Authors: Cathy Glass
‘Yes, please,’ Norma said. ‘I want this address kept secret. As far as I’m aware no one knows Zeena is here. If that changes I might have to move her.’
‘So you think there is still a threat to Zeena’s safety?’ I asked.
‘I don’t have good reason to think otherwise,’ Norma said.
I liked Norma; she was direct and spoke her mind, and was also clearly very conscientious, as was Tara.
Tara then asked me about Zeena’s routine with us, her school work, what she did in her spare time and how she’d fitted into my household, and I was able to give some positive examples in reply. As they prepared to go Tara thanked me again for looking after Zeena and said she’d be in touch, while Norma reiterated that I should call her if I had any concerns about Zeena’s safety. I saw them to the door and we said goodbye. It was now nearly six o’clock and I called upstairs to Lucy and Zeena that dinner was ready. Zeena came down first, holding the newer of her two mobile phones – the one for general use.
‘I wish they’d leave me alone,’ she said. ‘They’re making it worse.’
‘Who?’ I asked.
‘My social worker and the police. Every time they visit my parents the neighbours talk. One of my cousins has texted me. He’s very angry. His family have been embarrassed too. The shame is falling on all my family, including my little brothers and sisters. I know what my dad is doing is wrong, but this really isn’t helping.’
She stopped, having realized what she’d said: the admission, blurted out in agitation, that her father was doing something wrong. We looked at each other for a second, and she knew I had to ask the next question.
‘What has your father been doing?’ I said.
Zeena lowered her gaze. ‘Oh, you know,’ she said, with a small shrug. ‘Making me do all the housework, and not letting me go out with my friends. Nothing, really. I didn’t mean anything by it.’
And we both knew she was lying.
It is often possible to coax the truth out of a younger child, but with teenagers it’s different. Experience had taught me that if you press a teenager for information they will clam up. The best you can do is provide a safe and secure environment with the opportunity to talk, and hope that eventually they will unburden themselves and confide. Which was what I was doing with Zeena.
‘I’m sure Tara and Norma only have your best interests at heart,’ I said easily. ‘But I’ll make them aware of your concerns. Come for dinner now.’
Paula left to meet her friends and Lucy, Zeena and I went through to the dining table. Adrian came in and joined us and the evening continued uneventfully. After we’d eaten Zeena spent most of the evening in her room doing her homework, while Adrian and Lucy were sometimes downstairs and sometimes in their rooms relaxing, just as young adults do.
The following day was Friday and as usual I saw Zeena off to school at the garden gate. ‘Nearly the weekend,’ I said. ‘See you about four.’
Four o’clock was the time Zeena usually arrived home from school, give or take a few minutes depending on which bus she caught. However, that afternoon four o’clock came and went and Zeena didn’t arrive home. When it got to 4.15 I began clock-watching, and then at 4.30 I became concerned. I called her mobile but it went through to her voicemail. I left a message asking if she was all right and I also texted:
R u OK? Cathy x
.
She didn’t reply and my concerns grew.
Paula came in but I didn’t worry her by telling her how anxious I was about Zeena. Between 4.40 and 5 p.m. I called Zeena’s mobile three more times, but it stayed switched off. I swung between convincing myself I was worrying unnecessarily to believing something dreadful had happened to her. At five o’clock I wondered if perhaps she’d stayed on after lessons had ended, so I telephoned the school and spoke to a very helpful lady in the office. I explained who I was and that Zeena hadn’t come home yet. Aware of the concerns surrounding Zeena’s safety she immediately appreciated why I was worried. She said she didn’t think Zeena had stayed for an after-school activity but she would put me through to Zeena’s form teacher, Mrs Abbot, who should know. I thanked her and waited to be connected. I hadn’t spoken to Mrs Abbot before, but when she answered in the staff-room she too sounded very pleasant – and was also immediately concerned for Zeena’s welfare.
‘As far as I’m aware there’s no reason for Zeena to still be at school,’ she said. ‘There’s only the homework club running now and she never uses that. I’ll check for you, but I think I saw her leaving the school. The staff-room overlooks the main entrance and we keep an eye on the comings and goings. I’m sure she left at the usual time with friends. Do you think you should call the police?’
‘If she doesn’t appear soon, I will,’ I said. ‘Or her social worker. Thank you for your time. If Zeena is in school, will you phone me, please?’
