The Child Bride (7 page)

I finished making the dinner and then called the girls. Adrian would eat later again, when he returned home from work. Zeena was quiet over dinner, but after we’d finished she went into the front room and to the computer with Paula and Lucy, as Lucy wanted to show them a website someone had recommended to her. Before long I could hear them all laughing and I went in to have a look at what was causing all the fun. It was a fashion website where a visitor could upload an image of themselves and then ‘try on’ different outfits. Lucy had uploaded a photograph of herself, where she was pulling a silly face and was now ‘trying on’ different designer outfits in various sizes. It was funny, and Zeena was laughing like the rest of us. Her ability to ‘switch off’ from the trauma she’d suffered was something I’d seen before in children I’d fostered who’d been badly abused. In order to function in everyday life, their brains compartmentalize their bad experiences and hive it off. It’s not healthy, and eventually the horror of what has happened comes to the surface, often with catastrophic results.

Zeena didn’t want to go out at all over the weekend, despite having her pocket money and allowance. She said that as most people didn’t work at the weekend they were likely to be out and about shopping, so she felt safer staying at home with me. She asked Paula if she would buy her more phone credit when she went out, and gave her the money from the allowance that I’d given to her.

I would normally have gone out at the weekend, taking any child I was fostering with me, but as Zeena hadn’t been with us for long and there were concerns about her safety I stayed in with her. The weather turned warmer so I did some gardening. Adrian, Paula and Lucy were in and out as usual, making the most of their time off. I didn’t expect them to change their plans for Zeena and neither did she. ‘Have a good time and thanks for getting my phone credit,’ Zeena said to Paula when she went shopping with her friends on Saturday afternoon.

‘You’re welcome,’ Paula said.

‘I hope you have a nice evening,’ Zeena called to Lucy when she went out all dressed up on both Saturday and Sunday evening.

‘Thank you,’ Lucy returned, slamming the front door behind her, late as usual.

Lucy’s, Adrian’s and Paula’s lifestyles were very different to Zeena’s, and I wondered if she resented the freedom my children enjoyed compared with the servitude of her life at home, but Zeena was such an unassuming and compliant child, I doubt it crossed her mind. She was also very humble and self-effacing, and I thought she could easily be taken advantage of. She spent most of Saturday trying to please me and kept asking me if there was anything she could do to help. I found her a few little jobs and then suggested she might like to cook – perhaps the chapris she’d mentioned? She liked the idea and I checked in the cupboard for the ingredients she needed and then texted Paula to ask her to buy what we didn’t have. On Sunday morning delicious smells came from the kitchen as Zeena cooked the chapris (savoury pancakes), leaving out the chilli from ours as we weren’t used to highly spiced food first thing in the morning. They were delicious and we all agreed we’d be happy if this became a regular occurrence. Zeena was pleased.

By the end of the weekend Zeena appeared to be more relaxed and had stopped asking me each and every time she wanted to do something, like have a glass of water or go to her room. However, despite her appearing to feel more at ease, she still hadn’t said anything of her abuse or suffering or the reason she’d asked to come into care, and I hadn’t brought up the subject. It was early days yet, and my role was to support and look after her. If and when she wanted to confide in me, as I hoped she would, then I would be ready to listen, but I wouldn’t be pushing her to do so. She knew she could talk to me any time and could also telephone Norma or Tara. Zeena was coping in her own way, but I did wonder how she could concentrate on her school lessons with so much on her mind. She’d had some homework to do over the weekend and from what I’ve seen she was achieving a high standard, despite everything. Perhaps school was a safe haven for her, as it was for many children with difficult home lives.

Having stayed in all weekend, security hadn’t been an issue, but on Monday morning I again asked Zeena if I could take her to school in the car. She said it wasn’t necessary, and that she would phone if she needed help, which I had to accept. I went with her to the front gate to say goodbye and also to check there were no strangers in the street. I reminded her to text me when she arrived at school, and before she left she gave me a hug and a kiss and thanked me for a nice weekend – although in truth we hadn’t really done anything. I watched her walk up the street until she was out of sight and then I returned indoors. If I entertained any thoughts that Zeena was exaggerating the threat to her safety, they vanished later that morning.

