Betrayed: The heartbreaking true story of a struggle to escape a cruel life defined by family honour. Rosie Lewis

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      ‘So there are five of you?

      A shadow crossed her face. She shook her head again. ‘Just my brothers, Papa and me.’

      ‘Ah,’ I said softly. ‘I didn’t know that.’

      She lowered her head, the silent curtain of her headscarf shielding her expression. I could tell she was uncomfortable but then I remembered Peggy’s earlier words: if we didn’t find out something soon, Zadie could find herself having to return home. While I phrased the next question in my head, the silent pause worked its magic.

      ‘I can’t really remember much about her,’ she said softly, risking a glance in my direction. There was a strained quality to her voice and for the first time her expression was transparent, the pain in her eyes diffusing across her whole face. Above, clouds shifted, closing in on us.

      ‘Your mother?’

      She nodded.

      ‘When was the last time you saw her?’

      She let out a breath so gentle it was almost masked by the strengthening breeze. Again her fingers tapped a secret rhythm on her knees. ‘I think I was about five.’ Bobby began to whine. He trotted over and rested his head on Zadie’s lap as if sensing her discomfort. Absent-mindedly massaging his chin, she said, ‘I don’t even remember what she looks like but I can feel her sometimes, as if she’s still around.’

      The heavy sadness in her voice brought a sudden lump to my throat. I nodded, hoping to communicate how much I wanted to understand, and all the while other thoughts whirled around my brain, like was her mother dead? Or had she walked out on her family? I was trying to think how to frame my questions delicately when the rain started. Grabbing my handbag, I brushed dried leaves from the back of my jeans and sprinted after Zadie who, slipping and sliding, ran ahead with her arms out, steadying herself. By the time we reached the fence the fine rain had fortified into a deluge. I stumbled over the stile but Zadie waited behind, calling out to Bobby. He ran around the field in wide circles, barking at the air and catching raindrops on his tongue.

      When he finally reached us, yapping in excitement, we were both drenched. He jumped up to rest his muddy paws on Zadie’s chest, lapping at her face with his tongue. She closed her eyes and threw her head one way and then the other, laughing loudly. ‘Rosie, help!’ she shrieked, her brown eyes full of life.

      It was one of those moments that fixed itself in my mind so vividly that I can still picture every detail. I stood motionless for a few seconds with the rain lashing down on my back, captivated. Her teeth were very white, the front two crossing over one another slightly – not enough to worry about getting braces fitted but perfect for adding a touch of character to her smile. Her headscarf and robes became indistinguishable, clinging cold and heavy against her skin. Curves appeared where before they were hidden and it was clear from her silhouette that she wasn’t as thin as I’d first thought. It was a relief to know that I wouldn’t have to worry too much about her lack of appetite. Still giggling and with water pouring from her face, she closed her eyes and wrestled Bobby away.

      ‘You jump in,’ I shouted to Zadie over a rumble of thunder when we reached the car. ‘I’ll put Bobby on a blanket in the back.’

      Ten minutes later we dropped a drenched, smelly pup back to Jenny. The foster carer gasped when she saw him but I knew she wouldn’t mind. ‘See you on Monday then, Rosie?’

      ‘Yes, lovely.’

      ‘I sent Liz and Rachel a text, so hopefully they’ll be here too.’

      On the way home I turned the radio on for some background noise. It seemed that a walk in the rain had broken the ice, as far as I was concerned at least. Zadie had told me something about herself, albeit reluctantly at first, but it was a start and it was only her first full day. Feeling much more at ease, I began singing along to the music. Zadie’s expression in the rear-view mirror was a mixture of surprise and amusement.

      ‘Would you like to use the bathroom first?’ I asked as I stood in the hall shivering, water dripping down my nose.

      Zadie nodded and slipped off her shoes, bending over to straighten them at a neat right angle to the wall. While she ran a bath I got a clean robe out of her rucksack and draped a fluffy towel over the radiator in the hall, so that it would be warm by the time she was ready to leave the water. Getting her things ready reminded me of when Emily and Jamie were small. Every Sunday afternoon we would go for a walk in the hills or by the river. More often than not, one of them would end up with their clothes soaked through or covered in mud. I relished the thought of getting them home, giving them a hot bath then wrapping them in their soft dressing gowns.

      I think one of the reasons I enjoyed fostering so much was the opportunity it gave to lavish comfort on children who’ve sometimes not even experienced basic care. Often, when a child arrives in the foster home, they’ve never known the pleasure of tucking into a home-cooked meal or climbing, sleepy and safe, into a warm, clean bed. Being in a position to console someone in crisis is such a privilege, one I don’t think I will ever tire of.

      In the kitchen I made two mugs of hot chocolate and reached for the biscuit tin. Suffused by a feeling of optimism, I still had no sense of the traumas that lay ahead.

Chapter 5

      Lunch was pasta with cheese sauce. Zadie had told me not to worry about special food for her as she was vegetarian and I had checked that it was something she liked, but she barely touched anything. She sat in silence, her eyes fixed on her plate as she twirled her fork in her right hand. Her left hand was out of sight under the table, no doubt tapping out nervous rhythms on her thigh.

      Des, my supervising social worker, had called soon after we arrived home, to ask if he could pop in later to make one of his statutory visits. He was a gregarious character and always managed to bring out the louder side of my own personality, so I was looking forward to introducing him to Zadie. If anyone could bring Zadie out of her shell, it would be him.

      The rest of the afternoon passed quietly, with Zadie up in her room reading The Red Pony. I was happy with her choice, confident that the classic was unlikely to cause offence to anyone. While she was occupied I sat in the conservatory to write up my daily diary. Recording our earlier conversation in the forest, I remembered how abruptly it had ended. It was a shame the rain had started just at the moment she spoke of her mother. I sat mulling over what she had said, itching to find out more.

      When my records were up to date I invited Zadie to help me prepare a chicken pie for our evening meal, hoping that we might take up the conversation where we left off. Emily and Jamie were going to the golf driving range with their dad after school – although we had divorced years earlier, Gary remained dedicated to the children and saw them often – so we had a long afternoon to fill. She seemed content pottering around the kitchen and was adept at preparing food, even the meat, despite being a vegetarian. It was clear that she was well practised at preparing meals for a large family. Without any direction from me she tore the plastic from a pack of chicken and rinsed each fillet under the tap before deftly snipping slivers into some hot oil with a pair of kitchen scissors.

      I began kneading the pastry and chattered on about the rest of our family; my mother and nieces and nephews, but, while Zadie seemed interested, she didn’t join in or volunteer anything of her own. I remembered what Peggy had said about her father pressurising for Zadie to be returned to him and couldn’t help feeling a sense of urgency, but I didn’t want to force it so I avoided any СКАЧАТЬ