free-standing mirror beside a four-poster bed.
Things only started to go pear-shaped once Bobbi caught sight of the dining room. Before I could catch hold of her hand she ran over to the polished table and tried to clamber onto one of the chairs. ‘Not on there, dear!’ cried one of the volunteers standing nearby.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I told the elderly gentleman as I jogged over to Bobbi and lifted her down. ‘You mustn’t climb on the furniture, Bobbi,’ I said in a hushed voice. ‘It’s very old and precious. We have to take care of it.’
‘But I want lunch,’ she insisted, grabbing one of the sparkling silver forks and putting the prongs into her mouth. The volunteer’s eyes widened, his mouth flapping silently up and down.
‘No, Bobbi, put it back,’ I said, wrestling the fork away from her. I handed it to the volunteer with profuse apologies. He took it silently, still staring at Bobbi with disbelief. Aiden, Toby and Skye, Naomi’s youngest, lost no time in joining in the fun. Darting to the other end of the table, they grabbed whatever they could lay their small hands on. Placemats, utensils and serviettes clattered to the floor. The noise drew volunteers from all directions, abject horror on their faces.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, mortified. I slipped my arms around Bobbi’s middle and pulled her away before she could upset anything else, aware that Naomi was now chasing her three children around the room. ‘Come here, pickle,’ I said, catching three-year-old Skye with my free hand. Deciding that divide and conquer was the best way to go I handed her to Archie, who was standing beside Megan at the door, the pair of them watching the carry-on with almost as much horror as the volunteers.
Naomi emerged from the dining room a minute or so later, two screaming children in tow and a sheen of perspiration on her forehead. Aiden kicked out at the furniture as Naomi pulled him along, nearly toppling a suit of armour as he rattled its arm.
We whizzed through the rest of the house, Archie calmly bringing up the rear with Skye in his arms and Megan at his side. By the time we reached the long dark passageway leading to the back exit we were practically running. ‘No, Mummy, no!’ Megan cried, when she realised that the heavy oak door in front of us led outside. ‘We didn’t see the kitchen!’
‘I don’t think the kitchens are open, darling,’ I lied. Bobbi was making a determined effort to bite my cheek and I had a nasty feeling that that was just the warm-up. I wasn’t sure I had the strength to keep her at bay for much longer.
Megan stopped. ‘It is, Mummy. We passed it. It’s down some stairs, I saw!’
‘Okay, well, let’s get some lunch and maybe we’ll come back later.’
‘No!’ Megan roared as Archie ushered her out the door and onto the shingled drive. I lowered Bobbi to her feet and knelt in front of Megan, aware that we were beginning to gain the attention of other visitors.
‘We’ll go back in after lunch, Meggie, okay?’ Next to me, Bobbi was spinning manically; human hoopla without the hoop.
Megan gave a reluctant nod. Bobbi pushed her out of the way and stamped her feet in front of me. ‘I want food!’ she screamed, preparing to roar off into orbit. Megan burst into tears. Behind us, Naomi was emerging, the boys kicking at her shins and turning the air blue.
‘Bobbi, you mustn’t push Megan. Now, we’ll go and get some lunch, but only when you’ve calmed down.’
‘I am calm!’ Bobbi hollered, spraying my cheeks with saliva.
I brushed my sleeve over my face and blinked. ‘Good. That’s good,’ I said softly, trying to soothe her. A grey-haired gentleman gave us a wide berth as he exited the house after Naomi, eager not to be tarnished by association. Two well-dressed women strolled by, their faces agog. They turned their heads as they passed, indiscreetly keeping us in sight. When they reached a bench they sat down at an angle that allowed them an unimpeded view.
It was easy to guess what they were thinking – fancy kowtowing to a child like that, what a slummy mummy, no wonder the girl’s out of control. If Jenny, one of my fostering friends had been with us, she probably would have engaged the women in conversation and told them that the children were new to the family and still undergoing training. Most people soften instantly when they find out that children are fostered, but it’s something I rarely reveal unless it comes up in conversation, clinging as I do to the belief that it is wrong for anyone to judge. Sometimes I even felt tempted to offer horrified bystanders a hook to hang their condemnation on by slumping onto a nearby bench and cracking open a can of Strongbow.
I remembered the looks I used to get when I took nine-year-old Phoebe out. She was an easily revolted girl with a sharp tongue and if ever anyone showed an interest in her, she either insulted them with colourful profanities or heaved her lunch all over their feet.
Bobbi sucked in a lungful of air and released it in little breaths, doing her best to bring her temper under control. ‘Good work, Bobbi,’ I said, aware of the exchange of glances from the two women across the way. ‘You’re doing really well.’
‘I’m going to lose it in a minute, I swear,’ Naomi said behind me, the boys continuing their assault on her shins.
The two women continued to stare as we ushered six tired, angry children over the lawns towards the tea shop, no doubt wondering how the china teapots would fare once our motley crew arrived.
I read The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams to Megan that evening and after the day we’d had, the words took on such a special significance that I emailed a short passage from the book to Naomi when I got downstairs.
‘What is Real?’ asked the velveteen rabbit one day.
‘Real isn’t how you are made,’ said Horse. ‘It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become real.’
‘Does it hurt?’ asked the Rabbit.
‘Sometimes,’ said the Horse, ‘[but] when you are Real you don’t mind being hurt … it takes a long time … by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off and your eyes drop out and you get loose in all the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all because once you are Real you can’t be ugly …’
Jimmy called at nine thirty the next morning, just as I was letting myself back into the house after the nursery and school-run. It was Monday 16 February and we seemed to have turned a corner with the weather. The sun was shining brightly through the patio doors, the house warm even though the thermostat was turned low. ‘How are the kids, Rosie?’ he asked without preamble. ‘I feel really bad letting them down like that.’
‘Oh, hello, Jimmy. They were upset, to be honest, but we went to the splash park anyway so at least they got to do that.’
‘Ahh, you’re a bloody decent woman, so you are. I’m really grateful.’
‘It wasn’t a problem. I think they enjoyed themselves.’
‘Good, that’s good.’ A few seconds of silence followed and then Jimmy added: ‘Yeah, I mislaid my phone. I don’t know how it happened
