said.

‘Edith has gone on leave, but Tara should be around somewhere,’ she said.

She, too, scanned the room and at that moment the double doors swung open and Tara came in, carrying a stack of folders.

‘Thank you,’ I said, and went over.

‘Hi. What are you doing here?’ Tara said, greeting me with a smile.

‘I’m running some training today,’ I said. ‘But I need to ask you something.’ I took the registration list from my bag. ‘This lady, Mrs Parvin –’ I said, pointing to her name on the sheet. ‘Could she know I’m looking after Zeena?’

‘She certainly shouldn’t,’ Tara said, shocked.

I explained what had happened.

‘I’ll see her supervising social worker straight away and find out what’s going on,’ Tara said. ‘Everyone here who’s working on Zeena’s case knows her whereabouts are to be kept secret. Is Zeena at school?’

‘Yes.’

‘Norma telephoned me this morning and said Zeena wasn’t able to tell her anything on Friday,’ Tara said.

‘That’s right. Norma said she’d been scared into not telling, and she hasn’t said anything to me either.’

Tara nodded. ‘How was Zeena over the weekend?’

‘She felt safer staying in, but we had a pleasant weekend.’ I gave her a brief résumé of our weekend.

‘And Zeena doesn’t need anything?’

‘No. I’ve asked her.’

‘OK. Let me find out what’s going on with Mrs Parvin and I’ll get back to you.’

‘Thank you.’

I left the office and went up to the canteen on the top floor. I bought a sandwich and a drink and joined some of the other carers at a table. We chatted as we ate. Mrs Parvin wasn’t in the canteen, but not all the carers were; some preferred to go out for lunch – to one of the local cafés. Once I’d finished eating I returned to the training room to prepare for the afternoon session, which was going to include role-playing situations that involved challenging behaviour. I pushed the tables and chairs to the edge of the room to make space in the middle. The carers returned and Mrs Parvin sat with two others. I began the session and it went well; role playing is a fun way of getting a message across. As we discussed the situations that we’d acted out involving challenging behaviour I was able to meet Mrs Parvin’s gaze, but there was nothing to be read there. At 3.45 p.m. I began winding up the session by going over what we’d covered, and then I distributed the handouts. As I did I saw Tara appear outside the glass-panelled door. She motioned that she’d wait and speak to me at the end. I concluded by thanking everyone for coming and said their certificates would be posted to them, then I opened the door for Tara to come in.

She waited until the room had emptied before she spoke. ‘I’ve raised the issue with Mrs Parvin’s supervising social worker. She’s going to speak to her now about the seriousness of breaking confidentiality, and also find out what she knows about Zeena. I’ve updated Norma and she’s ready to move Zeena out of the area to a safe house if necessary. She offered Zeena that option at the start, but Zeena said she wanted to stay in the area so she could be close to her brothers and sisters and see her friends at school. Could you ask Zeena if she knows Mrs Parvin?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘We don’t know for certain that Mrs Parvin does know Zeena is with you,’ Tara continued. ‘She may just be fishing or it may be coincidence, although it’s a big one if it is.’

I nodded.

‘I’ll let you know the outcome, but obviously if you have any concerns about Zeena’s safety phone Norma or dial police emergency on 999.’

‘I will,’ I said.

Tara thanked me and asked how the training had gone, then we said goodbye and she left the room. Deep in thought and very worried, I packed away my training material, left the building and then drove home. As I approached my house I was even more vigilant and checked the street before parking on the drive and going in. I was expecting Zeena to arrive home at about half past four. When she didn’t appear I immediately started to worry. I called her mobile but it went through to her voicemail. I left a message asking her to text or phone to say she was OK.

Five minutes later she texted: Im OK. On the bus. Then a couple of minutes later she phoned. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to worry you. I went home first.’

‘Zeena, that’s not a good idea,’ I said. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes. I just wanted to see my brothers and sisters, but Mum wouldn’t open the door.’

‘So you didn’t see them?’

‘No.’

‘I’m sorry, but I really think you should wait for Tara to arrange contact.’

‘I know,’ she said sadly. ‘If my mother lets her. I don’t think she will.’

‘How much longer have you got on the bus?’

‘About ten minutes,’ she said.

‘All right. I’ll see you soon. Come straight home.’

Ten minutes later Zeena arrived home and I waited until she’d had a drink before I asked her if she knew Mrs S— Parvin.

‘Parvin is a common Bangladeshi name,’ Zeena said. ‘Although not in my family.’

‘So you don’t know her?’

‘I don’t think so. Why?’

