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

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СКАЧАТЬ home. A friend of mine, one of those scary people with a psychology degree, insisted that my attraction to fostering was born of a subconscious desire to heal my father and take away the pain he had felt as a child.

      I wasn’t sure about that, but on a practical level registering made sense – I needed to work but wanted to be available for Emily and Jamie whenever they needed me. Reality, as it often does, took me by surprise. In my head I had imagined that our future foster children would slot neatly into family life. Inevitably there would be problems, I knew that, but behavioural difficulties notwithstanding, we’d carry on pretty much as before. What I hadn’t bargained on were the daily diaries, monthly reports, PEPs (personal education plans) meetings, LAC (looked-after child) reviews, health-care assessments, monthly visits from supervising and children’s social workers, unannounced checks and, to top it all, providing transport to and from contact sessions with parents.

      Not that I was complaining – my need to work with troubled children, like most foster carers, came deep from the heart and the children we had shared our home with over the last two years had done as much to help our family as we had ever done for them.

      As I pulled away from the kerb, Taylor wincing exaggeratedly, I reminded myself that birth children learn lots of important life lessons from fostering, one being that simple, everyday comforts should never be taken for granted.

      Without Jamie to chat to (the pair of them had barely stopped since they woke early that morning) Reece went into overdrive as we drove towards Downsedge Primary. My son, though lively, seemed to have a calming effect on Reece, but now he bounced up and down on his seat, talking so rapidly that I could barely keep up. ‘How old do you think that BMW is then, Rosie?’

      We had been playing the same game for ten minutes and I was getting a little jaded, but at least it seemed to be distracting him from his nervy, cramping stomach.

      ‘Hmm, that’s a tricky one because there aren’t the usual letters and numbers on its registration plate,’ I said, surveying his sister in the rear-view mirror as I spoke. She sat in stony silence, every so often releasing a faint scent of coconut as she tossed her blonde locks over her shoulder. Her hair really was a beautiful colour – burnished gold with flashes of red – and shiny from all the attention she seemed to lavish on it. I was surprised that she was wearing it loose to school but she had insisted that she was allowed to, although I was frankly disbelieving that the heavy liner she wore was permitted as well.

      ‘Yes, but what do you think?’

      ‘Well, the paintwork’s shiny so I’d say two years old. Three at a push?’

      Reece clapped a hand to his forehead as if something calamitous would happen as a direct result of my vagueness. ‘Which one though? Two or three?’

      My thoughts drifted back to the previous day when Reece had appeared anguished to be presented with a choice of beds. It seemed that he was a boy who preferred absolutes. ‘Three, I’d say.’

      He groaned, blinking rapidly to stop his eyes from twitching. As if contagious, one shoulder joined in, jerking up and down in synchrony with his eyelids. ‘But how sure are you?’

      ‘Quite, quite sure.’

      Satisfied, his shoulders dropped in relief and I found myself letting out a breath as well. It was difficult not to get caught up in his panic.

      ‘What about that van then? The Ford. How old do you think that is?’

      Suppressing a sigh – he had chosen another vehicle with a personalised number plate – I hazarded a guess at five years. Reece chewed the ends of his nails as he considered my answer, his fingers visibly trembling. My heart went out to him; he seemed unable to cope with the tiniest amount of stress. Being so overwrought, it wasn’t really any wonder that he suffered from so many tummy aches.

      Suddenly his brow furrowed. ‘What, so you’re saying that van is more olderer than the BMW?’ His alarmed tone suggested that my answer was outlandish and possibly downright dangerous.

      ‘Well, it’s just a guess, Reece, that’s all. Why don’t you tell me what you think? How old would you say it is?’

      He seemed to know a lot about cars, surprising considering his age. With barely a glance he was able to identify the make and sometimes even the model of passing cars. I guessed that it must be a passion of his father’s. It was a bad idea to throw the weight of responsibility back at him though, however knowledgeable he seemed. Clamping a hand either side of his head, he clawed at his nearly bare scalp with his fingers, an expression of pure panic skittering across his face.

      ‘Owww, I don’t know what to think. I really don’t know.’

      ‘Oh, for God’s sake, shut it will yer, Reece? You’re getting on my pissing nerves.’

      I winced.

      ‘You shut it,’ Reece howled, his eyes pooling with tears. ‘I’m trying to think. Ow, what shall I guess? I really don’t know, Rosie.’

      ‘It don’t bloody matter how old it is-er,’ Taylor snapped.

      Not entirely unsympathetic with the sentiment, I said: ‘Please don’t say “shut it”, both of you. Say “be quiet” instead. And mind your language, Taylor.’

      She rolled her eyes. ‘Well, bloody be quiet then, Reece, or I’ll knock your teeth to the back of your throat.’

      ‘Erm, how about we count how many vans we see from here until we reach school?’ I ventured, knowing that Jamie adored nothing more than being presented with a challenge. He really wasn’t that much older than Reece. Besides, distraction was top of the list of social workers’ tips for dealing with difficult behaviour.

      ‘OK! You do it as well, Rosie, yeah?’

      Performing a mental punch in the air, I tried not to whoop. ‘Absolutely, but we’ll have to be quiet so I can concentrate.’

      Reece pinched his forefinger and thumb together and mimed zipping his lips together, a sight that brought a little skip to my heart. Taylor rolled her eyes and stared avidly out of the window, her forehead almost touching the glass. Downsedge Primary was about six miles on from Emily and Jamie’s school and it was already nearing 9 o’clock. Traffic grew mercifully lighter as we reached the outskirts of town, the wider, tree-lined streets windswept from the previous day’s storm.

      At 9.15 a.m. we finally pulled up outside Downsedge Primary, the school’s appearance incongruous with its earthy name. Topped with several spired turrets, the four-storey red-brick building reminded me of my own primary school, its many cottage pane windows dotted with colourful paintings and glittered mobiles. ‘S’ya later,’ Taylor said, throwing her school bag over her shoulder and striding off without a backward glance.

      ‘Have a lovely day,’ I called out to her back as I got out of the car and handed a book bag to Reece.

      He sniffed, his big eyes pricking with tears. ‘I don’t wanna go to school,’ he cried mournfully. ‘I want Mummy.’

      ‘Aw, come here, love,’ I said softly, holding out my arms. He rushed forwards and buried his head into my chest.

      Sometimes it was that easy.

      Later that afternoon, I decided to head off any negativity over my cooking skills by inviting Taylor to help СКАЧАТЬ