The Child Bride

When she’d finished she paired her cutlery noiselessly in the centre of her plate and sipped her water. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s such a treat to be cooked for.’

‘Good. I’m pleased.’ I smiled.

We just had fruit and yoghurt for dessert and Zeena thanked me again. Then we stayed at the table and talked for a while. Lucy did most of the talking and kept us entertained with anecdotes about the children she looked after at the nursery. A couple of times Zeena joined in with reminiscences about one of her younger siblings, but she looked sad when she spoke of them, and said she missed them and they would miss her. I reassured her again that Tara would try to arrange for her to see them as soon as possible. Zeena’s mobile phone had been on her lap during dinner and while I didn’t usually allow phones, game consoles or toys at the meal table, it was Zeena’s first night and I hadn’t said anything. It now rang.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, standing, and left the room to take the call.

We could hear her talking in the hall in a mixture of Bengali and English, effortlessly alternating between the languages as bilingual people can do. We didn’t listen but continued our conversation, with Zeena’s voice in the background.

‘We were with Zeena when she spoke to her mother before,’ Lucy said. ‘I don’t know what her mother said to her but it wasn’t good.’

‘What makes you say that?’ I asked.

‘Zeena was upset and her mum sounded angry on the phone.’

‘Why is she in care?’ Paula asked.

‘Zeena asked to come into care,’ I said. ‘She hasn’t told the social worker what happened; only that she’s been abused.’

‘Oh dear,’ Paula said sadly.

‘Zeena needs to start talking about what happened to her,’ Lucy said, speaking from experience.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘If she does tell you anything, remember you need to persuade her to tell me.’

The girls nodded solemnly. Sometimes the child or young person we were fostering disclosed the abuse they’d suffered to my children first. Lucy, Paula and Adrian knew they had to tell me if this happened so that I could alert the social worker and better protect the child. It was distressing for us all to hear these disclosures, but it was better for the child when they began to unburden themselves and share what had happened to them, as Lucy knew.

When Zeena had finished her telephone call she didn’t return to sit with us but went straight up to her room. I gave her a few minutes and then I went up to check she was all right. Her door was open so I gave a brief knock and went in. She was sitting on the bed with her phone in her hand, texting. ‘Are you OK?’ I asked.

‘Yes, thank you.’ She glanced up. ‘I’m texting my friends from school.’

‘As long as you are all right,’ I said, and came out.

I returned downstairs to find Lucy and Paula clearing the table and stacking the dishwasher. ‘We should help you more,’ Paula said.

‘Starting from now, we will,’ Lucy added.

I thought that Zeena’s stay was going to have a very good influence on them!

Shortly before eight o’clock Adrian arrived home. All three girls and I were in the living room watching some television when we heard a key go in the front-door lock and the door open. ‘It’s my son, Adrian,’ I reminded Zeena as she instinctively tensed.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said, relieved.

I went down the hall to greet him and then we returned to the living room so he could meet Zeena. She stood as we entered and Adrian went over and shook her hand. ‘Very pleased to meet you,’ he said.

‘And you,’ she said, shyly.

At twenty-two he was over six feet tall and towered over the rest of us, especially Zeena, who was so petite she looked like a doll beside him.

‘I hope you’re settling in,’ he said to her.

‘Yes, thank you,’ she said, again shyly.

Adrian then said hi to Lucy and Paula and went to shower before eating. The girls and I watched the news on television and then Zeena asked me if it was all right if she had an early night.

‘Of course, love,’ I said. ‘You must be exhausted. I’ll show you where everything is in the bathroom and get you some fresh towels.’

‘Thank you. It’s strange not having to put my little brothers and sisters to bed,’ she said as we went down the hall.

‘I’m sure they’ll be fine. Your mum will look after them.’

‘I hope so,’ she said, thoughtfully.

At the foot of the stairs Zeena suddenly put her hand on my arm. ‘Do you lock the back door as well as the front door at night?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Yes, and bolt it. Don’t worry, you’re safe here.’

‘What about the windows?’ she asked. ‘Are those locked too?’

‘No, but they can’t be opened from the outside.’

I looked at her; she was scared, and worried for her safety, but why?

