years, compared with kids from affluent middle-class homes.
Emma pouted then. ‘But that’s not going to be for ages, is it? I wish they’d let me have one now. I hate being so much out of touch with everyone.’
I understood that too. So much teenage communication was via computers that I could see how isolated not having one must make her feel. Not that I wasn’t all for policing the use of them, particularly for the kids we looked after, because you could access so much stuff that no kid should ever see.
‘I know,’ I said, gesturing that she should go into the beige bedroom, which was all set now, with its cheerful new coordinating duvet set. ‘But it’ll be sooner than you think – and you really should go back to school. And, in the meantime, I have a laptop that I’m happy to let you borrow – you just have to ask me. Just one thing …’
I paused then and, noticing the sudden silence, Emma turned. ‘The language,’ I said mildly. ‘Now you’re with us you’re going to have to mind your tongue a bit. I don’t know what experiences you’ve had with Hannah and Maggie, obviously, but, well, social services are lots of things, but not what you called them.’
Emma looked at me, assessing me, and with a look of slight confusion. I grinned at her. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’m not shocked. I’m used to teenagers – I’ve brought up two of my own, don’t forget. And we’ll treat you just as if you were one of our own, as well, which means that even if you swear when you’re out and about we don’t want to hear it at home, okay?’
Emma was the one looking shocked now. ‘But I didn’t swear, did I?’
I nodded. ‘Sweetheart,’ I said mildly, ‘you called social services “arseholes”, which in my book is swearing. And, colourful as it may be, it’s not something I like to hear from a young lady. I’m not a prude but I just don’t think it sounds very nice – particularly coming from a young mum.’
I was surprised and pleased to see that she had the grace to look ashamed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘I didn’t even realise. I’m just that used to it. I’ll try not to do it again, promise.’
I was touched. After all her aggressive bluster earlier, this was quite a contrast, and once again I was struck by her child-like vulnerability. And not even child-like – she was a child, one that had been thrust into the world of adults. And yet without any adult family to take care of her. I often wondered how it was that the kids we took in so often seemed to have absolutely no one to love them. And equally often I reminded myself that it was precisely the reason why they came to us. Because there was no one else willing to take them in. No indulgent auntie, no older sibling, no grandparents, no nothing. Emma was an only daughter, born to an only daughter – one who’d fallen out with her mother before Emma had even been born. It was all so very sad. And now there was Roman, equally lacking a wider family … I mentally shook myself. Mustn’t go there, Casey.
I pulled open the wardrobe doors while Emma began busying herself taking CDs from one of the bags. These kids and their CDs – music was pretty much all digital now, as far as I was aware, but these kids seemed to pride themselves on being ‘old school’, in the same way as we’d hung on to our ‘authentic’ LPs, distrusting the dawning of the digital disc.
Bless her, I thought, as she began stacking them up. ‘I know you will, love,’ I reassured her. ‘So as far as I’m concerned, the subject is now closed. And look – enough space in here for everything, I think. Do you want me to help you put things away?’
She nodded at me shyly. ‘Yes, please.’
‘Great,’ I said, seeing the CD player which was now in her hand. ‘And perhaps listen to music! Seeing as Roman’s fast asleep downstairs, how about we have some on while we unpack, eh?’ I reached for one of the CDs she’d begun to stack on the chest of drawers. ‘This looks good. Hey, we can dance while we work!’
In common with many a teenager before her, Emma looked horrified at this thought. She looked at me, then at the CD, and then back at me again. It was the sort of look I knew well. It said ‘Whaaattt?’
‘Only kidding,’ I reassured her, passing her the rap CD and laughing. ‘My days of dancing to this sort of thing are long over. If indeed, I ever had them, truth be known. But put it on anyway, eh? Or something else you like. I don’t mind which. Just be nice to help you start to feel at home.’
But as I spoke, and Emma duly took the proffered CD from my hand, I noticed this small but distinct furrowing of her child’s smooth, unworried brow. And as I was something of an expert in the non-verbal communication habits of teenagers, I could tell right away what it meant, too. It meant ‘Home? You stupid woman. What’s “home”?’
‘So, what do you think?’ I said to Mike, once I’d come back downstairs. I’d made a start helping Emma put her bits and bobs away, as promised, but then left her to it, telling her I’d check on Roman for her. I was conscious that perhaps she’d like a little space.
My big hulk of a macho husband, who’d come home from work early, just before Maggie and Hannah had left, was peering into the pram with a big soppy grin on his face.
‘About this one?’ he whispered, glancing up at me. He stepped away, but kept his voice low as he spoke. ‘He seems like a good ’n. Not been a peep out of him since you’ve been up there.’ He motioned towards the ceiling with his eyebrows. ‘And how about his mum?’
He’d spoken to Emma only briefly so far, having only had the chance to say hello to her really, straight after Maggie and Hannah had left.
‘So far, so pretty much what I’d have expected,’ I told him. ‘Fair bit of attitude, particularly towards Hannah – you know, the blonde one you met? She’s Roman’s social worker. But then I suppose that’s understandable, given what her role is.’ I looked into the pram too. ‘And by all accounts she’s been lucky. So far, at any rate. It would have been so much more difficult if he hadn’t been such a placid little thing – which he has, by all accounts, so Hannah tells me.’
I looked again at the little bundle of life nestled beneath the covers, and, as if on cue, he opened his enormous eyes and seemed to consider me. He really was the most beautiful little boy. His eyes were so dark that they seemed almost black, and his skin was a lovely olive colour. His head was sprigged, more than covered, in little chocolate-brown tufts, and thinking about Emma and her pale colouring I wondered about his father and what he might look like. I said as much to Mike, too, in what I hoped sounded like a casual sort of manner, though, in truth, it was anything but.
Seeing this tiny infant and wondering what the future might hold for him, I couldn’t help thinking back to Justin, the first boy we’d fostered, and how never knowing who his father was had eaten away at him. And even though, when he did find the man, the outcome wasn’t quite a happy ever after, just knowing he was there had gone such a way to heal that wound. I remembered his exact words to me. He said he just felt ‘more whole’.
Mike frowned and shook his head. ‘Typical you,’ he said. ‘Casey,’ he then warned, ‘don’t even go there, love. I thought we agreed we wouldn’t go down that road – not unless we have to, at any rate.’
‘I’m just saying,’ I said, tutting. ‘Just wondering, that’s all.’
But Mike was having none of it. He straightened up and made for the door. ‘I know what you’re like, love, once you get to “just wondering”. And you know as well as I do where it can lead.’
I