‘Yes, of course.’ I gave her the number of my mobile. ‘I hope you find her soon,’ she said.
I put the phone down and was just deciding whether to call Tara or Norma first when my mobile sounded with an incoming text. I quickly picked it up and to my utter relief saw that the text was from Zeena:
Im on the bus. Srry Im late. C u soon. Luv Z x
.
I telephoned the school and told the lady in the office that Zeena had been in touch and she was safe. ‘Thank goodness,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell Mrs Abbot.’
‘Thank you for all your trouble,’ I said. ‘And please thank Mrs Abbot.’
‘I will. But we’re used to teenagers here. They get chatting to their friends and lose track of time, then stroll in and wonder what all the fuss is about.’ This was true, but of course there were other reasons why I’d been so worried about Zeena. I thanked her again and we said goodbye.
I knew better than to confront Zeena when she first arrived home – it could put her on the defensive – so I waited until she’d taken off her jacket and poured herself a glass of water before I said, non-confrontationally, ‘Zeena, love, I was worried when you didn’t come home on time. Can you text me in future if you’re going to be late, please?’
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I went to school to see my brothers and sisters.’
‘At their school?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And did you see them?’
‘For a while. They came into the playground at the end of school and I talked to them, until Mum arrived to collect them. She’s always late.’
‘And was she all right with you?’ I asked.
‘No. She was surprised and annoyed to see me there, and hissed at me to go away, but she couldn’t say much with people watching. Then she took them and marched them out of the playground, trying to get away from me. But I followed them all the way home. She kept stopping and telling me to go, but I didn’t. My youngest sister thought it was a game and was laughing, but the older ones knew Mum was angry. When we got home she quickly opened the front door and pushed them inside, and then slammed the door in my face.’
‘Oh, love, how upsetting,’ I said, although Zeena didn’t seem upset.
‘At least I saw them,’ she said stoically. ‘I think I might do it again. If I keep turning up at their school and embarrassing her she might let me see my brothers and sisters at home for longer.’
‘She might,’ I said doubtfully. ‘But be careful. And if you are going to be late home again – for any reason – please phone or text me. I’ve been so worried.’
Zeena looked at me, surprised. ‘Were you really worried about me?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I was. Very much.’
‘How kind you are. I’ve never had anyone worry about me or look out for me before. At home I was the one who looked out for my little brothers and sisters.’
I thought it was a sad indictment of Zeena’s home life that she could feel this way. ‘Well, now you know how much I worry about you, remember to text or phone if you’re going to be late,’ I said with a smile.
‘I will,’ she said. ‘Thank you for caring about me. That is kind of you.’
I felt my eyes fill. ‘There’s no need to thank me,’ I said. ‘You’re a lovely girl, and you need to remember that.’
And just for a moment I thought again that Zeena was going to share something with me, but the moment passed.
That evening before I went to bed I wrote up my log notes and also emailed an update to Tara. This included Zeena’s worries about Tara and Norma visiting her parents’ house and the embarrassment it was causing her family and the wider community; the text from her cousin; her reference to her father doing something wrong (which I typed verbatim), and that Zeena had been to see her brothers and sisters at their school today, and her mother’s reaction. All of this was important and Tara needed to know, but as I typed I felt slightly uncomfortable, as though I was ‘snitching’ or ‘telling tales’. I sometimes felt this way when I was updating a social worker on something the child had said or done, even though I knew that as a foster carer I had a duty to do so and to keep detailed notes. Some children come into care having been warned by their parents not to say anything to their foster carer about what has been happening at home, and these children carry a heavy burden that often manifests itself in angry outbursts, nightmares, depression, bed-wetting and developmental delay. You can’t reach your full potential if you’re stuffed full of painful memories, and I wondered if this was the cause of Serena’s little boy’s challenging behaviour. Did he have secrets? It was certainly something I would mention when I saw Serena on Monday.
It was the weekend, and on Saturday the girls and I went shopping in a neighbouring town where there was less chance of Zeena being spotted by someone she knew. Although as far as I knew Zeena hadn’t been seen with me and there hadn’t been any strangers acting suspiciously in the vicinity of my house, I was playing safe. I’m not a great shopper – unlike Lucy and Paula, who can ‘shop until they drop’ – but I’d been saving Zeena’s clothing allowance, which I received each week from the social services, and I wanted to buy her some new clothes. Zeena had never gone clothes shopping before. Apart from being too busy with household chores and looking after her little brothers and sisters, her mother had insisted on ordering anything Zeena needed from a catalogue.
