Taken. Rosie Lewis

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       Chapter Nine

      ‘Fuck, what you doing sitting in a cupboard?’ Christina demanded of Peggy in the rich, husky tone I remembered from the hospital. I hadn’t noticed it then, but Megan’s birth mother was clearly from the Newcastle area; her Geordie accent unmistakable in the confined space.

      ‘I wanted somewhere small enough to contain you in case you flew off the handle again,’ Peggy retorted, standing up with a groan and rubbing the small of her back. She tilted the back of her chair and ushered Christina in, the vague twinkle in her eyes the only clue that she wasn’t completely serious.

      Christina was wearing a short denim skirt, black ankle boots and a closely fitted, low-cut top. She looked so slender that I never would have guessed she’d recently given birth if I hadn’t known already. ‘What d’you expect?!’ she cried, though without the venom I might have expected. There was a degree of warmth in their rapport, suggesting that Peggy and Christina knew each other of old. After slamming the carrier bag she was holding and a mobile phone with a large glossy screen onto the table, Christina slumped heavily into the nearest seat, sideways on, one elbow hooked over the back. She ran her eyes around the pokey room and sniffed. ‘Well, ain’t this the dog’s bollocks?’

      Peggy returned to her own seat. ‘Strictly speaking, Christina, this meeting is over.’

      Christina scowled and shifted herself around. ‘Christ almighty, this chair’s hard! Where’s the cushions?’

      Peggy shook her head and sighed. ‘Fucking government,’ Christina continued, oblivious to the social worker’s stern glare. ‘Snatch your kid before the nurse’s even stitched up your oo-jah, then can’t be arsed to give you proper chairs. Bloody arseholes!’ She twisted her legs around, rested her elbows on the top of the carrier bag and fell into conversation with me. ‘They took her off me the minute I dropped,’ she said in a nasally tone, the skin around her nostrils red and sore, as if she’d blown her nose too much. ‘Plain. Fucking. Rude.’ Each word was stated with a noisy slap on the table. ‘I’m sick to the back teeth of it all, to be honest.’

      Peggy’s mouth twitched at the corner. She breathed out so that her nostrils flared, and then composed herself. ‘Megan needed immediate medical care, Christina. You were told that was likely after your 20-week scan. You jolly well knew what was going to happen and don’t pretend otherwise.’ I was surprised to see how easily Peggy confronted her and how naturally relaxed she seemed; I guessed that, in her job, being able to construct a dialogue with all sorts of people while challenging them as well was a valuable asset.

      ‘Yeah well, you know you’re gonna croak one day, don’t mean you’re fucking happy about it,’ Christina snapped, unfolding her arms and banging her hands down on the table, the rings she wore on each finger jangling against the grey melamine top.

      ‘Christina,’ Peggy said with a warning note.

      ‘What? I’m telling it like it is, that’s all.’ She sniffed again and let her eyes roam the room. Her gaze finally settled on me. ‘Who’s she anyway?’ she asked in a tone that was suddenly perfectly reasonable and serene. She jerked her head in my direction.

      ‘This is Rosie Lewis, Megan’s foster carer.’

      ‘Oh right,’ she said, looking at me from the corner of her eye now she knew who I was. ‘Beautiful, ain’t she?’ she asked and there was a note of aggression in her tone, as if daring me to disagree. I was used to that and knew better than to expect instant trust when caring for someone else’s baby. It was something that grew slowly; each time a parent saw their little one clean and nicely dressed for contact, every time they found fresh nappies and wipes in the bag sent with them, or perhaps a photo addressed to Mummy or Daddy tucked away somewhere for them to find. Trust usually came in time.

      I nodded, smiling. ‘Absolutely, yes, she’s gorgeous.’

      Her jawline softened and she turned her face towards me again, leaning closer. ‘Ain’t nothing wrong with her, ’cept for that gap in her lip and loads of babies have that. I keep telling them she’s all right but they don’t wanna listen. All babies puke, it ain’t just Megan. She’s got it a bit worse, probably ’cos of the butter.’

      I frowned. Opposite me, Peggy gave a sigh of exasperation.

      ‘What’s that face about? I ate a load of butter when I was pregnant. It was like one of them cravings or something. That’s what did it.’

      ‘Is that what they’re calling it these days?’ Peggy mumbled.

      Christina cut across the social worker with a contemptuous look, turning her attention back to me. She looked worn out, which wasn’t surprising considering she’d recently given birth, but there was sharpness in her face too, in character rather than features. She looked knowing somehow, as if she’d gathered more experience through the years than most other twenty-somethings.

      Her brown eyes were red-rimmed and watery, shadowed with heavy greyish pouches, and her irises were bloodshot and dull, as if she hadn’t slept in days. In some ways her appearance was a surprise; apart from looking extraordinarily tired and laid low with an apparent heavy cold, she was actually quite attractive, her dark blonde hair fluffy around her face and no trace of the wizened, emaciated look you expect of an addict. Without looking at Peggy she jabbed a thumb fiercely over her shoulder. ‘This is the sort of shit I get every time I come here. Nazis, the lot of them. They’re all the same. I don’t get told nuffink about my own baby. All they do is pick holes all the time.’

      ‘Well, it would help if you’d turn up on time,’ Peggy pointed out. ‘If you’d arrived at ten when the meeting began you would have heard all about how Megan is doing. We’ve discussed her care plan, daily routines, contact arrangements,’ she said, tapping each one off on her fingers with the forefinger of her other hand. ‘I can recap now, if you’d like? You have contact this afternoon as a matter of fact. You’ll be hosting, Rosie. I presume that’s OK?’

      My eyes widened. Peggy had summarised contact times about twenty minutes earlier, but said nothing about me hosting the event. She had also emailed a copy of the contact schedule through to me a few days earlier, but no venue had been stated. ‘Uh, I –’ I floundered. Since the demand for supervised contact at family centres was high, social workers were often keen for foster carers to cover sessions in their own home, provided there was no threat to their personal safety. Issues surrounding contact were usually discussed at the beginning of a placement, when plans for the child’s care were set out by the social worker. Peggy hadn’t said a word about it, so I had naturally assumed the contact would go ahead without any involvement from me. It was typical of her to spring the idea on me.

      ‘We’re СКАЧАТЬ