‘Trust me, love,’ I said. ‘No one can get in.’

‘Thank you. I’ll try to remember that,’ she said.

Chapter Four

Sobbing

Zeena slept well that night, although I didn’t. I’m always restless the first few nights after a new child arrives, listening out in case they are out of bed or upset and need reassuring. Nevertheless, I was awake as usual at six o’clock and fell out of bed and into the shower while the rest of the house slept. When I came out, dressed, I was surprised to see Zeena on the landing in her nightshirt and looking very worried.

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked her quietly, so as not to wake the others.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I should have set the alarm on my phone.’

‘It’s only early,’ I said. ‘I was going to wake you at seven when I wake Lucy and Paula.’

‘But I have to do my chores before I go to school,’ she said.

‘What chores?’ I asked.

‘The ironing, and cleaning the house. I always do that before I go to school.’

To have a teenager up early and expecting to do the housework was a first for me, although there was a more serious side to this.

‘Is that what you do at home?’ I asked.

‘Yes. I do the ironing and cleaning before I get the little ones up or they slow me down and I’m late for school.’

The expectations I had in respect of the household duties a fourteen-year-old should be responsible for were clearly very different from those of Zeena’s parents, and I realized it would help Zeena if I explained to her what my expectations were.

‘While you’re here,’ I said, still keeping my voice low, ‘I expect you to keep your bedroom clean and tidy, but not the rest of the house. You can help me with the cooking and cleaning, but the main responsibility for the housework is mine. If I need help, which I will do sometimes, I’ll ask you, or Adrian, Lucy or Paula. Is that all right?’

‘Yes. It’s different in my home,’ she said.

‘I understand that.’ I smiled reassuringly.

She hesitated. ‘Shall I make my lunch now or later?’

‘When I asked you yesterday about lunch I thought you said you had a school dinner?’

‘Yes, but my father used to give me the money for it, and he won’t be doing that now.’

‘I should have explained,’ I said. ‘I’ll give you the money for your school dinner. And also for your bus fare and anything else you need while you’re here. You’ll also have a small allowance for clothes and pocket money, which I’ll sort out at the weekend. As a foster carer I receive an allowance towards this, so don’t worry, you won’t go short of anything.’

‘Thank you so much,’ she said. ‘What shall I do now?’

‘It’s up to you, love. It’s early, so you can go back to bed if you wish.’

‘Really? Can I listen to music on my phone?’

‘Yes, as long as you don’t disturb the others.’

‘I’ll use my earphones. Thank you so much,’ she said. She went to her room with the gratitude of someone who’d just received a much-wanted gift, which in a way I supposed she had: the gift of time. For without doubt at home Zeena had precious little time to herself, and the more I learned – even allowing for cultural differences – the more I felt her responsibilities were excessive for a child of her age. I’d mention it to Tara when we next spoke.

At seven o’clock I knocked on the girls’ bedroom doors to wake them. Adrian, having worked an evening shift, didn’t have to be up until 9.30 to start work at 10.30. I gave Zeena her freshly laundered school uniform, checked she had everything she needed and left her to wash and dress. Zeena, Lucy and Paula would take turns in the bathroom and then arrive downstairs for breakfast as they were ready. When my children were younger I used to make breakfast for us all and we ate together, but now they were older they helped themselves to cereal and toast or whatever they fancied, while I saw to the child or children we were fostering. We all ate together as much as possible in the evenings and at weekends.

When Zeena came down washed and dressed in her school uniform, I asked her what she liked for breakfast. She said she usually had fruit and yoghurt during the week, and eggs or chapri (a type of pancake) at the weekend. I showed her where the fruit and yoghurt were and she helped herself. I then sat at the table with her and made light conversation while we ate. I also asked her if she needed me to buy her anything, as I could easily pop to the local shops, but she said she didn’t think so as she would collect what she needed from home after school.

‘Are you sure you’ll be all right going home alone?’ I asked her, still concerned that this wasn’t the right course of action.

‘Yes. Mum said it was all right for me to have some of my things.’

‘Why didn’t she give them to you yesterday instead of packing clothes you couldn’t wear?’ I asked, baffled.