We were now sitting in the living room and I looked at her seriously. ‘I don’t want you to be alarmed, but while I was at the council offices today a foster carer with that name asked if you were staying with me.’

Zeena looked puzzled but not shocked.

‘Could you have been followed home here?’ I asked, trying to hide my concern.

‘No, I’m constantly checking behind me,’ she said.

‘Have you told anyone you’re staying with me?’ I asked.

‘No,’ she said.

‘Not even your friends at school?’

‘I haven’t told anyone,’ Zeena said, and then hesitated.

‘Yes, go on,’ I encouraged. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘I can guess what has happened,’ she said evenly.

I now expected to hear the worst: that she’d accidentally let slip she was coming to live with me and this had somehow been passed on. However, what she told me was far more incredible.

‘When I told my best friend at school I was going to ask to come into care she was very worried. She said my family would be furious and they’d track me down through the Asian network and find me, which I knew was true. That’s why I asked for a white carer.’

‘Yes, I remember you saying something similar when you first arrived. Did you tell your friend you were here?’

‘No. I told her I was going to ask for a white carer. I had to; she was so worried about me. But I haven’t told her your name or where you live. It wasn’t fair on her to tell her, because her parents were sure to ask her if she knew where I was. They know my family. They all know each other. It would have been difficult for her to lie to her parents. I couldn’t ask her to do that.’

‘Yes?’ I prompted.

‘Well, her aunty lives next door to a foster carer who is Asian,’ Zeena continued. ‘I remember her aunty telling us about her when we visited her once, ages ago. I don’t know the neighbour’s name, but I bet it’s Parvin. She won’t know I’m here, but she’ll have been asked to find out which carer has me and to pass the information back to my family. That’s how it works with us.’

I stared at her with a mixture of awe and astonishment. ‘But how did your best friend’s aunty know you were in care?’

Zeena gave a small shrug. ‘Easy, really. My friend will have told her mother when she asked her, and she would have mentioned it to her sister (my friend’s aunty), who would have asked her neighbour. Because it was put out by my parents that I’d run away and was in danger, they’d all think they were doing right in helping to find me. Girls don’t run away in our community. It brings shame and dishonour, not only on the family but on the whole community. If they do run away they don’t stay lost for long.’

A chill ran down my spine. I could see now how it had happened and I was really worried – far more than Zeena appeared to be. ‘Norma suggested you go to a safe house out of the area,’ I said. ‘Don’t you think that’s a good idea?’

‘I’d rather stay here and be with my friends,’ Zeena said sadly. ‘I’ve lost my family; I don’t want to lose my friends as well. If I go to a safe house I’ll be all alone. What sort of life would I have?’

I could see her point, although I was no less worried.

‘You told that woman, Mrs Parvin, that I wasn’t here,’ Zeena said. ‘So she doesn’t know. I’ll be OK. I’m probably safer here now than I was before. They’ll be looking somewhere else for me.’ Which had a certain logic to it; as long as she wasn’t spotted.

‘I’m still very concerned that someone could see you coming in or leaving the house,’ I said. ‘Or follow you home.’

‘My friends wait with me at the bus stop at the end of school,’ she said. ‘And when I get off in the high street here I make sure I’m not followed. I suppose I could always start wearing a full veil.’ For a moment I thought she was serious, then her expression gave way to a very small smile. ‘That would really draw attention to me!’ she said. ‘I’m only joking.’

I smiled too. Zeena was a lovely child and it was pitiful that she had to be so fearful, and that her life had been so compromised, when at her age she should have been running free. In having this conversation I felt we’d grown a little closer. Would she now feel comfortable enough to share some of her heartache with me? ‘Zeena, love, can you tell me why you fled your family and asked to go into care?’

She looked at me, and then lowered her gaze. ‘No. I don’t want you to think badly of me. If you knew you’d think I was evil and treat me like my family do.’

I was shocked. ‘Of course I wouldn’t,’ I said. ‘Children are never to blame for the abuse they’ve suffered. Although they might have been told they are. Sadly, I’ve looked after many children who have been abused, and nothing shocks me any more.’

There was a small silence before Zeena said: ‘If you knew what happened to me you’d be shocked.’

Her words hung in the air and I had a dreadful feeling she would be right.




