d="u7adb08b8-782e-51e4-bc52-7b88f1cb5f44">
Certain details in this story, including names and places, have been changed to protect the identities of the individuals concerned.
HarperElement
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
77–85 Fulham Palace Road,
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
and HarperElement are trademarks of
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
First published by HarperElement 2014
FIRST EDITION
© Rosie Lewis 2014
Rosie Lewis asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014
Cover photograph © Getty Images
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Find out about HarperCollins and the environment at
Ebook Edition © July 2014 ISBN: 9780007541836
Version 2014-07-21
Contents
Moved by A Small Boy’s Cry? Try The Girl Without a Voice by Casey Watson
With the familiar pips of the BBC News at Ten’s closing music pulsing away in the background, I secure the dead bolt on the back door and walk back through the kitchen. My eyes stray to the smiley face etched onto one of the cupboard doors – a legacy of three-year-old Alfie – then I go through to our ‘lived-in’ lounge, where a carefully placed coffee table fails to conceal a lingering pink glow on the carpet: fuchsia nail varnish, courtesy of Amy.
Amy was fifteen years old when she arrived as an emergency placement the previous year, staying with us for four weeks. By the time she left we were more or less buddies (what’s a few cracked vases and a broken television between friends?), although her arrival and the ensuing days while she acclimatised to the sobering reality of living in a cannabis-free house were, to use social services’ mild description, ‘challenging’.
But I don’t mind that much if our home is less than perfect. Not really. Dimming the lights on our weathered but cosy rooms, I climb the stairs knowing that I wouldn’t have it any other way. Smudges on the window panes or scribbles on walls can be erased with some elbow grease or a splash of paint, the effort more than compensated for by the hope that the children we have fostered aren’t the only ones to leave their mark behind.
It’s nice to think that the time they’ve spent in our family leaves its own impression. Muddy walks in windswept woodlands, splashing through puddles on a rainy afternoon, drinking hot cocoa while playing board games in front of the log fire; the simple, gentle monotony of everyday life spent with people who care leaves an imprint, perhaps even replacing some earlier, less tranquil memories. Sometimes, all it takes to make a positive difference to a young life is just one adult who cares enough to show an interest. Carving a place in a troubled heart nurtures resilience, buffering whatever turbulence may lie ahead when the haven of foster care has ended.
Up in my bedroom I climb into bed, leaving my clothes and mobile phone within reach. Tonight I’m on call and covering the eleven-to-eighteen age range, as well as my usual under-tens. Switching my electric blanket on, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll be needed and who it might be. When covering such a wide age range, I have to be prepared for anything. Jenny, a fostering friend of mine, recently accepted an unaccompanied minor while on call. When the Somalian arrived at her house, she couldn’t help but notice his emerging facial hair and rippling six pack; it turns out that Nafiso was, in fact, twenty-one.
However much my imagination strayed, I must have dropped off fairly quickly because when my phone dances impatiently around the top of my bedside cabinet and I reach out to switch the lamp back on, the bulb is still hot. Still half asleep, I reluctantly grope for the ANSWER button.
‘Hello,’ I answer croakily, switching to loudspeaker mode and blinking rapidly in the soft light. My pulse quickens at the sound of Des’s Scottish burr.
‘I’m just giving you
