The Child Bride (13 page)

There was a small silence and I felt we might be getting somewhere. Zeena hadn’t said much, and I didn’t know what was causing her so much sadness and pain, but I had the feeling I’d broken down some of the barriers and we’d taken a step closer.

I looked at her. ‘Am I right in thinking you weren’t in a committed relationship with your ex-boyfriend, and maybe it was more casual?’ I asked – for this was the impression I’d formed.

Zeena nodded and was about to say something when suddenly her mobile rang from under the pillow, making us both start. She immediately pulled it out and, glancing at the caller’s number, said, ‘Sorry, I need to answer this. Can you go, please? I’ll be down soon.’

I stood as Zeena pressed to answer the call, but she didn’t speak until I’d left the room. I didn’t listen at the door; that would have been a huge breach of trust and would break the fragile bond I’d established. I went downstairs and waited in the living room, hoping that when she’d finished on the phone we might be able to continue our conversation where we’d left off. But ten minutes later when Zeena appeared – without either of her phones – the moment had gone. ‘Can I watch some television?’ she asked. ‘I’m OK now.’

She did look a bit brighter, and I wondered if her ex-boyfriend was possibly offering her some support, or maybe they were back together again. I didn’t know and I didn’t press her. As a parent and a carer I’d learned that there is a time to talk to teenagers and a time to stay silent in order to keep the lines of communication open.

Zeena watched television for about half an hour while I was in the front room, working at the computer. Then she went upstairs to her room. Paula arrived home just before four o’clock and when she knew Zeena was already in she joined her in her bedroom. The door was open and I could hear them chatting and then laughing. It was lovely to hear Zeena laugh. Again, she had managed to switch off from her sorrow and was enjoying her time with Paula, but I knew this was only temporary. Until all the reasons for her suffering and unhappiness were uncovered and properly addressed, they would continue to torment her – for I felt there was more to this than a boyfriend problem or an embarrassing disease.

We all ate together that evening, Adrian having finished work earlier than usual, and it was a very pleasant meal. Zeena joined in the conversation about bands and fashion with Lucy and Paula, and when Adrian teased them about their taste in music Zeena gave as good as she got. There was a relaxed family atmosphere, and Zeena, having lost some of her reserve, was like any teenager expressing her likes and dislikes. When we finished eating we all cleared away the dishes and then Zeena asked if she could make us a dessert.

She and I checked the cupboards for ingredients and from what I had she said she could make a type of shemai. I left the three girls in the kitchen and went to the living room to read the newspaper, while Adrian went up to his room. I could hear the girls chatting and laughing as they worked. About half an hour later Lucy called, ‘It’s ready, Mum!’ Then she yelled upstairs to Adrian that pudding was ready and he immediately came down.

We sat around the table again where they’d set out individual dessert glasses with a spoon each. Zeena then proudly carried over the large glass serving dish containing the shemai, which she placed in the centre of the table. ‘I hope you like it. Help yourselves,’ she said.

We did. It was delicious, although I dread to think how many calories it contained with the cream, sugar, raisins and butter. Not that my family had to worry – they were all very slim – it was just me who seemed a bit ‘cuddlier’ now. As we ate, and then had seconds and finished it all, Zeena explained that she made this pudding (and others) for her brothers and sisters as a treat, and they liked to help her cook. In fact, she talked quite a bit about cooking at home with her siblings, and I could see the nostalgia creep into her eyes and hear the sadness in her voice at these bitter-sweet memories of what she was missing.

After we’d scraped the bowl clean we stayed at the table chatting, and then Adrian made us all coffee. Later, the girls went upstairs and grouped in Lucy’s room, where they remained talking for most of the evening, while I read in the living room and Adrian was on the computer. As bedtime approached Lucy came to me and said in confidence that she hadn’t talked to Zeena about her condition, as she’d said she would. It hadn’t seemed appropriate, as they’d been talking about other things.

‘No worries,’ I said. ‘I’ve had a chat with her, and her social worker is coming tomorrow.’

