the entire time she’s been with us, and, as I say, her English is almost non-existent. And not likely to improve, either – she seems frightened of everybody and everything, wouldn’t answer any of the interpreter’s questions, wouldn’t let Tyler bring his Polish friend home for tea, and, well, as I say, just seems to want to stay in bed, pretty much. Right now I don’t know whether she’s properly sick, or homesick, or just plain exhausted. And there doesn’t seem a lot I can do about any of it at present either. Which is a pretty odd place for me to be.’ I glanced across at my fridge freezer. ‘Sounds mad, but I’m missing my chart!’
Donna grinned. Then said thoughtfully, ‘It’s probably a combination of all of those things, isn’t it? And it’s only been a few days, after all. You can’t expect to know everything about everything after such a short time. Even you.’
‘That’s what Mike thinks,’ I said. ‘But you know when you just have that inkling about someone? Well, I’ve got that. Increasingly, that’s what I’ve got.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as despite what she told John, I reckon there’s something bad, as in possibly actionable, that she’s run away from. And not back in Poland, either. I reckon there’s more. Something criminal. Something serious.’ I tapped the table top. ‘Something that’s happened here. Maybe she’s witnessed something. Some crime or something. You know?’
Donna drained her mug. ‘You watch too many bloody Scandinavian murder mysteries, you do. Anyway, speaking of criminal, can you whistle up one of those over-priced taxis for me? I’m assuming a lift home’s probably not on the cards.’
‘Poland’s not in Scandinavia,’ I pointed out. ‘And, no, sorry, sis – you know I would but I don’t like to leave her. I just have this suspicion –’
‘Go on, tell me. That there might be bogeymen lurking behind Lidl, and that things are not entirely az zey seeeem?’
At which I laughed, because I knew my imagination could get the better of me. But that, or a version of it – that Adrianna was running scared – was almost exactly what I did think.
Thankfully, over the weekend Adrianna’s temperature went down and by Sunday she had ventured downstairs to join the family, clad in a hoodie and old trackie bottoms of Riley’s. She’d also asked – with much gesturing and helpful bits of mime – if she could borrow some washing powder so she could launder her clothes.
‘Don’t be daft,’ I said. ‘Let me have them and I’ll put them through the machine for you.’ But several visits to Google Translate and gentle argument later, I had to concede that she was not going to let me do that under any circumstances – that we had already done enough for her and she did not wish to be a burden. I didn’t push it. Perhaps, I decided, thinking back to when I was 14, I would have baulked at a complete stranger washing my clothes as well.
There was also the business of her being independent. Having travelled so far, and taken care of herself for so long, she probably had a great deal of adjusting to do before she could truly settle into family life. I’d seen similar scenarios in children as young as seven or eight, particularly if they’d spent time in the care system. To strip them of their independence and privacy was to disable them even further – at least in the short term, when everything in their lives felt so out of their control. These were things that at least they could control.
Softly, softly then. I relinquished the washing gel and fabric conditioner. She did her clothes washing on Sunday morning, in the bath.
Happily, Adrianna’s reticence didn’t seem to extend to food, extreme hunger being a very powerful human state. And, boy, once she felt better and had a bit of colour in her cheeks, did she have an appetite. She sat down to Sunday lunch with an expression for which ‘ravenous’ was the only description.
‘More potatoes?’ I asked, grinning, having watching her devour all of hers within seconds.
She nodded, smiling at Tyler, who seemed mesmerised by the transformation. ‘This good,’ she said, accepting another scoopful. ‘Your mammy make good food.’
Tyler blushed. And I knew it wasn’t just because he was at the sharp end of her smile. He’d started calling us mum and dad a long time ago now, but there were still these little moments, when someone else referred to us as ‘his mum and dad’ when I knew it still had the power to bring him up short. Hard to explain, but entirely in a good way. It was almost as if he’d have to check with us – he glanced at me now – to be sure we didn’t feel the need to explain that, actually, we weren’t his real mum and dad. It was almost, though I didn’t think it was even a conscious thing, as if he was testing us. That in all situations and with all people from here on in, mum and dad was what we were going to be. No qualifications. It truly mattered – it was a way of reconfirming his sense of security. It mattered to him – and in a whole host of different situations now – that we’d never felt the need to point it out. I could have hugged him.
‘Well, I’m glad someone appreciates my cooking,’ I said, laughing as I followed up with the dish of other vegetables. ‘Thank you, Adrianna, I’m happy you like it.’
‘I like it,’ Adrianna repeated, nodding. ‘Dziekuje di bardzo.’
‘That means thank you very much,’ Tyler added, beaming.
Amazing how the small things so often are the big things, isn’t it? A quiet family Sunday. Clean clothes. A good meal. Conversation. Laughter. All the basic needs met. And the change in Adrianna was profound.
I’d called Riley – still on a clothes mission, because my own stuff wouldn’t fit our new visitor’s slim frame – and wondered, when she said she’d pop round with all the grandkids that afternoon, if it might just be a little too much, too soon, for Adrianna. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Though she was naturally a little shy with my extrovert daughter, she seemed to surf the wave of mayhem well. Almost painfully polite, and unfailingly well-mannered, she seemed perfectly at ease in a living room full of talkative people, where many 14-year-olds – it’s such a gauche, self-conscious age – would have immediately scuttled to their rooms. What an enigma she was proving to be.
Particularly for Marley Mae, who, at almost three and, on home turf, was in her element. And wasted no time in monopolising Adrianna, either. Within 20 minutes of their arrival, she was already on her lap, completely mesmerised by her ‘pretty princess’ hair.
‘She has a lot of Disney Princess dolls,’ Riley told Adrianna, immediately taking my unspoken lead, and speaking in normal English, albeit slowly. ‘Not sure which one she thinks you look like, but you have clearly struck a chord with her …’
‘Disney,’ said Adrianna, nodding. ‘I know Disney.’
‘Princess!’ Marley Mae cooed. ‘Pretty, pretty princess!’
Adrianna, in response, touched Marley Mae’s hair – which was the usual muddle of dark, unkempt curls. She took to having her hair brushed and combed like a cat does to a dunking, i.e. not at all well.
‘Princess too,’ she told my granddaughter, laughing and kissing her head. ‘You too. Disney Princess, named Mar-lee.’
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