Zeena concentrated on her food as she replied. ‘I guess she made a mistake,’ she said quietly. It seemed an odd mistake to me, and that wasn’t what Zeena had said when she’d opened the case, but I didn’t challenge her; I let it go.

Lucy left first to go to work and as usual she was five minutes late. Calling a hurried goodbye from the hall she slammed the door with such haste that the whole house shook. I was used to it but it made Zeena jump. It was a regular week-day occurrence. Lucy had tried setting her alarm five minutes early, but then compensated by allowing herself another five minutes in bed. She was never late for work as far as I knew; it just meant she left the house in a rush every morning and then had to run to catch the bus. She told me a car was the answer, and I told her she’d better start saving.

When it was time for Zeena to leave I gave her the money she needed for her bus fare and lunch, as well as some extra. Again I offered to take her to school in my car, but she said she’d be all right on the bus and promised to text me to say she’d arrived safely.

‘All right, if you’re sure,’ I said, and opened the front door.

She had the navy headscarf she’d worn when she’d first arrived around her shoulders and draped it loosely over her head as she stepped outside. I went with her down the front-garden path to see her off and also check that there were no strangers loitering suspiciously in the street. Although Zeena seemed more relaxed about her security this morning after a good night’s sleep, I still had Tara’s words about being vigilant ringing in my ears. As a foster carer I’d been in this position before when an angry parent had found out where their child had been placed and was threatening to come to my house. But with Zeena believing her life was in danger, this had reached a whole new level.

As far as I could see the street was clear. Zeena kissed me goodbye and then I watched her walk up the street until she disappeared from sight. The bus stop was on the high road, about a five-minute walk away.

Paula left for sixth-form at 8.30. Then a few minutes later the landline rang. I answered it in the kitchen where I was clearing up and was surprised to hear from Tara so early in the morning. She was calling from her mobile and there was background noise.

‘I’m on the bus, going to work,’ she said. ‘I’ve been worrying about Zeena all night and wanted to check she’s OK.’

It must be very difficult for social workers to switch off after leaving work, I thought.

‘She’s all right,’ I said. ‘She’s on her way to school now. I asked her again if I could drive her but she wanted to go by bus. She promised she’d text me when she gets there. She seemed a bit brighter this morning.’

‘Good,’ Tara said. ‘And she got some sleep and has had something to eat?’

‘Yes. And she’s getting on well with my daughters, Lucy and Paula.’

‘Excellent.’

‘There are a few issues I need to talk to you about though,’ I said. ‘Shall I tell you now or would it be better if I called you when you’re in your office?’ I was mindful of confidentiality; Tara was on a bus and might be overheard.

‘Go ahead,’ Tara said. ‘I can listen, although I may not be able to reply.’

‘Zeena’s clothes,’ I began. ‘You remember the suitcase she brought from home?’

‘Yes.’

‘When we opened the case yesterday evening we found it was full of lots of flimsy skirts and belly tops with sequins and beads. Zeena can’t wear any of them. She seemed shocked, and said her mother had packed the wrong clothes on purpose. Then she said the clothes weren’t hers, and this morning she said it must have been a mistake. I’ve no idea whose clothes they are or what they are for, but she can’t wear them.’

‘Strange,’ Tara said. ‘And she can’t wear any of them?’

‘No. I’ve given her what she needs from my spares. I offered to go shopping and buy her what she needs, but she says she’s going home after school to collect some of her proper clothes.’

‘I’m not sure that’s wise,’ Tara said.

‘That what I said. I suggested she speak to you, but she telephoned her mother and apparently she is all right about Zeena going over for her things. However, Lucy said that her mother sounded angry on the phone, although she didn’t know what she’d said.’

‘Thanks. I’ll phone Zeena,’ Tara said, even more concerned. Then, lowering her voice so she couldn’t be overheard, she added, ‘Has Zeena said anything to you about the nature of the abuse she’s suffered?’

‘No, but she has told me a bit about her home life. Are you aware of all the responsibility she has – for the cooking, cleaning, ironing and looking after her younger siblings?’

