Broken: A traumatised girl. Her troubled brother. Their shocking secret.. Rosie Lewis

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       Chapter Five

      The next day, Friday 2 January, began peacefully enough. I woke at just after 5 a.m. to the gentle sound of glass bottles clinking against doorsteps as the milkman made his deliveries. Hoping for half an hour to myself, I got up immediately and went downstairs. Mungo greeted me, tail wagging, in the hall and followed me as I switched on the computer and went into the kitchen. I made myself a coffee and fussed him while I waited for it to boot up.

      With the steaming drink at my side and Mungo at my feet, I sat at my desk to type up the previous day’s notes into my foster-carer diary. Foster carers are expected to keep detailed daily notes for each child they care for, recording such things as times and dates when babysitters are used, incidents of difficult behaviour and potential triggers, periods away from home, illnesses, medication, doctor’s visits, meetings, any disagreements that may have occurred – either with the child, their birth family during contact or with professionals – damage, theft, or involvements with police, and then email them at the end of each week to the child’s social worker for uploading onto social services’ computer system.

      Record keeping is an important part of a foster carer’s role, not only to protect against possible allegations (emailing the diaries provides the foster carer with proof that nothing has been added to the record or altered at a later stage) but also to provide a detailed history for the child in the future, should they choose to read their file when they reach adulthood. When I’d finished, I set the table for breakfast so that it was ready for the children as soon as they came down.

      Megan was first to rise, if you discounted Bobbi’s six wake-ups during the night. As Joan had mentioned, she talked a lot in her sleep, and every hour or so she called out to me. The first time I went in she complained that she didn’t like the dark, so I put a couple of plug-in night lights in the room. I went back to bed and she called me ten minutes later to tell me that the teddies I’d arranged around her bed were too starey. I collected them up and put them in the hall but she still woke an hour or so later.

      I went in to her each time and reassured her she was safe, but no sooner had I gone back to sleep than she was calling out again. The noise woke Megan several times as well, who was finding it difficult to sleep anyway because of a stomach ache. I gave her some Calpol and a hot-water bottle to ease her cramps, but she still tossed and turned, groaning whenever Bobbi called out. Tucked away in the top bunk, Archie somehow slept through the entire racket.

      ‘Morning, my angel,’ I whispered, lifting Megan into my arms. ‘How’s your tummy this morning?’

      She frowned, her disturbed night all forgotten. She cuddled close as I carried her downstairs, her head resting on my shoulder. I could feel the hard plastic of her hearing aid pressing into my skin and felt a swell of pride at her resourcefulness; over the last week or so she had taken to fitting the aid herself each morning. Sometimes she forgot to switch it on, but negotiating it into her ear was a feat in itself.

      I told her how clever she was and she beamed – her reaction evidence that she had managed to switch it on. I gave her some milk and we cuddled up on the sofa, the soft fur of Mungo’s head warming my feet. I buried my head in Megan’s hair, relishing the opportunity to hug her while she was in a sleepy state of early morning calmness, and so unusually still. It was still only half past six and I was hoping to spend at least half an hour of one-to-one time with her, as I had always tried to do with Emily and Jamie when they were younger. Megan, it seemed, had other ideas.

      ‘No, sweetheart, let them rest,’ I said, when she slipped off the sofa and tried to pull me upstairs. ‘Let’s make the most of some Mummy and Meggie time.’ She didn’t look entirely convinced on the merits of just having me to play with, but she acquiesced. We read Felicity Wishes, one of her favourite books of the moment, and then we read it again.

      Just as I was about to embark on a third reading, there was a thump overhead. Mungo’s ears pricked up. Megan was off the sofa and at the bottom of the stairs within a few seconds. As I followed her up the sound of arguing reached me, followed by another loud clunk.

      Megan stopped short at Archie and Bobbi’s bedroom door. At first I thought she was respecting the house rules and was about to congratulate her for being so vigilant, when I caught a glimpse of the room. All of the clothes that I had folded neatly away in the drawers were scattered all over the floor. The wardrobe doors hung open, the clothes inside dangling precariously from their hangers.

      Lidless felt-tip pens were strewn here and there, two upended water bottles leaking over them and creating a rainbow effect on the beige carpet. And just visible at the edge of all the mess, I could see a few food wrappers sticking out from under the bed. Megan and I exchanged mutually shocked glances.

      I picked my way through the rubbish. Megan followed. She stood next to me, hands on her hips. ‘What’s happened here?’ I asked, trying to keep my tone neutral. Between the ages of eighteen months and seven years, children are convinced that they are responsible for everything that happens to them. This СКАЧАТЬ