The Child Bride (4 page)

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.

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.