Torn: A terrified girl. A shocking secret. A terrible choice.. Rosie Lewis

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СКАЧАТЬ suggested that she sprinkle the hallway with rose petals and throw herself at my son’s feet in welcome. Still perched on the second stair, she was looking down on me with disdain.

      ‘We’ll discuss it later,’ I told her. Jamie, seemingly unaffected by Taylor’s emphatic declaration, plonked his school bag at my feet and scooted off to the living room. Clearly expecting his new, less frosty housemate to follow, he called out, ‘What year are you in?’ Reece, who seemed to have forgotten all about his tummy ache, trotted after Jamie.

      ‘One,’ he shouted behind us, repeating it several times until Jamie made a noise of acknowledgement.

      In the living room, Jamie had already separated some Lego into two piles and was directing Reece to start work on the base of a helicopter. Maisie took a seat behind them on the sofa, her gladiator sandals almost touching one of the empty cans of Red Bull lying on the carpet. Emily, her blonde hair glistening with rain, hovered uncertainly at the door. Her eyes followed Taylor with interest as the ten-year-old strode from room to room. My chest tightened as Taylor sat herself down in front of the computer and switched it on without even asking. It was natural for her to want to explore her new surroundings but there was something proprietary in her manner that irked me. It was difficult to imagine Taylor and Emily hitting it off as Jamie and Reece already seemed to have done – Emily was quite a gentle soul and I got the sense that Taylor was a girl who liked to rule the roost.

      I was about to tell Taylor that she needed to check with me before using the computer when Maisie held out some papers on a clipboard. When children come into care, their foster carer is expected to sign a placement agreement; a form setting out what is required of them as well as essential information about the children, medical consents and contact arrangements. Since the placement had been arranged in a hurry, much of the form was still blank. After scribbling my signature at the bottom of the last page, a noise from the kitchen drew my attention. Taylor had sauntered past us and opened the fridge. She was standing in front of it, perusing the contents. ‘Oh, Taylor, what are you looking for?’

      ‘Food,’ she said with a sniff. ‘God, isn’t that obvious?’ she added, her head so far into the fridge that her voice was muffled.

      ‘OK, but tell you what – you let me know what you’d like and I’ll get it for you.’ I balanced the clipboard on top of a bookshelf and walked through to the kitchen. ‘Excuse me please, love,’ I said mildly, ignoring her icy stare. ‘Would anyone else like a biscuit or something? Maisie? Tea, coffee?’

      For the first time since her arrival, Maisie seemed alert. ‘Nothing for me thanks,’ she said slowly, sitting forwards on the sofa. She was watching us avidly and half an hour later, as the social worker roused herself to leave, I discovered why. ‘OK, so, can I just ask you something, Rosie?’ she said as she stood in the hall, lifting a large, embroidered handbag and resting the strap on her shoulder.

      ‘Yes, of course.’

      ‘Cool,’ she licked her lips, ‘so, it’s about what happened just now …’

      I tilted my chin, trying to work out what she was referring to. I shook my head. ‘Sorry, I don’t follow.’

      ‘Well, you seemed re-luc-tant for Taylor to have a snack.’ She strung each syllable out with agonising slowness. ‘Was there – a prob-lem?’

      ‘Oh – of course not, I – no, not at all,’ I rushed to explain. Embarrassed, I ran my hand through my long fringe, pulling it back. ‘It’s just that I’d prefer the children to ask me first if they want something from the fridge.’

      Consternation clouded her face, her lips falling open to reveal her tongue stud. It glinted silver against her teeth. ‘But you can’t limit a child’s food intake, Ro-sie.’

      Mortified, I hesitated for a moment before answering. ‘No, and I never would, not unless there was a problem like obesity or something. But I don’t feel they should help themselves to food willy-nilly. My own children have always checked with me first, in case dinner’s almost ready or something. It’s just the way we do things.’

      Maisie’s brow furrowed with concern. ‘D’you know what, Rosie? I’m an advocate of child-led caring. Children should be able to be free to express themselves and show us what they want,’ she said. ‘Do you see where I’m coming from?’

      ‘Erm,’ I said, suddenly convinced that Maisie was a social worker I would need to tread carefully around. ‘Y-es, I believe in doing my best for children as well, absolutely, of course I do. But,’ I paused again, searching for a polite but firm response, ‘I don’t think that necessarily means always giving them what they want.’

      Maisie wrinkled her nose in a look of distaste, as if I’d waved a soiled nappy in front of her. I worried then about just how far Maisie’s commitment to ‘child-led caring’ might go.

Chapter Three

      Back in the living room, Jamie and Reece were clutching their tummies, each convulsed in a fit of giggles.

      ‘What’s so funny?’ I asked, pleased to see that Reece was looking more relaxed.

      Jamie, still snorting, opened his mouth to speak but Taylor, who was seated back at the computer, beat him to it. ‘He,’ she waved a thumb in my son’s direction, ‘reckons that that woman stinks. Reece seems to think he’s hilarious. It’s literally pathetic.’

      I glanced between the three of them, wondering where to start. Jamie held his breath, eyeing me sheepishly. ‘I – I didn’t say she stinks, Mummy,’ he said, throwing Taylor a resentful look. She jutted her chin in sneering satisfaction. ‘I said she’s a bit smelly.’

      Reece cupped a giggle in his hand.

      ‘Jamie, how many times have I asked you not to make personal comments unless you have something nice to say?’ I said chidingly. I had noticed that Maisie smelt mildly of cigarettes, and Jamie, being asthmatic, was probably more sensitive to it than the rest of us. He did have a tendency to blurt out whatever thoughts were running through his mind but what he said usually had some basis to it: there was certainly no malice in him. I was just glad he had waited until after she left to mention it.

      He bobbed his head then looked up at me earnestly. ‘About seventeen?’

      I sighed. Taylor, who was lifting the mouse and banging it down on the desk instead of clicking it, snorted. The site she had visited was unrecognisable to me but a stream of conversation was juddering up the screen. ‘I’d be grateful if you wouldn’t tell tales, Taylor. And is that a chatroom you’re in?’

      She tossed her head to the side so that her long, poker-straight fringe flew out in an arc and over one shoulder. Her hands then flattened it against her ears, something I had noticed her doing several times since her arrival. ‘Fuck off. I wasn’t telling tales, he really said it. And it’s not no chatroom, der brain, it’s Myspace.’

      Emily, who had been watching us silently from the corner of the room, gasped at Taylor’s attitude. Jamie goggled, staring at me to gauge my reaction. I restrained myself, forcing a mild response. It wasn’t unusual for children with no experience of a loving home and its usual boundaries to swear and, though often it was an unconscious habit, sometimes they did it for shock value. ‘Um, I think now may be the perfect time to run through some of our house rules,’ I said calmly as I crossed the room to open a side cabinet drawer.

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