Chapter Seven

Desperate (#u59db0d86-5327-55b2-a880-7d5f28b5b6ba)


The following day, as Zeena left for school, I reminded her to text me when she arrived, and also to come straight home at the end of school as we had the doctor’s appointment at five o’clock. I saw her to the garden gate and then watched her walk up the street. Before she turned the corner and was out of sight she looked back and gave a little wave. I waved back. In her uniform, with her bag over her shoulder, she could have been any teenager going to school if you didn’t know her inner turmoil. She said she enjoyed school work and wanted to do well.

I returned indoors but I couldn’t settle until Zeena texted to say that she had arrived safely. I woke Adrian with a cup of tea and then switched on the computer in the front room to check my emails. Like most businesses and services, the social services were going digital and expected carers to use email where appropriate. As I worked Adrian came downstairs.

‘Zeena’s phone keeps going off in her room,’ he said, poking his head round the front-room door.

‘That’s odd,’ I said. ‘She’s taken the phone that works with her. I saw it in her hand.’

‘Well, it’s bleeping a lot,’ he said, and then went to the kitchen to make himself breakfast.

I saved the document I was working on and went upstairs. I respected the privacy of the young people I looked after and usually only went into their rooms to put their clean clothes on their beds (for them to put away), unless I had reason to believe they were taking drugs or up to other mischief, in which case I might have a look around. This didn’t apply to Zeena; there was no suggestion she was taking drugs, but I was concerned that perhaps someone was trying to get hold of her urgently and didn’t have her new mobile number. As I went into her room I saw the phone lying on the shelf and I picked it up. It was working. The screen showed dozens of missed calls and text messages, mostly from one mobile number. I returned the phone to the shelf and went downstairs. Clearly someone was trying to get in touch with Zeena urgently and I thought she should know. I took my mobile from my bag and texted: Ur old phone keeps ringing. Is it urgent? Shall I answer?

She texted back immediately: NO! Don’t touch it. Pleeeease!

I thought this was a bit of an overreaction but I texted back. OK. Don’t worry. I won’t.

Five minutes later – when Zeena had had a chance to think about it – she texted: Sorry. Secret boyfriend. Don’t tell anyone.

Of course that explained it, I thought. Zeena’s parents were so strict that they certainly wouldn’t have allowed her to have a boyfriend at her age, so she used the separate phone just for him. It was quite romantic, really, I thought – a bit like Romeo and Juliet with their clandestine meetings. I supposed she hadn’t liked to tell me in case I disapproved, so she’d made up the excuse of the phone not working. I remember she’d pushed it furtively under her pillow before so I couldn’t see the screen.

That afternoon when Zeena returned home from school she was still very anxious about me seeing the phone. The first thing she said when I opened the door was: ‘You didn’t answer my phone or read my messages, did you?’

‘No, of course not, love,’ I said. ‘Although I think perhaps we should have a little chat about boyfriends in general?’ As her carer I thought this might be wise, as I doubted her parents had had that conversation, given they didn’t know he existed.

‘I’ll get changed quickly,’ Zeena said, and went up to her room to change out of her school uniform to go to the doctor’s.

Five minutes later she reappeared in jeans and a long shirt and we left the house to walk to the surgery, which was about fifteen minutes away. I usually walked to the surgery as it had limited car-parking facilities, reserved mainly for the disabled and the elderly. As Zeena didn’t know where the practice was and it was her first visit, we agreed I’d go with her and would sit in the waiting room while she went in to see the doctor. I’d offered to go in to see the doctor with her, but she said she’d rather go in alone, which at her age was reasonable. But as we walked I could see she was growing increasingly anxious. ‘The doctor is lovely,’ I said. ‘Try not to worry.’

She nodded but didn’t seem any less anxious, so I began to make light conversation to try to take her mind off it, and asked her if she’d had a good day at school. She said she had; she liked Tuesdays as she had science all morning – one of her favourite subjects. Then she suddenly turned to me and said: ‘I won’t be seeing that boy again. It’s over, so there is no need for you to worry or tell anyone.’

‘I think Tara should know,’ I said. ‘If you have boyfriend problems she or I might be able to advise you. We were both young once.’

‘There’s nothing to advise me about,’ she said. ‘It’s finished and I’ll make sure my phone is off in future.’

‘I wasn’t prying, love,’ I said, for it had sounded as though she thought I had been. ‘Adrian heard your phone ringing and I went to check as I wondered if it was urgent. That’s all.’

‘Can we just forget about it, please?’ she said, a little agitated.

‘Sure. Don’t worry.’ I changed the subject and said what a lovely afternoon it was and how much I liked the summer, but Zeena didn’t reply.

