Torn: A terrified girl. A shocking secret. A terrible choice.. Rosie Lewis
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 me in the kitchen. Sitting on the sofa watching television, she seemed taken aback by the offer, staring between me and the screen as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. ‘What, me?’ she said, thumbing herself in the chest.
I laughed. ‘Yes, but you don’t have to. It’s up to you.’
‘All right,’ she said, which, in Taylor’s personal vocabulary constituted enthusiastic acceptance. She shuffled towards the kitchen with slow wariness, as if suspicious that the floor space between the living room and kitchen might be set with a series of small mines.
‘Turn the TV off on your way through, could you?’ I said, standing in the doorway that separated the kitchen from the living room, wiping my hands on a paper kitchen towel.
‘I want it on.’
‘Well, no one else is watching it and we’ll be quite a while. I thought we could have lasagne today, although we’ll make Reece a small one without onions.’
‘Na. I like it on in the background.’
‘But what about our environmental footprint?’ I said, trying to sound jokey. Since arriving home from school she had spent over half an hour on the computer, assuring me that she never ever went anywhere near chatrooms (‘I swear on my life, Rosie, for God’s sake-er!’), and the rest of the time watching Disney sitcoms that seemed more suited to teenagers than someone of her age. But at least they were milder than CSI, a television programme she insisted her parents allowed her to watch. I reached for the remote and switched it off. ‘Now, how confident are you with a sharp knife? Have you used one before?’
Taylor was too savvy to be sidetracked. Drawing herself to her full height (roughly an inch shorter than me) she set her jaw and flicked her fingers close to my eye. I stood unmoving, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of flinching away. ‘Changed me mind, I don’t wanna help you now. Put it back on, can yer? I wanna finish me programme.’
I hesitated, trying to work out whether agreeing would make me seem like too much of a pushover. Whenever Taylor refused to do something I was instantly ruffled, a sad indictment of my lack of experience. It was so much easier with toddlers, I thought. Counting to five and then sweeping them up in my arms if they refused to co-operate. Flailing, pudgy limbs and tiny fists were well within my capabilities. And then I reminded myself that I was supposed to be the adult so, unwilling to get drawn into childish games, I said: ‘Well, OK, but it’s going off in an hour when dinner’s ready.’
Just over an hour later I asked everyone to wash their hands. Six plates were arranged on trays I had bought earlier, since there was no longer a dining table for us to sit around. Taylor didn’t move.
‘Taylor, could you turn the television off and wash your hands for dinner, please?’
‘Just give us my tray here, ta,’ she said blithely from the sofa, as if she had special dispensation from the rules that the rest of us followed. When I hesitated she flicked her wrist at me as if to say, ‘Come on, come on’.
I drew a deep breath and walked backwards from the kitchen to the living room. ‘I’d like you to wash your hands like everyone else, please, Taylor.’
Teeth bared, she threw me a disgusted look and then slowly dragged herself to her feet, groaning as if crippled with arthritis. When she returned from the bathroom the television was off and all of us were sitting down, trays on our laps. It wasn’t ideal but when the weather improved I planned to scrub the patio table and chairs down so that we could eat our meals outside.
Instead of taking the space on the sofa that I’d left for her, Taylor reached over me to grab the remote.
Reece stiffened, the muscles in his cheeks tensing so hard that I could see them trembling.
‘It’s all right, Reece,’ I said gently. ‘There’s nothing to worry about, but, Taylor, we’re not having the television on while we eat. Now, sit down, please, there’s a love.’
She threw her arms up in disbelief. ‘Oh, why not-er?’ she screeched. ‘Mum lets us have it on all the time.’
Well, Mum’s not here is she? I was tempted to say. But I didn’t. Instead, I took a breath and then overwrote the mental retort: ‘Everyone has different rules, Taylor. In our house we each get to choose some programmes we’d like to watch. You and Reece can as well, but the TV doesn’t stay on all the time. You’ve been on the computer and watched some TV. I think that’s enough screen time for the moment. Now, come on, sit down or your dinner will get cold.’
Torn between eating and flouncing off, she stood for a moment, rocking on her heels. Food won out in the end. Without further demur, she slumped herself down on the sofa, so hard that Emily’s plate flew up, some pasta sliding onto her lap. She stared at Taylor with an expression of forbearance, glanced at me then silently lifted her knees, cradling the tray closer to her lap. I felt a flare of gratitude for her Zen-like