Dressed smartly in a blouse and skirt, I left the house twenty minutes later to drive to the council offices where the foster-carer training I was delivering was being held. Although the training wasn’t due to start until ten o’clock I wanted to arrive early to set up the PowerPoint presentation and generally organize myself with the handouts. Zeena texted confirming she’d arrived safely at school and I was pleased she’d remembered to let me know.

Carers began arriving at 9.45 a.m. and I greeted each of them as they entered, ticking their names off the registration sheet. When I’d fostered for Homefinders I’d been with them for so long that I knew most of the carers, but since changing to the local authority there were many I didn’t know. Not all carers attended every training session as the groups were limited in size, and sessions were repeated so that carers could choose a date that suited them and met their training needs. Ongoing training is now part of fostering and compulsory in the UK.

The carers, like students in a classroom, filled the chairs at the back of the room first, and began chatting to those they knew. A middle-aged Asian lady dressed attractively in a sari came in and I smiled at her, introduced myself and then ticked her name off the list. She sat alone at one of the front tables and watched me as I sorted through my paperwork. I smiled at her again and then she beckoned me over as though wanting to say something. I leaned forward so I was within earshot, and she said quietly, ‘Are you fostering Zeena?’

I drew back slightly and tried to hide my shock, but my mouth had gone dry and my heart was drumming loudly. ‘Pardon?’ I said, pretending I hadn’t heard.

‘Are you fostering Zeena P—?’ she said again. ‘She’s fourteen and has run away from home. Her parents are sick with worry. She needs to contact them and go home.’

‘No, sorry. I can’t help you,’ I said, forcing a small smile.

I picked up my notes and pretended to read them again as I fought to regain my composure. How on earth did she know Zeena was with me? And what was that about Zeena running away and not being in touch? Zeena had seen her mother on Friday and she’d been aggressive and rude to her. Yet clearly we were talking about the same child.

The last of the carers came in and I closed the door and tried to rein in my thoughts. Picking up my notes, I began by welcoming everyone to the training, and then went through what’s referred to as ‘housekeeping’, which includes where the fire exits are, a reminder to turn off mobiles, confidentiality and a timetable for the day. As I spoke I avoided meeting the woman’s gaze, although I felt her eyes on me. My heart was still racing and my hands felt clammy, but once I began the PowerPoint presentation and everyone was concentrating on the screen it became a little easier. I stood to the side of the room and allowed my gaze to wander as I talked. Who was the woman and how did she know Zeena? Was she a relative, a member of her extended family and part of the Asian network Zeena had spoken of? I had no idea, but I needed to find out. This could be a huge threat to Zeena’s security.

Somehow I got through the next two hours and then at noon I broke the training for lunch. I reminded everyone that they needed to return by one o’clock for the afternoon session, and slipping the registration list into my bag I left the room. I went upstairs to where the social workers had their desks. It was a large open-plan office and I looked around for Edith, my supervising social worker (sometimes called a link worker), but I couldn’t see her. I saw another social worker I knew and she looked over and smiled. I went to her desk. ‘I’m looking for Edith or Tara,’ I said.

‘Edith has gone on leave, but Tara should be around somewhere,’ she said.

She, too, scanned the room and at that moment the double doors swung open and Tara came in, carrying a stack of folders.

‘Thank you,’ I said, and went over.

‘Hi. What are you doing here?’ Tara said, greeting me with a smile.

‘I’m running some training today,’ I said. ‘But I need to ask you something.’ I took the registration list from my bag. ‘This lady, Mrs Parvin –’ I said, pointing to her name on the sheet. ‘Could she know I’m looking after Zeena?’

‘She certainly shouldn’t,’ Tara said, shocked.

I explained what had happened.

‘I’ll see her supervising social worker straight away and find out what’s going on,’ Tara said. ‘Everyone here who’s working on Zeena’s case knows her whereabouts are to be kept secret. Is Zeena at school?’

‘Yes.’

‘Norma telephoned me this morning and said Zeena wasn’t able to tell her anything on Friday,’ Tara said.

