Broken: A traumatised girl. Her troubled brother. Their shocking secret.. Rosie Lewis
smiled at him then draped my coat over the banister and went through to the kitchen, where Bobbi had already opened several cupboard doors. ‘Here you are, Bobbi, you can have this for now,’ I said, planting a banana in her hand. I shepherded her out of the kitchen and pulled out one of our dining chairs. She threw herself onto it and immediately began kicking the legs. I bent down and slipped off her shoes. The kicking stopped but almost instantly she began banging her free hand on the table and shouting at the top of her voice.
Her brother appeared at the doorway. ‘Would you like some fruit, Archie? Or do you want to wait for lunch? It won’t be long.’
‘I can wait,’ he said quietly. ‘I need the toilet though.’ At that moment Megan scooted in, carrying a box of Duplo, closely followed by Emily and Jamie.
‘Rosie, Rosie, Rosie!’ Bobbi shouted with a mouth full of banana. She pulled on my top. When I didn’t turn around she picked up one of the placemats from the table and jabbed me in the back with it.
‘Just a minute, Bobbi,’ I said firmly, stepping out of her reach. ‘The bathroom’s straight ahead at the top of the stairs, Archie. This is Jamie, by the way.’
‘Hi, Archie,’ Jamie said easily, as if he were already part of the furniture. And then to me, ‘I’m off to band practice, Mum. See you later.’
Archie, still wearing his rucksack on top of his coat, studied Jamie with interest then followed him up the hall. Emily planted a kiss on my cheek. ‘Sorry to run out on you so quickly, Mum, but I said I’d meet Holly at the library.’ In her middle year of nurse training, Emily spent much of her time off duty from the local university teaching hospital either at the library or bent over the desk in her room.
‘We’ll be fine,’ I said chirpily. I was a big fan of subliminal messages and I was talking as much to the children as to her. I usually muddle through the first few days after children arrive, doing my best to keep a calm environment while everyone adjusts to the changing family dynamics.
Employing foster carers is a snip for local authorities, who have to pay upwards of £5,000 a week if a child is placed in a residential unit or care home. Apart from financial considerations, a care home is usually the last resort for any child. Establishing them in a safe, family environment is the best way for them to build self-esteem as well as a sense of belonging and fair play.
It’s much cheaper for local authorities to place children with their own in-house carers than with those registered with private fostering agencies like Bright Heights, but recruitment challenges mean that it often isn’t possible.
While the allowances I receive as an agency foster carer are on a par with the amounts paid to carers registered with the local authority, the heavy fees charged by the agencies make fostering a profitable business; one of the reasons that hedge-fund investors have been so keen to get involved. It’s a fact I’m uncomfortable with and I’m often tempted to jump ship and transfer to my local authority.
‘Would you two like to do some colouring while I rustle up some lunch?’ I said as Emily and Jamie left.
The suggestion was not to Bobbi’s liking. ‘No, I want food now!’ she shouted, underlining the sentiment by flinging one of the placemats across the room.
It isn’t unusual for fostered children to have issues with food. The digestive discomfort caused by a surge in stress hormones can be difficult to distinguish from hunger pangs, and lots of children seek to cure their ‘funny tummy’ by feeding it. Megan’s exposure to drugs and alcohol had left her with her own digestive difficulties and she suffered with frequent tummy aches, as well as bouts of unexplained sickness. ‘It’s coming very soon, Bobbi. You don’t need to worry; they’ll always be enough food for you here.’ I quickly set out some paper and colouring pens on the table and Megan climbed up onto the chair next to Bobbi.
Thanks to a knock-through by the previous owner our house is open-plan downstairs, so I could see the girls from the kitchen as I prepared some sandwiches. Bobbi chattered continuously as she drew, the noise rising as she washed her hands at the kitchen sink. ‘Rosie, it is ready now? Is it? Is it ready?’
‘Yes, my sweet, it’s here.’ There was still no sign of Archie so as the girls sat next to each other at the table I called up to him.
‘Coming!’ he called back. ‘This looks nice,’ he said when he eventually came down. I smiled at him as he sat next to me but he kept his gaze averted. I noticed a few dark blotches that looked suspiciously like chocolate sticking to his chin and, poking out through the zipped opening of the rucksack at his feet, a shred of clear cellophane wrapping.
‘Rosie, have you got more food in the kitchen?’ Bobbi asked, her faint eyebrows furrowed with anxiety.
I laughed. ‘I have, but we have enough here for now.’ I had placed a platter of nibbles at the centre of the table and sandwiches with a variety of fillings, giving everyone a plate so that they could help themselves. Bobbi already had eight triangles piled high on her plate, as well as some crisps and about ten cherry tomatoes.
She glugged down a cupful of water and picked up two more triangles, squashing them together and ramming them into her mouth. ‘Slow down, sweetie, there’s no rush!’ I said. I preferred not to worry too much about table manners early on in a placement – I usually had plenty of other fish to fry – but Bobbi was almost gagging on her food. I was worried that she might actually choke.
‘We have plenty of food for everyone here,’ I repeated. Her eyes flicked in my direction. She slowed her chewing, but within a few seconds later she had renewed her mission with gusto. Archie ate with less abandon, but had probably already partaken of a starter in the loo.
I remembered reading something about babies and young children who have experienced real hunger internalising the idea that no one will keep them safe. Once hardwired into their brain, it can take years to overwrite such a deeply ingrained belief. A pat on my arm from Megan interrupted my thoughts. ‘Did you see my cloptiker, Mummy?’ she said, pointing to the picture at the top of a pile of drawings at the side of the table.
‘Wow, that’s great, Meggie!’ Already showing a flair for art, she would sit for hours drawing and colouring. She looked at me, her eyes shining with pride.
‘It’s horse shite,’ Bobbi piped up, her voice thick with food. I gave her a sharp glance and looked back at Megan, who, thankfully, seemed not to have heard. Though her hearing difficulties were only mild and her hearing aid helped, she still struggled to make out words when they were muffled.
‘I think it’s cool, Megan,’ Archie chipped in kindly. She beamed.
I gave him a grateful smile then looked at Bobbi. ‘We don’t use rude words like that, Bobbi.’
‘Huh?’ She folded another triangle of bread in half and rammed it into her mouth.
‘I said, you mustn’t use rude words. Say “fiddlesticks” if you can’t think of anything nice to say.’
She swallowed hard and then giggled. Megan laughed too. The pair of them grinned at each other and shouted ‘Fiddlesticks!’ at the tops of their voices. It was the first positive interaction between them and I couldn’t help but smile.
Ten minutes later as I piled the plates together, Bobbi asked for more sandwiches. ‘You’ve had enough for now, sweetie,’ I said gently. ‘But next time you feel hungry, I promise there will be food for you. There’s always fruit, whenever you want it. And we’ll be having dinner in a few hours, okay?’
She scowled at me and went red in the face. I thought she might protest further but, with every last crumb consumed, she agreed to join us for a tour of the house.
Megan led the way upstairs. Mungo waited obediently at the bottom, head cocked with interest. ‘This is my room,’ Megan announced proudly at her open door. ‘None of you are definitely not allowed in here.’
‘Alright, Meggie,’ I said, dropping a hand to her shoulder. Every foster carer is obliged to draw up