The Child Bride - Cathy Glass

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three children were young adults now. Adrian, twenty-two, had returned from university and was working temporarily in a supermarket until he decided what he wanted to do – he was thinking of accountancy. Lucy, my adopted daughter, was nineteen, and was working in a local nursery school. Paula, just eighteen, was in the sixth form at school and had recently taken her A-level examinations. She was hoping to attend university in September. I was divorced; my husband, John, had run off with a younger woman many years previously, and while it had been very hurtful for us all at the time, it was history now. The children (as I still referred to them) wouldn’t be home until later, and I busied myself in the kitchen.

      At 2.15 the telephone rang again. ‘We’re leaving Zeena’s home now,’ Tara said tightly. ‘Her mother had her suitcase packed ready. We’ll be with you in about half an hour.’

      I thanked her for letting me know and replaced the receiver. I sensed there was trouble in what Tara had left unsaid, and I was surprised Zeena’s mother had packed her daughter’s case so quickly. She couldn’t have known for long that her daughter was going into care – Tara hadn’t known herself for definite until half an hour ago – yet she had spent that time packing. Usually parents are so angry when their child first goes into care (unless they’ve requested help) that they have to be persuaded to part with some of their child’s clothes and personal possessions to help them settle in at their carer’s. I’d have been less surprised if Tara had said there’d been a big scene at Zeena’s home and she wouldn’t be coming into care after all, for teenagers are seldom forced into care against their wishes, even if it is for their own good.

      Now assured that Zeena was definitely on her way, I texted Adrian, Paula and Lucy: Zeena, 14, arriving soon. C u later. Love Mum xx.

      I was looking out of the front-room window when, about half an hour later, a car drew up. I could see the outlines of two women sitting in the front, and then, as the doors opened and they got out, I went into the hall and to the front door to welcome them. The social worker was carrying a battered suitcase.

      ‘Hi, I’m Cathy,’ I said, smiling.

      ‘I’m Tara, Zeena’s social worker,’ she said. ‘Pleased to meet you. This is Zeena.’

      I smiled at Zeena. ‘Come on in, love,’ I said cheerily.

      Had I not known she was fourteen I’d have said she was much younger – nearer eleven or twelve. She was petite, with delicate features, olive skin and huge dark eyes. But what immediately struck me was how scared she looked. She held her body tense and kept glancing anxiously towards the road outside until I closed the front door. Then she put her hand on the door to test it was shut.

      Tara saw this and asked me, ‘You do keep the door locked? It can’t be opened from the outside?’

      ‘Not without a key,’ I said.

      ‘Good. And there’s a security spy-hole,’ Tara said, pointing it out to Zeena. ‘So you or Cathy can check before you open the door.’

      Zeena gave a small polite nod but didn’t look reassured. Clearly security was going to be an issue, and I felt slightly unsettled. Zeena slipped off her shoes and then lowered her headscarf, which had been draped loosely over her head. She had lovely long, black, shiny hair, similar to my daughter Lucy’s. It was tied back in a ponytail, which made her look even younger. She was wearing her school uniform, with leggings under her pleated skirt.

      ‘Leave the case in the hall for now,’ I said to Tara. ‘I’ll take it up to Zeena’s room later. Let’s go and sit down.’

      Tara set the case by the coat stand and I led the way into the living room, which was at the rear of the house and looked out over the garden. When I fostered young children I always had toys ready to help take their minds off being separated from their parents, and on fine days the patio doors would be open. But not today – the air was chilly, although we were now in the month of May.

      Tara sat on the sofa and Zeena sat next to her.

      ‘Would you like a drink?’ I asked them both.

      ‘Could I have a glass of water, please?’ Tara said. Then, turning to Zeena, she added, ‘Would you like one too?’

      ‘Yes, please,’ Zeena said quietly.

      ‘Or I have juice?’ I suggested.

      ‘Water is fine, thank you,’ Zeena said very politely.

      I went into the kitchen, poured two glasses of water and, returning, placed them on the coffee table within their reach. I sat in one of the easy chairs. Tara drank some of her water, but Zeena left hers untouched. I could see how tense and anxious she was. It was as though she was on continual alert, ready to flee at a moment’s notice. I’d seen this before in children I’d fostered who’d been badly abused. They were always on their guard, listening out for any unusual sound and continually scanning their surroundings for signs of danger.

      ‘Thank you for looking after Zeena,’ Tara began, setting her glass on the coffee table. ‘This has all been such a rush I haven’t had a chance to look at your details properly and tell Zeena. You’ve got three adult children, I believe?’

      ‘Yes, one boy and two girls,’ I said, smiling at Zeena and trying to put her at ease. ‘You’ll meet them later.’

      ‘And you don’t have any other males in the house, apart from your son?’ Tara asked.

      ‘No. I’m divorced.’

      She glanced at Zeena, who seemed to draw some comfort from this and gave a small nod. Tara had a nice manner about her, gentle and considerate. I guessed she was in her mid-thirties; she had short, wavy brown hair and was dressed in a long jumper over jeans.

      ‘Zeena is very anxious about her safety,’ Tara said to me. ‘She has a mobile phone, and I’ve put my telephone number in it, also the social services’ emergency out-of-hours number, and the police. It’s a pay-as-you-go phone. She has credit on it now. Can you make sure she keeps the phone in credit, please? It’s important for her safety.’

      ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, and felt my anxiety heighten.

      ‘Zeena knows she can phone the police at any time if she’s worried about her safety,’ Tara said. ‘Her family won’t be given this address. No one knows where she is staying, and the school know they mustn’t give out this address. We weren’t followed here, but please be cautious and check before answering the door.’

      ‘I always check at night,’ I said, uneasily. ‘But what am I checking for?’

      Tara looked at Zeena.

      ‘My family,’ Zeena said very quietly, her hands trembling in her lap.

      ‘Please try not to worry,’ I said, feeling I should reassure her. ‘You’ll be safe here with me.’

      Zeena’s eyes rounded in fear as she finally met my gaze, and I could see she dearly wished she could believe me. ‘I hope so,’ she said almost under her breath. ‘Because if they find me, they’ll kill me.’

       Different House

      I looked at Tara. My mouth had gone dry and my heart was drumming loudly. I could see that Zeena’s comment had shaken Tara as much as it had me. Zeena had her head slightly lowered and was staring at the floor, wringing the headscarf she held in her lap. Suddenly the silence was broken by the sound of the front door opening. Zeena shot up from the sofa.

      ‘Who’s that?’ she cried.

      ‘It’s all right,’ I said, also standing. ‘That’ll be my daughter, Paula, back from sixth form.’

      Zeena didn’t immediately relax and return to the sofa but remained standing, anxiously watching the living-room door.

      ‘We’re in

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