‘That’s right. Norma said she’d been scared into not telling, and she hasn’t said anything to me either.’

Tara nodded. ‘How was Zeena over the weekend?’

‘She felt safer staying in, but we had a pleasant weekend.’ I gave her a brief résumé of our weekend.

‘And Zeena doesn’t need anything?’

‘No. I’ve asked her.’

‘OK. Let me find out what’s going on with Mrs Parvin and I’ll get back to you.’

‘Thank you.’

I left the office and went up to the canteen on the top floor. I bought a sandwich and a drink and joined some of the other carers at a table. We chatted as we ate. Mrs Parvin wasn’t in the canteen, but not all the carers were; some preferred to go out for lunch – to one of the local cafés. Once I’d finished eating I returned to the training room to prepare for the afternoon session, which was going to include role-playing situations that involved challenging behaviour. I pushed the tables and chairs to the edge of the room to make space in the middle. The carers returned and Mrs Parvin sat with two others. I began the session and it went well; role playing is a fun way of getting a message across. As we discussed the situations that we’d acted out involving challenging behaviour I was able to meet Mrs Parvin’s gaze, but there was nothing to be read there. At 3.45 p.m. I began winding up the session by going over what we’d covered, and then I distributed the handouts. As I did I saw Tara appear outside the glass-panelled door. She motioned that she’d wait and speak to me at the end. I concluded by thanking everyone for coming and said their certificates would be posted to them, then I opened the door for Tara to come in.

She waited until the room had emptied before she spoke. ‘I’ve raised the issue with Mrs Parvin’s supervising social worker. She’s going to speak to her now about the seriousness of breaking confidentiality, and also find out what she knows about Zeena. I’ve updated Norma and she’s ready to move Zeena out of the area to a safe house if necessary. She offered Zeena that option at the start, but Zeena said she wanted to stay in the area so she could be close to her brothers and sisters and see her friends at school. Could you ask Zeena if she knows Mrs Parvin?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘We don’t know for certain that Mrs Parvin does know Zeena is with you,’ Tara continued. ‘She may just be fishing or it may be coincidence, although it’s a big one if it is.’

I nodded.

‘I’ll let you know the outcome, but obviously if you have any concerns about Zeena’s safety phone Norma or dial police emergency on 999.’

‘I will,’ I said.

Tara thanked me and asked how the training had gone, then we said goodbye and she left the room. Deep in thought and very worried, I packed away my training material, left the building and then drove home. As I approached my house I was even more vigilant and checked the street before parking on the drive and going in. I was expecting Zeena to arrive home at about half past four. When she didn’t appear I immediately started to worry. I called her mobile but it went through to her voicemail. I left a message asking her to text or phone to say she was OK.

Five minutes later she texted:
Im OK. On the bus.
Then a couple of minutes later she phoned. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to worry you. I went home first.’

‘Zeena, that’s not a good idea,’ I said. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes. I just wanted to see my brothers and sisters, but Mum wouldn’t open the door.’

‘So you didn’t see them?’

‘No.’

‘I’m sorry, but I really think you should wait for Tara to arrange contact.’

‘I know,’ she said sadly. ‘If my mother lets her. I don’t think she will.’

‘How much longer have you got on the bus?’

‘About ten minutes,’ she said.

‘All right. I’ll see you soon. Come straight home.’

Ten minutes later Zeena arrived home and I waited until she’d had a drink before I asked her if she knew Mrs S— Parvin.

‘Parvin is a common Bangladeshi name,’ Zeena said. ‘Although not in my family.’

‘So you don’t know her?’

‘I don’t think so. Why?’

We were now sitting in the living room and I looked at her seriously. ‘I don’t want you to be alarmed, but while I was at the council offices today a foster carer with that name asked if you were staying with me.’

Zeena looked puzzled but not shocked.

‘Could you have been followed home here?’ I asked, trying to hide my concern.

‘No, I’m constantly checking behind me,’ she said.

‘Have you told anyone you’re staying with me?’ I asked.

‘No,’ she said.

‘Not even your friends at school?’

‘I haven’t told anyone,’ Zeena said, and then hesitated.