The Child Bride - Cathy Glass

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looked sad and worried but wasn’t visibly upset. Like Norma, I, too, hoped that once Zeena felt more settled with me she would be able to talk.

      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.

       Dreadful Feeling

      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

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