‘I like Zeena,’ Lucy said. ‘She’s so kind and gentle. I hope they get the people who’ve hurt her.’

‘What makes you say that?’ I asked. ‘Has Zeena said something to you?’

‘No. It’s just a feeling I have that she’s suffered. I can see the sadness in her eyes, even when she’s laughing. I recognize it from when I was very unhappy.’

Lucy had been badly neglected for the first eleven years of her life, before she’d come into care.

‘I feel there’s something too,’ I said. ‘Hopefully Zeena will be able to tell us eventually, so we can help her.’

‘I’m sure she will in time,’ Lucy said. ‘I did.’

I smiled. ‘I know, love. That time seems a long while ago now. Love you.’

‘Love you too, Mum,’ she said, kissing my cheek. ‘At least Zeena seems a bit happier now.’

‘Good. I’m pleased.’

The day was closing on a more positive note, and I was feeling optimistic.

The following morning before Zeena left for school I gave her a front-door key so she could let herself in and wouldn’t have to ring the bell and then wait for one of us to answer. She was responsible and I knew she wouldn’t abuse the privilege as some teenagers I’d looked after had done – truanting from school and returning to the house when I was out, and even having an impromptu drinking party. Zeena had told me she’d never be allowed to have a key to her house, and as a foster carer I usually upheld the values of the child’s natural parents, unless they were at odds with the child’s best interest. This was one time when I felt justified in implementing my practice rather than the parents’. Zeena was a trustworthy and mature fourteen-year-old living in England, and most of her peers would have a key to their house. It wasn’t just the convenience of Zeena being able to let herself in; it was a statement of the trust I’d placed in her.

She was pleased. ‘I won’t lose it,’ she said, carefully tucking it into her purse.

‘I know you won’t, love. Have a good day. Don’t forget to text me when you arrive at school. And come straight home – Tara will be here at half past four.’

‘OK,’ she said.

I went with her to the garden gate and then I watched her walk up the street. Before she disappeared from view she turned and gave a little wave, as she’d got into the habit of doing. I waved back and then returned indoors. The house was empty now; Adrian, Paula and Lucy had already left – Adrian and Lucy were on early shifts and Paula was going swimming in the school pool before lessons started. I loaded the washing machine and then switched on the computer to answer emails and also begin planning the next training session I was due to give – on the importance of life-story work for the child in care. At 8.55 a.m. Zeena texted to say she’d arrived at school. She also thanked me for going with her to the clinic the day before, which was sweet of her. Midmorning the telephone rang. It was a social worker I didn’t know, asking me if I would mentor a carer who was struggling with the behaviour of an eight-year-old boy she and her partner were fostering. In line with other fostering services, the local authority had a scheme for partnering more experienced carers with new or less experienced carers, to offer them support and guidance. The couple I was being asked to mentor had previously fostered babies and were now struggling with the challenging behaviour of an eight-year-old, to the point where the placement was in danger of breaking down. I said I was happy to do what I could to help the couple. The social worker thanked me and said she’d pass my telephone number to them and they would phone me to arrange a meeting.

I returned to my training notes and twenty minutes later the phone rang. It was Serena, the carer I was going to mentor. She was desperate and began telling me what had been happening. The boy’s behaviour was putting the whole family under immense strain, and her teenage daughter was threatening to leave home if something didn’t change. We arranged for me to go to her house on Monday and I suggested some strategies she could use in the meantime to help with the child’s behaviour over the weekend. She thanked me and sounded a bit brighter. As a foster carer, just knowing someone appreciates what you are going through can be a help in itself. Most carers face challenging behaviour in the children they foster at some point, because children in care are often angry about what has happened to them. Their unruly behaviour can take over your life and also make you feel like a failure for not coping. Understanding why the child is angry and aggressive is only part of the equation; boundaries need to be put in place to modify the child’s behaviour so it is socially acceptable.

I made a note of the appointment in my diary and then the phone rang again. This time it was a voice I recognized: Edith, my supervising social worker. She asked me how the placement was going and I briefly updated her. She said she’d visit as soon as possible, but having just returned from a short holiday she now had to go into hospital for an operation. She said she would contact me when she returned to work. I wished her a speedy recovery and we said goodbye. I finished the paragraph I was working on about life-story work, saved and closed the document and then switched off the computer.

