The Child Bride. Cathy Glass
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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