The Silent Witness. Casey Watson

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СКАЧАТЬ so there was no reason for the couple not to have Bella short term. However, a few hours back, the couple’s daughter had gone into early labour, and with complications that meant the couple had no choice (as if they’d want one) but to jump in the car and make the journey to be with her. Which left Bella out on a limb, since there was no guarantee they’d be back any time soon, which was where social services, and then John, and then Mike and I came in.

      I sent up a silent prayer for happy news – perhaps a Christmas Day delivery? And for a baby who was delivered safe and well.

      Then my thoughts naturally moved to the girl we were receiving. John had managed to speak at greater length with Bella’s social worker’s line manager, and was able to give me a fuller account of the events that had led to Bella being in care.

      It seemed her mother, Laura Daniels, and her stepfather, Adam Cummings, had always had a volatile relationship. Together since Bella was three or four (with the stepdad acting very much as Bella’s father, apparently), they were already known to social services and had been for some years, following numerous complaints to police and social services, mostly with regard to their frequent noisy rows. Screaming episodes, fighting in the garden, bouts of drunken brawling; incidents like these had seen them visited by those in officialdom on numerous occasions. It had apparently been a regular occurrence.

      Yet on every occasion, it seemed, there was little in the way of follow-up. Which was not to say anything should have been done (all too easy to think you know better with the benefit of hindsight) but there was obviously a pattern: the mother always trying to calm the situation down and the stepfather, once questioned, always taking full responsibility, saying he had a drink problem which he was anxious to address.

      I had heard it all before. Who hadn’t? The cycle of drinking, drying out and then, down the line, the almost inevitable relapse was one that, sadly, was familiar to many. Yet it seemed there was a genuine desire to stop drinking in Adam Cummings, which was presumably why his luckless partner kept sticking by him. Which she clearly had, and, that being so, social services had taken a back seat, and their input had become minimal; at the time of this potentially lethal bout of violence they were down to twice-yearly visits. And all had been well. Well, up until a week ago, that was.

      I wondered what had changed. What had finally broken her.

      The one positive (in a situation where it looked like there was a distinct lack of positives) was that, by all accounts, Adam Cummings had never once laid a hand on Bella. That was also borne out by the observations of both the neighbours and successive social workers; Bella had always been found to be well looked after, well spoken, well turned out and clearly loved by both parents. Mum had always been apparently reasonably hands-on at Bella’s primary school, too. And from discussions with the wider family, which apparently included the maternal grandparents (no mention of any family on his side), it was evident that Adam only ever lashed out when under the influence, and as Bella had apparently confirmed herself, never towards her. There was also a footnote – at the time of writing, which had been in early autumn, Adam had apparently been going to AA meetings regularly.

      Ah, but Christmas. Bringer of joy, but also bringer-on of family tensions. And now a man lay in ITU and a woman in a prison cell. And in the midst of it all was their child, now all alone.

      I heard the door open and close then. Time to ponder some more later. In the meantime there were presents to wrap. Hopefully.

      My husband had done pretty well. ‘Ah, brilliant,’ I said repeatedly, as he produced gifts one by one from the supermarket carrier bag, like a conjuror pulling a rabbit from a hat. ‘I’m sure she’ll love that. And that. Oh, and that one, for definite.’

      ‘And definitely these,’ Tyler contributed, having wrenched himself from the TV to lend his considered opinion of Mike’s choice of music CDs.

      CDs were still something of a staple in our fostering lives, as we still had two elderly CD players; one in what was now Tyler’s room – he didn’t use it but wouldn’t part with it – and the other in the spare, fostering, bedroom. Yes, very old-school, and often the subject of amusement among the young (‘CD player? Isn’t that, like, an antique?’ or, in one memorable case, ‘What is that?’) but while music was universal, the modern kit on which to play it was often not – not for some of the kids who had passed through our doors down the years; some barely had shoes, let alone iPods and iPhones. We also – old school again – still had two DVD players.

      ‘Not sure about that, though,’ Tyler sniffed, catching the fluffy pink rabbit Mike now did, in fact, produce from the bag and throw at him.

      ‘It’s to put on her bed, stoopid,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to learn how girls operate, mate. Stuff on beds. That’s their thing. Totally pointless, but completely indispensable. Am I not right, oh noble Cushion Queen? Isn’t that exactly what girls do?’

      I laughed. ‘It’s exactly what girls do,’ I said.

      As well as the CDs and the fluffy bunny, and some appropriately pink festive toiletries, there was also a dressing gown – also pink and fluffy – a pair of butterfly-strewn pyjamas, a set of various hair bobbles and clips, and what I’d thought was the latest Harry Potter book – The Order of the Phoenix – which, according to a laughing Tyler, wasn’t very ‘latest’ these days, but was a bargain, apparently, and would definitely double up as a doorstop if she’d already read it.

      I reached for the wrapping paper, and handed scissors and ribbon to Tyler. ‘I’ll wrap, you garnish,’ I said, which always made him giggle. ‘Remember the way I showed you how to curl the ribbon?’

      ‘Course,’ he said. (In fact he was something of a natural.) ‘But I swear to God, don’t ever tell any of my mates I do stuff like this. Especially Denver. I’d never live it down.’

      Denver was Tyler’s best friend – had been for a few years now. He was a lovely boy and, from the start, he had been so good for Ty, particularly during the early days when he so missed his younger brother, who was still with his father and (to my mind) wicked stepmother. Ty and Denver had a bond now that I’d stake my life would prove unbreakable. And despite their endless quest to create some kind of hard-man image in public, they were both very similar in nature: kind-hearted and loving kids.

      ‘I swear on everything swearable on that your secret is safe with me,’ I told him. ‘Just like I’ve never told him you still have your bedtime milk in a plastic Spiderman cup.’

      ‘Mother!’ Tyler yelled, making me smile even more. The longer he was with us, the more he became just like us. A natural phenomenon, of course, but still thrilling even so. Not least because he sounded so like our Kieron at that age. Our Kieron who was now a fully grown, fully wise twenty-seven-year-old with a toddler. One of the joys of fostering, without a doubt, was the privilege (which was what it felt like to me) to live so many special parenting moments again.

      But a great deal of what we did was about the bad times rather than the good times, and, the presents wrapped and the clock ticking – it was by now after 10 p.m. – it was at the front of my mind that our young visitor still hadn’t arrived yet.

      By ten o’clock I was getting more than a bit antsy. Bella still hadn’t arrived and though I knew everything would change as a consequence of her coming to us, we still had to eat, and we still had to celebrate Christmas, albeit in perhaps a less OTT, more thoughtful fashion. Which meant I still had lots of preparation to do for the next day’s big celebratory dinner. I had the turkey to sort out, the vegetables to peel and the stuffing to make. The more I thought about it, the more panicked I was getting, not least because we still СКАЧАТЬ