We walked the rest of the way to the surgery in silence. A couple of times I glanced at her, but there was nothing to be read in her downcast profile beyond anxiety. If she didn’t want to confide her worries in me there was little I could do to help. We entered the surgery and went to the reception desk, where Zeena gave her name and date of birth to the receptionist, who typed this information into her computer. She gave Zeena a card to complete so that she could register her as a temporary patient. We went into the waiting room and I sat beside her as she filled in the card: her name, date of birth and our address. I told her the postcode, which she hadn’t memorized yet. The last section asked for details of her previous doctor. Her pen stopped and she looked at me.

‘Why do they want to know that?’ she asked, anxiously.

‘So they can get your medical records,’ I said.

‘Will my old doctor know who my new doctor is?’ she asked.

‘I’m not sure. I suppose they might,’ I said.

‘I can’t fill it in,’ Zeena said. ‘My old doctor is a family friend and he’ll tell my parents where I am.’

I knew there was no point in trying to reassure her that confidentiality should have prevented this; she was petrified of any link that might trace her.

‘I can’t remember his details,’ she added, leaving the box blank.

‘All right, let me tell the receptionist,’ I said.

I took the card to the receptionist and explained that Zeena couldn’t remember the details of her previous doctor.

‘Just the name and the area will do,’ she said helpfully.

I went over to Zeena and repeated this. ‘I can’t remember any of it,’ she said, shaking her head.

The receptionist must have heard this, for as I returned to the desk she said, ‘All right, don’t worry. Leave it blank for now and let us know when you have the information.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

I left the card at the reception desk and returned to sit next to Zeena. A couple of minutes later her name was called and she stood and went down the short corridor to where the doctor’s consulting rooms were. A minute later she reappeared, very distressed. Rushing over, she sat down beside me. ‘It’s a man,’ she said. ‘I can’t see him.’

Dr Graham also appeared and came over. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said to me. ‘I’ll see if my wife can see her. Tell Zeena not to worry.’

‘Thank you so much,’ I said. ‘I am sorry.’

He smiled and went over to the receptionist and looked at her computer screen. I’d told Zeena the practice consisted of a husband and wife, and that I’d taken the first available evening appointment, but it hadn’t crossed my mind to tell her it was the male doctor who would be seeing her. My family and I saw either Dr Graham or his wife Dr Alice Graham. They were both excellent doctors.

Dr Graham returned and said quietly, ‘If you don’t mind waiting half an hour, my wife has a cancellation.’

‘Thank you so much,’ I said. ‘I am grateful.’

‘You’re welcome,’ he said kindly, and called the next patient.

‘Sorry,’ I said to Zeena. ‘I should have asked you if you wanted to see a woman doctor. They’re both nice people and very good doctors.’

‘It’s not that,’ she said. ‘I just can’t see him.’

‘All right. Don’t worry, we’re waiting to see his wife.’

She nodded, but I could see she was still anxious and her anxiety grew. Her hands trembled in her lap and she kept chewing her bottom lip.

‘Is there anything I can say that will make you feel less worried?’ I asked her.

‘No,’ she said.

I placed my hands on hers. ‘Try not to worry,’ I said, I didn’t know what else to say.

I then stood and went over to the small table in the corner of the waiting room where there were some magazines. I took a few and returned, offering some to Zeena, but she didn’t want one. I opened the top magazine and began flipping through it, but I couldn’t concentrate; it just occupied my hands. Zeena was clearly very worried and her refusal to see a male doctor, coupled with her not being able to tell Tara (or me) why she needed to see a doctor, led me to the conclusion that whatever she was suffering from was a personal female condition. With a sinking heart I thought she was probably pregnant. It seemed the most likely outcome, given the existence of the secret boyfriend.

That half an hour was one of the longest of my life as Zeena’s anxiety grew and I couldn’t offer her any words of comfort or support. When her name was finally called she visibly jumped.

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you?’ I asked.

‘No,’ she said quietly. Keeping her head lowered she left the waiting room, this time to go to Dr Alice Graham’s consulting room.

I returned the magazines to the table and watched the clock. The minutes ticked by very slowly and the longer Zeena was with the doctor the more convinced I became that she was pregnant. It all fitted: her secretiveness, the boyfriend’s urgent phone calls, their relationship ending when she’d told him she was pregnant; rejected by her parents and called a slut by her mother. Pregnant at fourteen, and having to shoulder the worry alone. No wonder she was in a state. I wished she could have told me.

Twenty minutes later Dr Alice Graham appeared and came over to me. ‘Could you come in, please?’ she asked quietly so none of the patients waiting could hear. ‘Zeena’s very upset.’

