Moving Fostering Memoirs 2-Book Collection. Casey Watson

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СКАЧАТЬ and I exchanged glances. ‘It’s alright, Mum, I’ll take her outside and try to find a spare table.’

      By the time I left the restaurant, with a tray with four bowls of chips balanced on my outstretched arms, Phoebe had worked herself up into a frenzy. ‘I WANT PORRIDGE!’ she screamed, stamping her feet. ‘Not chips or sandwiches or any disgusting stuff, just PORRIDGE!’

      ‘You can have porridge when we get home,’ I said soothingly, disguising my horror for Jamie and Emily’s benefit. I didn’t want to draw any more attention than we already had and the pair of them looked mortified. ‘For now, just try to nibble some chips, or even just a piece of bread.’

      Two women planted their bags on a table a few feet away from the one Emily had claimed and gave us a cool inspection. They were well-dressed in trendy clothes, each with a patterned scarf arranged in evenly sized loops around her neck. I was accustomed to cupped whispers and double takes when I was with foster children, whether it was because of their bad behaviour, outlandish names or unusual physical appearance, but most people made a half-hearted effort to disguise their stares. But not this pair, with their flared nostrils and narrowed lips: they were looking at us as if we smelled bad.

      I remembered the looks I got when I took three-year-old Alfie out. With patterns shaved into his number one crew cut, the centre of each eyebrow removed and a silver stud in one ear, we never failed to gain negative attention.

      ‘No, blwah.’ Phoebe doubled herself over, making a show of retching loudly. Although she had genuinely gagged in the past, I was beginning to suspect this current drama was an act.

      There was a tensing in the posture of the two women as they each lowered an immaculate-looking toddler into a high chair, an indiscreet exchange of glances. I tried my best to ignore them, ushering the children to sit around our table. The two women drew out their own chairs and sat down, making sure they positioned themselves to get a good view. Their open-mouthed, unblinking expressions unnerved me but the more they stared, the less I felt like moving. I wasn’t going to be cowed into abandoning our table just to suit them. They continued to size us up as I finally managed to persuade Phoebe to take a seat next to me.

      As if their smug superiority needed any more fuelling, Phoebe suddenly raised the stakes, angrily sweeping our bowls of chips from the table, then throwing her head back, screeching with alarming force.

      One of the women winced at the sound, as if her eardrums had been physically twanged. Then, leaning in, the pair huddled together and spoke in loud whispers. A light wind masked their voices so I only caught the tail end of the sentence. ‘… people really need parenting classes … allowed to breed like that,’ said one. Her friend nodded in wholehearted agreement, shooting me a sharp look.

      I drew a deliberately long breath, wanting to correct them but resisting the urge. My own pride shouldn’t come into it, I told myself. Phoebe had as much right to be there as they did, I thought, surprising myself with the strength of protectiveness I felt towards her. ‘I’m sorry for the noise,’ I called across to them, although it was clear that they weren’t interested in pleasantries from ‘someone like me’. What I really wanted to say was that they were in danger of indigestion with all the air they were sucking in through their gaping mouths.

      ‘That’s quite alright,’ one woman said airily, with the patronising air of an accomplished mother confronted with apparent Slummy Mummy. In spite of the politeness in her tone, I knew there was no genuine warmth there. I could have told them then that I wasn’t Phoebe’s mother, but suddenly I had no urge to do so. It was perverse, I suppose, but withholding information from them gave me a sense of satisfaction – I didn’t care, let them judge me.

      In that moment I could understand why people sometimes behaved in outlandish ways as a form of protest, perhaps by having offensive tattoos or pierced body parts. It was a strangely pleasurable power, being able to irritate the snooty women simply by being there.

      Later in the afternoon, as we were queuing for an ice cream, we encountered the same two women: they joined the queue just behind us, their toddlers standing patiently by their sides, still looking remarkably spotless.

      ‘Can I just have some chocolate, Rosie?’ Phoebe asked. ‘I don’t like ice cream, blwah, yuck!’

      There was a quizzical cast to their eyes as they ran over our hotchpotch group, finally settling on Phoebe. One of the women opened her mouth to say something but perhaps she noticed a reserve in my stance because she faltered and closed it again.

      ‘Yes, OK, honey,’ I said, still aware of the woman’s internal battle. She was probably unsure as to whether to risk having a conversation with a mother so disgraceful as me. A moment later and curiosity had evidently got the better of her.

      ‘So, do your children not call you “Mummy” then?’ she asked, her face contorting like she was chewing a wasp; she couldn’t disguise her disapproval.

      ‘I’m a foster carer so, no, she doesn’t call me Mum.’

      As soon as I uttered the word ‘foster’ they both noticeably thawed. One of them clapped her hands to her face: ‘Oh, I could never do that! Could you, Celia?’

      I cringed, wondering how on earth Phoebe must feel being spoken about as if she was a hot potato that no one wanted to be left holding.

      ‘Oh no, I just couldn’t!’ Celia cried. ‘I’d get too attached.’

      Somehow I doubted that to be true. The pair of them hunkered round to include me and suddenly I was part of a triangle. Shifting uneasily, I turned back to the children, trying not to notice that I was being rewarded me with benevolent, apologetic smiles.

       Chapter 10

      Over the next couple of days Phoebe’s behaviour began to improve and her symptoms seemed to lessen. Not to the point where she could be regarded as an ordinary eight-year-old girl, far from it, but as the Easter holidays drew to a close, and Phoebe had been living with us for almost two weeks, I noticed a definite reduction in her parroting and arm flapping.

      I also became aware of a growing warmth between the two of us. It was strange, but the disapproving ‘shiny’ mums from our day out had stirred the instinct of a lioness within me and I felt an increasing protectiveness towards Phoebe. The experience had definitely brought us closer and she began to ‘accidentally’ brush against me as she passed by. It was more of an aggressive lunge than a hug, but still, I felt the right sentiment was there. Perhaps she sensed my growing fondness and was merely responding to that.

      Jamie was also spending more time with Phoebe, something I hadn’t bargained on. She followed him around like a loyal puppy in awe of its owner, but rather than being irritated by it, as I would have expected Jamie to be, he tolerated the attention with good humour. An easy intimacy crept into their play and I began to suspect that he actually enjoyed having someone look up to him. I knew he welcomed the privileges that came with no longer being the youngest, like not being the first to bed, for instance.

      There was also more coherence to Phoebe’s conversation, less ‘off the wall’ rambling. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was Emily and Jamie’s influence that had helped her to ‘normalise’ her behaviour.

      So it was that once more I felt hopeful that we were over the worst and Phoebe wouldn’t feel unhappy enough to need to soil herself again. But at 8.30am on the СКАЧАТЬ