‘No. I hardly know anything about the family. They’ve never come to the notice of the social services before. What has Zeena said?’

I now repeated what Zeena had told me, and also that she’d been up early, expecting to clean the house before she went to school. As a foster carer I’m duty-bound to tell the social worker what I know and to keep him or her regularly informed and updated, as they are legally responsible for the child while in care. The child or children I foster know I can’t keep their secrets, and if they tell me anything that is important to their safety or well-being then I have to pass it on so the necessary measures can be taken to protect and help them.

‘It does seem excessive,’ Tara said when I’d finished. ‘I know that the eldest girl in some Asian families often has more responsibility for domestic chores than her younger siblings, or the boys, but this sounds extreme. I’ll raise it when I see her parents, which I’m hoping to do soon. Thanks, Cathy. Was there anything else?’

‘I don’t think so. I’ll make the doctor’s appointment as soon as the practice opens.’

‘Thank you. I’ll phone Zeena now. I also want to speak to her school.’

She thanked me again and we said goodbye. Tara came across as a very conscientious social worker who genuinely cared about the children she was responsible for and would go that extra mile. That she’d telephoned me on her way into work because she was worrying about Zeena said it all. She was as concerned as I was about her using the bus, and when Zeena hadn’t texted me by 8.50 a.m. – the time she should have arrived at school – my concerns increased.

I gave her until 9.00 a.m. and then texted her: R u at school? Cathy x.

She replied immediately: Srry. 4got 2 txt. I’m here with friends x.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

I now telephoned my doctor’s practice to make the appointment for Zeena. The doctors knew I fostered and I’d registered other children I’d looked after with them before, using a temporary patient registration, which could be converted into a permanent registration if necessary. This was how I registered Zeena over the phone. A registration card would need to be completed at the first visit. As Zeena’s appointment wasn’t an emergency and to save her missing school, I took the first evening slot that was available – five o’clock on Tuesday. It was Thursday now, so not long to wait. I thanked the appointments’ secretary, noted the time and date in my diary and then woke Adrian with a cup of tea.

‘You spoil me, Mum,’ he mumbled, reaching out from under the duvet for the cup.

‘I know. Don’t spill it,’ I said. ‘Time to get up.’

Since Adrian had returned from university and was working irregular hours I’d got into the habit of waking him for work with a cup of tea, although I’d assured him it was a treat that could be stopped if he didn’t clear up his room. And while we both saw the humour in little me disciplining a big lad of twenty-two (he had been known to pick me up when I was telling him off), like many young adults he still needed some guidelines. I’d read somewhere that the brain doesn’t completely stabilize until the age of twenty-five, and I’d mentioned this to all three of my children at some point.

I had coffee with Adrian while he ate his breakfast and then he went to work. I was tempted to text Zeena to make sure she was all right, but I thought she would be in her lessons now, when her phone should have been switched off and in her bag. I waited until twelve o’clock, which I thought might be the start of her lunch break to text: Hi, is everything all right? Cathy x.

It was twenty minutes before she texted back and I was worrying again: Yes. I’m ok. Thnk u x.

Tara telephoned an hour later. She’d spoken to Zeena earlier and had agreed that she could go home to collect her clothes and see her siblings, but told her to call her, me or the police if there was a problem.’

‘To be honest, Cathy,’ Tara said, ‘at her age, I can’t really stop her from going home if she’s determined. So it’s better to put in place some safeguards rather than just say no. Zeena seems sensible and I’m sure she won’t go into the house if she doesn’t feel safe.’

I agreed.

Tara then said she had telephoned Zeena’s school and had given them my contact details, and she’d been trying to make an appointment to visit Zeena’s parents, but no one was answering the landline, which was the only number she had for them. ‘Zeena tells me her mother doesn’t answer the phone unless she’s expecting a call from a relative,’ Tara said. ‘Apparently her father makes all the calls, but he isn’t home until the evening. If I can’t get hold of them I’ll just have to turn up. Also, I’ve spoken to the child protection police officer and given her your telephone number. She’ll phone you to make an appointment to see Zeena. I’ve also spoken to the head teacher at the primary school Zeena’s siblings attend, as there maybe some safeguarding issues there.’ This was normal social-work practice – if there were concerns about one child in a family then other children in the family were seen and assessed too, and part of this involved contacting their school and their doctor.

