Betrayed: The heartbreaking true story of a struggle to escape a cruel life defined by family honour. Rosie Lewis
Betrayed: The heartbreaking true story of a struggle to escape a cruel life defined by family honour
doing the rounds,’ Peggy said as she leaned back into the sofa, her face red with exertion. ‘It’s nice to finally put a face to a name.’
‘Oh dear, sounds ominous,’ I said. It was a predictable reply but my mind was distracted by Zadie. She looked so uncomfortable, still standing at the threshold of the room. ‘Would you like to sit down, Zadie?’
She dipped her head politely, obediently taking a seat about a foot away from Peggy on the sofa, though she perched on the very edge nearest the door. I got the sense that she wanted to be as far removed from us as possible. Close up I could see signs of wear on her robe. It was badly creased, tatty at the hem and hung shapelessly from her shoulders. The cardigan she wore, threads trailing from the cuffs, was missing a couple of buttons. She sat with one foot tucked neatly behind the other, her dark hands resting in a pile on her lap. There were sores all over them but it was difficult to get a good look because she kept tugging at her sleeves with her fingers, pulling them down over her knuckles. It was as if she were trying to make herself disappear.
‘Not at all,’ Peggy said after a pause.
I smiled appreciatively, although I knew that generally I was considered to be what local authorities needed their carers to be – a safe pair of hands. ‘Would either of you like a drink before we get started?’ I asked, wondering for a moment where Emily and Jamie had got to. They were nowhere to be seen. They hadn’t passed us in the hallway so I guessed they must have slipped quietly into the garden. It was unusual for them not to crowd around a new house guest, but they were getting older now and probably sensitive enough to make themselves scarce.
‘Nothing for me, thanks. I’ve done nothing but drink tea and make phone calls today. I’ll be up all night if I have anything else.’ Peggy tucked her fingers into her armpits as she spoke, as if trying to warm them, her palms at rest on the top of her breasts. I got the feeling this was not a woman to be messed with and found myself hoping that Peggy would be more supportive than Phoebe’s social worker had been. Back then I had felt as if I was a lone voice, battling against the system as well as Phoebe’s traumatic past, something that happened with dispiriting regularity.
‘Zadie?’
She looked up with a start and shook her head. It was the first time I managed to get a good look at her face. Even without the softening effect of hair, Zadie was clearly very pretty. Her lips were full, although cracked and sore. The horizontal line of the hijab slicing across her forehead seemed to accentuate the large molasses eyes below, her dark-olive, unblemished skin luminous against the harsh black material. With delicate features and thick dark eyelashes, it was the perfect face for framing with a headscarf.
I’m not sure why but I was hugely relieved to see that most of her face was visible. I think I would have been a little intimidated by the anonymity of a face veil. In the first few weeks of a new placement there are many hurdles a foster carer has to overcome in order to gain trust from the troubled child. Children that have been hurt often erect invisible walls around themselves as a defence mechanism. Sometimes it can take weeks to dismantle the barriers and ‘reach’ the child behind and I think that a face veil would have been yet another stumbling block to overcome.
I certainly didn’t need to be a body-language expert to work out that Zadie was nervous; her knees were bobbing up and down and, though the nails on her restless fingers were already short, she kept raising them to her lips, nibbling at the edges. But she may as well have been wearing a full veil for all the clues her expression gave away. It was impenetrable, neither happy nor sad, just devoid of all trace of emotion. I guessed she was probably completely drained.
‘So, Zadie. You’ve had a bit of a day of it, haven’t you?’
She nodded, her large brown eyes meeting mine for a brief moment before she cast them downwards. My eyes followed hers and for the first time I noticed that the Wiki pages were still on the floor where I’d left them before answering the door. I crossed the room and sat down in the armchair, letting a moment pass before discreetly nudging the papers underneath.
Peggy swung her bulky knees around to face the teenager. ‘Yes, she’s been a very silly girl, haven’t you?’ The social worker peered over the top of her glasses and spoke in a loud, patronisingly slow voice. ‘Hmmm? Dangerous, wasn’t it? Wandering around the town at that time of night.’
Zadie nodded her head in avid agreement, her face no longer a blank canvas but dotted with blotches of red. My heart went out to her and I felt the muscles in my jaw clenching. Besides feeling sorry for Zadie, I was irked by the way Peggy was talking to her, as if she had learning difficulties or something.
‘Never mind. I’ve got a comfortable bed ready for you,’ I said gently. ‘I’ll show you in a minute.’
Zadie nodded and gave me a grateful half-smile before looking away.
Peggy turned around again, puffing with the effort of shifting in her seat. ‘Anything could have happened,’ she said, her voice pitched a little softer as she spoke to me. ‘Probably a lad involved somewhere along the line, I shouldn’t wonder.’
Zadie glanced at me then hung her head to the floor, her shoulders hunched over.
‘Ran away from home two days ago, so she says. Slept around the back of Cannons Leisure Centre on the Sunday night. And then in a shop doorway last night, didn’t you?’ she shouted at Zadie. ‘Thank goodness the police found her before …’ Peggy sighed and closed her eyes. ‘Well, doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?’
The social worker then lowered her voice to a normal level, though I got the feeling she would rate it as a whisper. ‘The family didn’t report her missing but I spoke to the father on the telephone this afternoon. He feels that Zadie has brought shame on the family by running away …’
Zadie blinked at that body blow, her eyes flitting between the ceiling, the fireplace and the window. A chink appeared in her expression and I got the feeling that tears weren’t too far away. It was an insensitive thing to say in front of her and I felt my hackles rising again. Children are drawn to their birth parents with inexorable power, no matter what wrong has been done to them, and most, whatever appearances may suggest, genuinely want to please their mother and father. Being a social worker, Peggy must have known that her words were going to hurt.
‘So you’re not going to do anything like that again, are you, hmmm?’ Peggy spoke loudly again, as some people do to foreigners. It then struck me that Zadie might not actually be able to understand or speak English very well.
Zadie shook her head again, her face covered in blotches. My heart went out to her. I scanned my brain, trying to come up with a simple, neutral question to help her relax. Settling back into the cushions, I asked, ‘So, which school do you go to, honey?’
‘I don’t …’ she whispered, the blotches spreading to her neck. Her voice was nasal and thick with a cold, her eyes red rimmed. It wasn’t unusual for children to arrive in foster care unwell; prolonged abuse or neglect wears down resistance, leaving youngsters susceptible to all sorts of bugs and viruses.
‘Oh.’ I looked from Zadie to Peggy and back again. ‘No?’
‘I don’t know anything about the family,’ Peggy jumped in, ‘but I do know that many Muslim parents worry about lax discipline in schools and the effect on their daughters. It’s not unusual for Muslim girls to miss out on secondary education, even in this day …’
‘I used to go,’ Zadie cut in. I sensed a defensive tone, as if she were sticking up for her parents. ‘Until a few months ago, but Papa felt that it wasn’t …’ Her voice grew quieter with each word that she spoke, as if she’d run out of confidence before she could complete the sentence. Though her voice was barely audible, she spoke so eloquently that it really was ridiculous the way Peggy had raised her voice.
I nodded several times, trying to encourage Zadie to continue.
‘The parents from our local mosque drew up plans for a free school. Papa would have allowed me to go there but approval for the application has been delayed and …’
I