Zeena took some persuading at first to try on the clothes, but then joined Paula and Lucy in the changing rooms, while I waited outside, and their squeals of laughter suggested they were having great fun trying on the various outfits. We went from shop to shop until they all had something new to wear. Then on the way back to the car Zeena wanted to go into a little shop that, among other things, sold henna tattoo kits. Apparently she’d offered to henna tattoo Lucy’s and Paula’s hands. So that evening after we’d eaten she spent hours creating the most beautiful and intricate designs: delicate swirls that looked like exotic flowers and birds. They were truly works of art and when Adrian came home he, too, was impressed, although he declined the offer to have one on his hand.
On Sunday we visited my parents, about an hour’s drive away. It was the first time they’d met Zeena and they welcomed her as family, just as they did all the children I fostered. They’re a very warm, generous couple with big hearts – and it’s not just me, their daughter, who says that; others do too. Mum used to cook the most scrumptious Sunday roasts with all the trimmings, but it’s a lot of work and now she’s older we usually go to the local carvery for Sunday lunch, and then return to my parents’ for pudding. Mum still makes the most delicious apple pies with melt-in-your-mouth pastry, and also sponge cakes that are so light they almost float to your lips. While they were still very active, I was having to accept that they were growing old, and it made me sad. Their movements were slowing, and simple tasks like making a cup of tea took that much longer. But they were very happy, and what hadn’t changed over the years, but remained as bright as ever, was their love for each other. They’d been married for fifty-eight years and were as much in love now as they’d ever been. Yes, they’d had their ups and downs like most couples, but they were of a generation who didn’t divorce; who worked through their problems and were rewarded with an unbreakable bond. They cared for each other and looked out for each other; they held hands when out and were always considerate of each other’s feelings. I felt their fine example of what a marriage should be partly compensated for the one I couldn’t give my children when John, my husband, had left.
In the car going home Zeena said: ‘They’re really lovely people. You’re very lucky to have them.’
And we all agreed.
On Monday afternoon I spent over two hours with Serena discussing eight-year-old Billy, who was being rather naughty to put it mildly. We talked about the strategies that had worked over the weekend to correct Billy’s unacceptable behaviour, and I suggested more, which included a system of rewards and sanctions. Serena admitted she felt sorry for Billy because of his past, and because of this she probably hadn’t been as firm with him as she should have, and tended to give in to his demands – which were frequent and loud. ‘
I want this now!
’ he often shouted at the top of his voice, or ‘
No! You can’t make me
.’ The whole family had been revolving around Billy as they gave in to him rather than risk him causing a scene – which he was very good at, especially in public places.
Serena said she was going to implement my strategies straight away, and I told her she could telephone me any time if she needed help or just wanted to ‘offload’. I also suggested she keep a note of the times and situations when Billy’s ‘meltdowns’ (as she called them) occurred, to see if there was a pattern to his behaviour. The school was doing similar, as he had ‘meltdowns’ there too. Serena wasn’t breaking confidence when she told me that Billy had been very badly neglected before coming into care, and that he had frightening nightmares when he screamed out in his sleep for help. Billy’s social worker had referred him to see a psychologist at the Child and Adolescent Mental Health Service (CAMHS), and Serena was waiting for their first appointment.
Serena came across as a caring and conscientious foster carer who wanted to do the best for Billy but was struggling to cope. He’d been with her for six months and his needs were very different from the babies she’d been used to fostering. Because his behaviour was putting such a huge strain on the whole family, their supervising social worker had suggested they take a weekend break – known as respite – when Billy would go to another carer. I thought this was a very good idea. Billy would enjoy his weekend away – it would be like a little holiday for him – and it would give Serena and her family a chance to recharge their batteries. Fostering is a huge commitment – twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week – and if a child has very challenging or disturbed behaviour the stress is enormous. I was pleased their supervising social worker had had the good sense to suggest respite; so often this isn’t offered, and eventually the placement breaks down because the carers simply can’t take any more, and the child has to be moved to another carer, sometimes with the same result and they have to be moved again.