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
could see her smiling and craning her neck as Bobby strained to lick her face. In that moment she looked so carefree that I felt a spike in my throat, upset to think that someone so young could, within minutes of logging onto the internet, access images as disturbing as the ones I’d seen earlier that morning.
The memory brought an unpleasant roll to my stomach, my discomfort compounded by the fact that it had happened ‘on my watch’. A fine mist lowered itself over the river and my windscreen clouded with condensation. Flicking the wipers on, my gaze drifted across the water where several ugly 1970s tower blocks stood. The featureless concrete buildings rose from their scenic backdrop to dominate the skyline, casting ominous shadows over the natural beauty surrounding them. Their incongruity struck me as fittingly apt; the corrupting influence of a fast-paced world on someone as fragile as Zadie seemed to be.
Three-year-old Charlie fell from a first-floor window of one of the blocks, into a large container of rubbish below. I would never forget how frightened he looked when he first arrived at my house, the cut on his head covered with a white bandage. I had recently heard how Charlie was getting on, living with his paternal grandmother; he was thriving and doing brilliantly at school. Pictures from the past often danced their way to the forefront of my mind, helping to boost my confidence at the beginning of a new placement. When things weren’t perhaps progressing as well as I hoped, it helped to remember how resilient children can be. Charlie’s rapid recovery was testament to that. Little did I realise back then that Zadie’s problems would take far longer to mend than Charlie’s cuts and bruises.
Despite the watery grey sky it was pleasantly warm, and as we pulled into a car park at the end of a narrow lane I felt my mood lighten. Zadie seemed to have relaxed. She was giggling and chattering softly to Bobby as I opened the rear door and beckoned them out. On reflection, there was no reason why I couldn’t delay our internet safety chat until another day, by which time Zadie was likely to feel more comfortable in her new environment.
As we walked side by side down a gentle slope and through a canopy of trees, a rich, woody fragrance rose to greet us. A narrow path stretched ahead into the forest, as far as the eye could see, and when we were a safe distance from the road I let Bobby off his lead. He bounded off with his tail high in the air, every so often tripping over his large front paws in his eagerness to explore. We strolled without speaking, our eyes focused on Bobby as he darted between trees and sent squirrels scattering in all directions.
As we ventured deeper into the woods, the soft drone of traffic receded until it was barely audible. The loamy earth beneath our feet muffled the sound of our footsteps so that, apart from the occasional crack as we stepped on a twig, the scuffle of small pawed animals or the distant squawking of gulls, there was near silence. I began to chatter about other places we had visited in the past, hoping that Zadie might begin to reciprocate. She smiled politely and nodded in all the right places but, apart from the odd gasp when Bobby tumbled over, she remained more or less mute. Fortunately, just as I had hoped, the puppy’s presence transformed the atmosphere so that our one-sided conversation felt companionable rather than strained.
Another hundred metres in, the path began to widen. Dappled light picked its way through the trellis of overhanging leaves, the shadowed earth shrinking as we reached a glade. Fast-moving clouds swirled overhead and there was the odd rumble in the distance. Looking up at the hooded sky, I wasn’t sure how long we would have before the rain set in. With the grassy area opening further, Zadie jogged ahead, trying to keep up with Bobby. She cut a solitary figure out there in the middle of the clearing and as I followed I hoped it wouldn’t be too long before she was brave enough to reach out to me.
My drifting thoughts were interrupted by Bobby, barking and leaping up at a fence. On the other side was a meadow strung with daisies. Further into the distance the fields sloped away to give a view of the village we had driven through and the lower foothills beyond. Zadie gathered her robe in her hands, lifting it above her ankles like a character from a Jane Austen novel. Suddenly childlike, she ran towards Bobby and pointed to a stile beyond some bushes. ‘Over here, Rosie,’ she called out, her soft voice almost swallowed by the wind. Grasping Bobby around his midriff, she lifted herself to the top plank of the stile and slipped over in one smooth motion.
I climbed over with far less elegance, even though I was wearing jeans. Zadie waited nearby, her arm flickering at her side as if ready to catch me if I stumbled. I was surprised by her gentle consideration. ‘You see over there, Zadie?’ I said, slightly breathless, pointing to a large yellow sandstone building. ‘Inside that hall are boxes of material from all over the country, from Cornwall all the way up to Scotland.’ As we crossed the meadow I told Zadie about my mother’s voluntary job at WEPH, Working to Eradicate Poverty and Hunger, a committee based at the local church. The group, mainly women, met regularly to fundraise; their latest project was to provide desks and equipment for a blind school in the Congo.
‘What are they going to do with all the material?’ she asked softly. I could tell that her interest was piqued. It was the first time she had voluntarily spoken since we left the house but, then, children in foster care are often fascinated by stories of hardship and tales of triumph over adversity. I think that hearing about other children in difficult situations gives them a yardstick to measure their own problems against, one of the reasons why all of the Jacqueline Wilson books in our house were so well thumbed.
Like adults who enjoy watching tragic or sad films, perhaps feeling relief that their lives could be worse, I think that children gain a sense of perspective and learn that they’re not alone in their sadness and uncertainty. One of the therapeutic games I play with older children works on the same principle, where they have to imagine a situation worse than their own. It may sound like a grim activity but it often works a treat and it’s surprising how many colourful and inventive scenarios they come up with.
I remembered playing the game with ten-year-old Taylor, who came to stay with her five-year-old brother. The siblings had endured years of witnessing domestic abuse between their mother and father and, using her personal experiences as a template for relating to others, Taylor would replicate the violence at school. She had a reputation for bullying and most of her classmates shied away from her. It wasn’t unusual for hers to be the only book bag in the class without a colourful little envelope containing a party invitation inside, and she would often come home to me and break her heart over the rejection.
The sad truth was, the only way Taylor knew how to relate to anyone was by using physical force and harsh words. It wasn’t surprising that parents steered their own children away, keeping their distance and encouraging them to have nothing to do with her. The awful, alternative universe situations she managed to dream up were truly terrible to hear, but we would always end the game with strategies for helping ‘Alex who had lost his entire family and was sleeping rough inside a large rat-infested drain’ or the teenager who was made to drink bleach by her drug-addled parents. Imagining what it must be like for others who experience hardship encouraged Taylor to see things from their point of view. It is a proven fact that when we empathise with others our brains release oxytocin, and slowly Taylor learned the simple lesson that showing kindness felt good. It didn’t take long for her to stop hitting out and gradually her peers became less wary of her.
‘They’re going to make patchwork quilts. They have a small army of women working on them already, and since mentioning it on Facebook they have lots more people keen to sign up. I’ve started on one myself.’ I twisted my mouth. ‘Only I haven’t got very far yet.’
I tapped my forehead. ‘And that reminds me, Mum asked me to find out where they can sell the quilts that are already made. Another thing I haven’t gotten around to.’
Zadie seemed so interested in the blind school that I wished I knew more about it. Making a mental note to find out more from Mum, I drifted onto other subjects, none of which caught her interest in the same way. She fell silent but I no longer felt like I was jabbering away to myself. Bobby loped ahead, every now and again performing an emergency stop to grab a stick or a stone between his teeth. Zadie delighted in his company, frolicking around with him in the long grass. Nettles stung my ankles as I waded after them and I was beginning to long for a cup of tea.
Eventually Zadie came to a halt by a cobbled stone wall. A large