‘Yes, of course,’ I said, going with her.

I followed Dr Alice down the corridor into her consulting room. Zeena was sitting on one of the chairs in front of the doctor’s desk with her head in her hands, crying.

‘Oh, love,’ I said, going over and sitting in the chair next to her. I put my arm around her. Dr Alice closed the door. There was a box of tissues on the doctor’s desk and I took a couple and passed them to Zeena. ‘Come on, pet,’ I said. ‘Nothing is that bad. Whatever the problem is, we can sort it out.’

Dr Alice sat on the other side of her desk. I could tell from her expression how concerned she was, and although there were other patients in the waiting room and she was running late, I felt there was no rush and Zeena could take all the time she needed.

‘Come on, dry your eyes, love,’ I encouraged.

Zeena blew her nose and wiped her eyes and then sat hunched forward with a tissue pressed to her cheek. She looked absolutely wretched. I slipped my hand from around her shoulder and placed it reassuringly on her arm.

‘Zeena, do I have your permission to share your condition with Cathy, your foster carer?’ Dr Alice asked her.

Zeena nodded, but didn’t look up.

Dr Alice looked at me. ‘I understand Zeena has only been with you a short while?’

‘Yes. Nearly a week.’

Dr Alice made a note. ‘Zeena should have seen a doctor sooner,’ she said, ‘when her symptoms first appeared and were at their worst, although I can appreciate why she didn’t. She tells me her family are very strict?’

‘Yes,’ I said, not understanding where this was leading.

‘I’ve examined Zeena,’ Dr Alice said. ‘She has a severe case of genital herpes. She must have been in pain for some considerable time.’

‘Oh,’ I said, and hid my shock.

‘I’ve talked to Zeena about treatment options,’ Dr Alice said. ‘With a first outbreak of herpes an antiviral drug can be prescribed, but it’s most effective in the early stages. Zeena is over the worst now, although some of the sores are still open. I don’t think it will be very effective. It’s more about managing her symptoms now. Warm salt baths give the best relief. I’ll give you a leaflet that explains the condition. I’ve explained to Zeena that while any of the sores are still open they are highly infectious and she mustn’t have sexual intercourse – not that she’s likely to want to; she’ll be too sore.’

Zeena gave a small sob and I patted her arm reassuringly. I could have done with someone patting my arm, for I was struggling with what I was hearing, although I hid it. Foster carers can’t afford to be squeamish.

‘I’d like Zeena to go to the sexual health clinic first thing in the morning,’ Dr Alice continued. ‘They have better facilities for treating STIs – sexually transmitted infections – than we do here. It is important Zeena is tested to see if she has contracted any other STIs that may need treating with antibiotics. They can also give advice on protection. It’s a “walk-in” clinic at St Mary’s Hospital, so you won’t need to make an appointment. Will you be able to take her tomorrow? It’s important she goes and it’s best if she has someone with her for support.’

‘Yes, of course,’ I said, my outwardly calm manner hiding my inner turmoil.

‘The first outbreak of herpes is always the worst,’ Dr Alice continued in her professional, non-condemnatory manner. ‘But the virus stays in the body, so other outbreaks may occur in the future. This leaflet explains it in more detail. It also gives the opening times of the clinic.’ She swivelled round in her chair, took a leaflet from the shelf behind her and pushed it across her desk towards us.

Zeena didn’t take the leaflet, so I did. ‘Thank you,’ I said.

Dr Alice paused and looked directly at me. ‘Zeena is fourteen and under the legal age of consent,’ she said solemnly. ‘So there are safeguarding issues. I understand she has a social worker?’

‘Yes, Tara B—.’

‘Is she based at county hall?’

‘Yes.’

She made a note and then looked up at Zeena. I could see the pain in her eyes. I knew she had teenage children, and no one wants to see a child in this position. ‘Is there anything you want to ask me?’ she said gently to Zeena.

Zeena shook her head and stifled another sob, but didn’t look up.

‘Well, if you do think of anything, you or Cathy can phone me,’ she said kindly. ‘You’ll also be able to ask questions tomorrow at the clinic. Don’t feel embarrassed; the staff are very friendly and they’re used to counselling young people with this type of condition.’

They may be used to it, I thought, but I wasn’t. Zeena was fourteen and looked more like twelve. She was a child!

‘Zeena’s boyfriend will need to be contacted so he can be tested, and treated if necessary,’ Dr Alice continued, looking at me. ‘Zeena doesn’t feel up to telling him yet, so perhaps you can have a chat with her? It is important he is tested.’





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