‘Thank you,’ I said, grateful for the update. ‘You have been busy.’

‘I’ve been on this case all morning,’ Tara said. ‘I’m in a meeting soon and then I have a home visit for another case. Zeena should be at her parents by three forty-five – her home is only a ten-minute walk from the school. I’ve suggested she spends no more than an hour there – to collect what she needs and see her siblings – so she should be with you by half past five. If there’s a problem, call me on my mobile.’

‘I will,’ I said. ‘I’ve made a doctor’s appointment for Zeena at five o’clock on Tuesday.’

‘Thanks,’ Tara said, and then asked for the name and contact details of my doctor’s practice, which I gave her.

Tara repeated again that if there was a problem I should phone her, but otherwise she’d be in touch again when she had any more news, and we said goodbye.

I spent the rest of the afternoon making notes in preparation for foster-carer training I was due to deliver on Monday. As an experienced carer I helped run training for newer carers as part of the Skills to Foster course. I’d been doing similar for Homefinders and when I’d transferred to the local authority they’d asked me to participate in their training. With this, fostering, some part-time administration work I did on an as-and-when basis, running the house and looking after everyone’s needs, I was busy and my days were full, but pleasantly so. I’d never remarried after my divorce but hadn’t ruled out the possibility; it was just a matter of finding the right man who would also commit to fostering.

Presently I heard a key go in the front door. Paula was home. ‘Hi, Mum,’ she called letting herself in. ‘Guess what?’

I packed away my papers as Paula came into the living room. ‘Adrian phoned,’ she said excitedly. ‘There’s some student summer work going at the place where he works. He said if I’m interested to put in my CV as soon as possible.’

‘Great,’ I said. ‘That sounds hopeful.’ Paula had been looking for summer work for a while. As well as giving her extra money the work experience would look good on her CV and help to take her mind off her A-level results, which weren’t due for another three months.

‘I’ll print out my CV now,’ she said. ‘And write a covering letter.’

‘Yes, and in the letter include the date you can start work,’ I suggested. ‘The twenty-second of July – when school officially finishes.’ Although Paula had sat her exams she was still expected to attend the sixth form until the end of term. ‘I’ll help you with the letter if you like,’ I added.

‘Thanks.’

She returned down the hall and to the front room where we kept the computer. As she did so the front doorbell rang. I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece; it was half past four – too early for Zeena, I thought.

‘I’ll get it,’ Paula called.

‘Thanks. Don’t forget to check the security spy-hole first,’ I reminded her.

‘I know,’ she called. Then, ‘It’s Zeena, Mum.’

‘Oh,’ I said, surprised. I went into the hall as Paula opened the front door and Zeena came in, carrying a large laundry bag and sobbing her heart out.

Chapter Five

Scared into Silence

‘Whatever is the matter, love?’ I asked, going up to her as Paula closed the front door.

‘My mother wouldn’t let me see my brothers and sisters,’ Zeena sobbed. ‘They were there, but she wouldn’t let me near them.’

‘Oh, love. Why not? And you’ve come all the way home on the bus in tears?’ I said, very concerned and taking her arm. ‘You should have phoned me and I could have collected you.’

‘I was too upset,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t thinking straight.’ Her eyes were red and her face was blotchy from crying.

‘All right, calm yourself. Let’s go and sit down and you can tell me what happened.’

Leaving the laundry bag in the hall, Zeena slipped off her shoes and headscarf and came with me into the living room, where we sat side by side on the sofa.

‘Do you need me, Mum?’ Paula asked, worried, having followed us in.

‘No, love. We’ll be all right. You get on with what you have to do. Perhaps you could fetch Zeena a glass of water.’

‘Sure.’

I passed Zeena the box of tissues and, taking one, she wiped her eyes. Paula returned with the glass of water and placed it on the coffee table.

‘Thank you,’ Zeena said quietly, and took a sip.

Paula went to the front room and I waited while Zeena drank a little water and then placed the glass on the table, wiping her eyes again.