The Silent Witness. Casey Watson
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Название: The Silent Witness
Автор: Casey Watson
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Биографии и Мемуары
isbn: 9780008142650
isbn:
‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘What’s happened? Have there been complications with the baby?’
Sophie shook her head. ‘No, no – well, not as far as I know. No, they just don’t have any idea when they’ll return right now. And to be honest, even when they do they’ve already said they’d rather not have her back. They said they were struggling with her, to be honest – not sure they were the right couple for her. Just the three of them in the house, rattling around, Bella so silent. They feel she’d be better placed with a younger, busier family …’
‘We’ll we’re certainly busy,’ Mike said.
‘Excuse me? And young …’ I couldn’t help adding.
‘Exactly,’ Sophie said. ‘Which is why it’s so great that you’ve said you’ll have her. Big noisy family. Lots of distractions. Your other child – Tyler? It is Tyler, isn’t it?’ We both nodded. ‘Let’s hope they bond, eh? Oh, and that reminds me. I’ve already spoken to her about keeping off of social media. I don’t know how much she uses it, because it’s impossible to get anything out of her. But she’s got an account – I checked – though I have no idea how much she uses it. Parents do too. So I’ve explained how it’s important that she should avoid it – all the chitter-chatter and idle gossip and so on – and that if she wants to get in touch with friends, she needs to do it the old-fashioned way: putting pen to paper, through you. But you’ll know all that anyway, of course. Sorry.’ She gave an apologetic little grimace. I was really beginning to warm to her. ‘Anyway, we really are incredibly grateful,’ she finished. ‘And I’m here, of course – well, I say “here”, I need my bed now, as I’m sure you do. But you know, as a port of call – I’m on call right through Christmas. You know, if there are any problems that you need me for and so on … And I’m a constant,’ she said. ‘I’ve been assigned full time to Bella’s case, so at least there’s that.’
‘That’s good news,’ I said, because it really was. I knew all too well that, in their early days in care, children often went through many different social workers. It was no one’s fault. It was just that, often, there was simply no one free to take them on as a long-term commitment; caseloads were huge, always, and there was also the problem that a lot of the time no one knew how long a child was even going to be in the system. So it was often a case of filling in, helping out, the child being passed hither and thither, between social workers who already had way too much to do. And at Christmas, of course, all these problems were compounded. So, yes, it was indeed good that Bella already had that continuity in her social worker, even if Sophie might not be the most experienced one in the world.
But, arguably, she was at least the brightest.
‘I’ve got to say, Casey,’ she said, once she’d drained her mug and put her coat back on, ‘your Christmas tree is magical.’
Which made me smile. At least till we waved Sophie off, and the reality set in. That I didn’t have a magic wand to go with it.
As far as I knew, Bella slept soundly through the night. Perhaps she was just as physically exhausted as she was emotionally, but on both occasions I checked on her – I couldn’t sleep a wink, of course – I was actually surprised to find her dead to the world, star-fished on her back, snoring, one arm cradling a large and surprisingly ugly-looking soft toy – not one of ours – that looked a bit like a gremlin. Each to their own, I thought.
And both times I tiptoed in there it occurred to me that for the majority of kids, and the majority of the Western world, this was supposed to be a night of an excess of excitement, and of waking disgruntled parents long before dawn. Not so Bella. Not for many other hidden-from-view, desperate children. No happy family Christmas for them come the morning. I wondered where her mother was. What she was feeling. What a mess.
It was a far from normal Christmas morning in our house as well. Despite the lack of sleep, I’d left my alarm set for six thirty, knowing the hours ahead were going to be fraught, unknown territory. I was therefore anxious to steal a march on the day. And when it roused me – from one of those deep sleeps the sleepless always seem to fall into just before waking-up time – it was down to a cold, silent kitchen that I tiptoed, so I could get ahead with all the tasks I invariably had to do, before anyone else was awake.
Not that I expected Tyler to be that far behind me. He might be fifteen now and in theory too old to get over-excited about such childish pleasures, but, of course, many of his Christmas childhoods had been exercises in pure misery, as his father capitulated and let his stepmother bully him, while lavishing love and gifts on his younger half-brother. No, I didn’t think he’d ever outgrow such a simple, precious pleasure. And, if I had any say in it, nor would he.
For now, though, I worked silently, with only the radio on low for company; doing all the jobs I’d generally be doing with the radio blaring (singing along, sometimes dancing, a small sherry at my elbow) knowing that across the hallway, in the living room, whatever collection of kids, foster kids and grandkids we had with us, there would be happy, wrapping-paper-strewn mayhem.
I could have almost become maudlin, thinking about the girl who had parachuted into our lives so unexpectedly, so it was a blessing that Mike and Tyler joined me a scant half hour later, both whispering about the new house guest and what might be going through her head, and wondering if she’d come down or if I should go and wake her.
Eventually – and after promising they’d help with any outstanding preparations – they bullied me into going up and bringing her downstairs. Which made sense. She was going to be a huge part of our lives over the coming days, and for who knew how much longer? So the sooner we settled her in with us, and she became familiar with all our little ways – and us hers – the better those few days would be for everyone.
Bella’s bedroom door was shut when I got up to the landing, so I assumed she must have woken and perhaps used the bathroom, but when I knocked there wasn’t any reply. I waited a moment or two, wondering if she might be in the middle of dressing, but when an ear to the door produced only silence, I knocked again, and this time I opened the door slightly as well.
‘You awake, sweetie?’ I asked her, popping my head around the jamb.
Evidently. Because she wasn’t even in bed. In fact, it had already been neatly made, the weird soft toy I’d seen the night before sitting propped in front of the pillows.
‘So who’s this?’ I went on brightly, the answer to my first question now being evident. ‘Should we be formally introduced?’
Bella’s only response was to give me a tight, if polite, smile. She was sitting at the dressing table, in the pink pyjamas and dressing gown she had presumably taken from her backpack, brushing her hair with a pink polka-dotted hairbrush (tick to me, regarding the pink, then). The hair itself was thick and blonde. And much longer than I’d realised. The sort of hair that in the future would be the envy of her friends. Friends. I made a mental note to ask Bella about them. Friends who could provide support and continuity. Some much-needed sense of normality. But perhaps not just yet. Though СКАЧАТЬ