I had a late lunch, then went to the local supermarket to stock up on groceries. I’d just finished unpacking them when Paula arrived home. She was in good spirits and said she was going with some friends to the cinema and could she have an early dinner.

At four o’clock Zeena arrived home and let herself in.

‘Well done!’ I called from the kitchen. ‘You’re back home in plenty of time.’

She came into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water and then went upstairs to change out of her school uniform. At exactly 4.30 the doorbell rang, and when I answered I was surprised to see not only Tara, but Norma too.

‘Come on in,’ I said, with a welcoming smile.

‘I hope you don’t mind the double act,’ Norma said as they came in. ‘I need to see Zeena and it made sense for us to come together.’

‘That’s fine,’ I said.

Zeena appeared in the hall. ‘You’re looking well,’ Tara said.

‘Yes, you are,’ Norma agreed. ‘Much better than the last time I saw you.’

I was pleased. When you see a child every day you don’t always notice the improvements they’re making, but clearly Tara and Norma had, and it reflected well on my care of Zeena. ‘She’s doing very well,’ I said, and Zeena smiled self-consciously.

We went into the living room and I offered Tara and Norma a drink but they didn’t want one. ‘Do you want me to stay?’ I asked, unsure of the format their visit would take.

‘Can we talk to Zeena first, please?’ Norma said.

‘Yes, of course.’

I came out of the living room, closed the door and went into the kitchen to continue the preparations for dinner so that Paula could eat before she went out. Lucy, who’d been on an early shift at the nursery, arrived home, and I reminded her that Zeena was with her social worker in the living room and they shouldn’t be disturbed.

‘Poor her!’ Lucy said, pulling a face. ‘I’m glad I don’t have to see social workers any more.’

Once Lucy’s adoption had been granted – seven years before – all the social-worker visits and meetings had stopped, as she was no longer in care. I knew this had meant a lot to her – she’d just wanted ‘to be normal’, as she put it, like all the other kids at school who didn’t have social workers or reviews. She took an apple from the dish and went up to her room. At five o’clock I called to Paula that her dinner was ready, and then fifteen minutes later the door to the living room opened and Norma came to find me. I was sitting at the table with Paula, keeping her company while she ate.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Norma said. ‘Can you come and join us now?’

I went into the living room and as I did Zeena came out. ‘I’m going to my room,’ she said. ‘They don’t need me any more.’

‘That’s OK,’ Tara said. ‘It’s just to update you really, Cathy.’

I sat in one of the easy chairs and Norma took the other one as Tara finished putting away some papers. ‘Sorry to have taken so long,’ she said. ‘We had quite a bit to get through. Zeena’s told us all about the doctor’s and the clinic. It was a traumatic experience for her, so thank you for all you did.’

‘She coped very well, considering,’ I said.

Tara nodded. ‘Zeena could talk to us about the doctor’s and the clinic, but she hasn’t said anything about her ex-boyfriend. Has she said anything else to you?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Although I think she spoke to him on the phone yesterday after we returned from the clinic.’

‘This is the phone she keeps for him?’ Norma asked.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘But you don’t know what was said?’

‘No.’

‘She seems a lot less scared now than when she first arrived. She says she feels safe with you.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘Although she misses her brothers and sisters dreadfully.’

‘I know,’ Tara said. ‘I’ve told Zeena I’ll try and speak to her parents again, but that’s all I can do at present. I’ve had to explain to her that there is no chance of her returning home in the foreseeable future, and I’ve discussed long-term options with her. Usually I would be looking for an Asian family, but she is still opposed to that. Is she able to stay with you – at least for the time being?’

‘Yes, of course,’ I said.

Tara made a note. ‘I’ll need to set up a review soon and I’ll be in touch when I have a date for that. Zeena should be present, so we’ll make it after school. If we invite her parents we’ll hold the review at the council offices.’