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for me thanks,’ she said slowly, sitting forwards on the sofa. She was watching us avidly and half an hour later, as the social worker roused herself to leave, I discovered why. ‘OK, so, can I just ask you something, Rosie?’ she said as she stood in the hall, lifting a large, embroidered handbag and resting the strap on her shoulder.

      ‘Yes, of course.’

      ‘Cool,’ she licked her lips, ‘so, it’s about what happened just now …’

      I tilted my chin, trying to work out what she was referring to. I shook my head. ‘Sorry, I don’t follow.’

      ‘Well, you seemed re-luc-tant for Taylor to have a snack.’ She strung each syllable out with agonising slowness. ‘Was there – a prob-lem?’

      ‘Oh – of course not, I – no, not at all,’ I rushed to explain. Embarrassed, I ran my hand through my long fringe, pulling it back. ‘It’s just that I’d prefer the children to ask me first if they want something from the fridge.’

      Consternation clouded her face, her lips falling open to reveal her tongue stud. It glinted silver against her teeth. ‘But you can’t limit a child’s food intake, Ro-sie.’

      Mortified, I hesitated for a moment before answering. ‘No, and I never would, not unless there was a problem like obesity or something. But I don’t feel they should help themselves to food willy-nilly. My own children have always checked with me first, in case dinner’s almost ready or something. It’s just the way we do things.’

      Maisie’s brow furrowed with concern. ‘D’you know what, Rosie? I’m an advocate of child-led caring. Children should be able to be free to express themselves and show us what they want,’ she said. ‘Do you see where I’m coming from?’

      ‘Erm,’ I said, suddenly convinced that Maisie was a social worker I would need to tread carefully around. ‘Y-es, I believe in doing my best for children as well, absolutely, of course I do. But,’ I paused again, searching for a polite but firm response, ‘I don’t think that necessarily means always giving them what they want.’

      Maisie wrinkled her nose in a look of distaste, as if I’d waved a soiled nappy in front of her. I worried then about just how far Maisie’s commitment to ‘child-led caring’ might go.

Chapter Three

      Back in the living room, Jamie and Reece were clutching their tummies, each convulsed in a fit of giggles.

      ‘What’s so funny?’ I asked, pleased to see that Reece was looking more relaxed.

      Jamie, still snorting, opened his mouth to speak but Taylor, who was seated back at the computer, beat him to it. ‘He,’ she waved a thumb in my son’s direction, ‘reckons that that woman stinks. Reece seems to think he’s hilarious. It’s literally pathetic.’

      I glanced between the three of them, wondering where to start. Jamie held his breath, eyeing me sheepishly. ‘I – I didn’t say she stinks, Mummy,’ he said, throwing Taylor a resentful look. She jutted her chin in sneering satisfaction. ‘I said she’s a bit smelly.’

      Reece cupped a giggle in his hand.

      ‘Jamie, how many times have I asked you not to make personal comments unless you have something nice to say?’ I said chidingly. I had noticed that Maisie smelt mildly of cigarettes, and Jamie, being asthmatic, was probably more sensitive to it than the rest of us. He did have a tendency to blurt out whatever thoughts were running through his mind but what he said usually had some basis to it: there was certainly no malice in him. I was just glad he had waited until after she left to mention it.

      He bobbed his head then looked up at me earnestly. ‘About seventeen?’

      I sighed. Taylor, who was lifting the mouse and banging it down on the desk instead of clicking it, snorted. The site she had visited was unrecognisable to me but a stream of conversation was juddering up the screen. ‘I’d be grateful if you wouldn’t tell tales, Taylor. And is that a chatroom you’re in?’

      She tossed her head to the side so that her long, poker-straight fringe flew out in an arc and over one shoulder. Her hands then flattened it against her ears, something I had noticed her doing several times since her arrival. ‘Fuck off. I wasn’t telling tales, he really said it. And it’s not no chatroom, der brain, it’s Myspace.’

      Emily, who had been watching us silently from the corner of the room, gasped at Taylor’s attitude. Jamie goggled, staring at me to gauge my reaction. I restrained myself, forcing a mild response. It wasn’t unusual for children with no experience of a loving home and its usual boundaries to swear and, though often it was an unconscious habit, sometimes they did it for shock value. ‘Um, I think now may be the perfect time to run through some of our house rules,’ I said calmly as I crossed the room to open a side cabinet drawer.

      Whenever a new child came to stay with us, one of my priorities was to make them feel safe and at ease. Being presented with a set of house rules wasn’t the warmest way to welcome someone into our home and so usually I introduced them gradually, reserving the first day for showing them where everything was and finding out what foods they liked. In Taylor’s case, I got the feeling it was a case of the sooner the better; she needed to know what was expected of her.

      Every household has its own set of basic rules and some children, if they’ve been moved around in the care system, genuinely find it difficult to keep track of what they can and can’t do. It was a simple list –

      No hitting

      No swearing

      No shouting

      No going into other people’s bedrooms

      Everyone makes their own bed each morning

      – and one intended to let everyone know where they stood; that was the theory at least.

      ‘Well, I ain’t making my own bed for a start,’ Taylor mumbled after disdainfully chucking her copy on the floor.

      ‘I want all of us to feel safe in this house,’ I said after a moment, ignoring Taylor’s heckling and directing my words at everyone. ‘And to feel safe we must follow the rules. That means everyone, including me. Do you all understand?’

      Emily, Jamie and Reece nodded in unison. Taylor swung her foot and wittered on under her breath.

      ‘Taylor? You OK with that?’

      ‘Meh,’ she said, shrugging. ‘What y’gonna do?’

      I stared at her, my hackles rising. It was nearing 6 o’clock and the prospect of moving several heavy pieces of furniture around was pressing on my thoughts. With a lethal combination of tiredness and hunger beginning to set in as well, I thought it would be wisest to ignore her.

      Dinner was thrown together in a hurry – pasta with cheese sauce and garlic bread – one of the few meals that had featured on both Taylor and Reece’s lists of favourite foods. Emily and Jamie, who had already eaten with their dad, sat with us at the table while we ate, sipping at mugs of warm milk. It was nice that they wanted to be part of things and I was pleased to see that Taylor and Reece were tucking into their food. Some children lose their appetite after the trauma of separation from their parents but the siblings were scoffing their dinner hungrily, licking stray flakes of parsley from their fingers after each bite of garlic bread. ‘Can I have some more, Rosie?’ Reece asked thickly, before he’d swallowed his last mouthful. Almost upsetting his beaker of water as he cluttered his knife and fork to the table, he still seemed ill at ease, but it was reassuring to know that at least he had some warm food inside him.

      ‘Yes, of course you can.’ A bowl of leftovers sat on a hessian mat in the middle of the table, a long silver serving spoon resting on the rim. ‘Help yourself, love,’ I said, lowering my own fork and edging the bowl towards him with my fingertips. He raised his eyebrows, surprised it seemed, to be given such a responsibility. I started

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