conversation felt companionable rather than strained.
Another hundred metres in, the path began to widen. Dappled light picked its way through the trellis of overhanging leaves, the shadowed earth shrinking as we reached a glade. Fast-moving clouds swirled overhead and there was the odd rumble in the distance. Looking up at the hooded sky, I wasn’t sure how long we would have before the rain set in. With the grassy area opening further, Zadie jogged ahead, trying to keep up with Bobby. She cut a solitary figure out there in the middle of the clearing and as I followed I hoped it wouldn’t be too long before she was brave enough to reach out to me.
My drifting thoughts were interrupted by Bobby, barking and leaping up at a fence. On the other side was a meadow strung with daisies. Further into the distance the fields sloped away to give a view of the village we had driven through and the lower foothills beyond. Zadie gathered her robe in her hands, lifting it above her ankles like a character from a Jane Austen novel. Suddenly childlike, she ran towards Bobby and pointed to a stile beyond some bushes. ‘Over here, Rosie,’ she called out, her soft voice almost swallowed by the wind. Grasping Bobby around his midriff, she lifted herself to the top plank of the stile and slipped over in one smooth motion.
I climbed over with far less elegance, even though I was wearing jeans. Zadie waited nearby, her arm flickering at her side as if ready to catch me if I stumbled. I was surprised by her gentle consideration. ‘You see over there, Zadie?’ I said, slightly breathless, pointing to a large yellow sandstone building. ‘Inside that hall are boxes of material from all over the country, from Cornwall all the way up to Scotland.’ As we crossed the meadow I told Zadie about my mother’s voluntary job at WEPH, Working to Eradicate Poverty and Hunger, a committee based at the local church. The group, mainly women, met regularly to fundraise; their latest project was to provide desks and equipment for a blind school in the Congo.
‘What are they going to do with all the material?’ she asked softly. I could tell that her interest was piqued. It was the first time she had voluntarily spoken since we left the house but, then, children in foster care are often fascinated by stories of hardship and tales of triumph over adversity. I think that hearing about other children in difficult situations gives them a yardstick to measure their own problems against, one of the reasons why all of the Jacqueline Wilson books in our house were so well thumbed.
Like adults who enjoy watching tragic or sad films, perhaps feeling relief that their lives could be worse, I think that children gain a sense of perspective and learn that they’re not alone in their sadness and uncertainty. One of the therapeutic games I play with older children works on the same principle, where they have to imagine a situation worse than their own. It may sound like a grim activity but it often works a treat and it’s surprising how many colourful and inventive scenarios they come up with.
I remembered playing the game with ten-year-old Taylor, who came to stay with her five-year-old brother. The siblings had endured years of witnessing domestic abuse between their mother and father and, using her personal experiences as a template for relating to others, Taylor would replicate the violence at school. She had a reputation for bullying and most of her classmates shied away from her. It wasn’t unusual for hers to be the only book bag in the class without a colourful little envelope containing a party invitation inside, and she would often come home to me and break her heart over the rejection.
The sad truth was, the only way Taylor knew how to relate to anyone was by using physical force and harsh words. It wasn’t surprising that parents steered their own children away, keeping their distance and encouraging them to have nothing to do with her. The awful, alternative universe situations she managed to dream up were truly terrible to hear, but we would always end the game with strategies for helping ‘Alex who had lost his entire family and was sleeping rough inside a large rat-infested drain’ or the teenager who was made to drink bleach by her drug-addled parents. Imagining what it must be like for others who experience hardship encouraged Taylor to see things from their point of view. It is a proven fact that when we empathise with others our brains release oxytocin, and slowly Taylor learned the simple lesson that showing kindness felt good. It didn’t take long for her to stop hitting out and gradually her peers became less wary of her.
‘They’re going to make patchwork quilts. They have a small army of women working on them already, and since mentioning it on Facebook they have lots more people keen to sign up. I’ve started on one myself.’ I twisted my mouth. ‘Only I haven’t got very far yet.’
I tapped my forehead. ‘And that reminds me, Mum asked me to find out where they can sell the quilts that are already made. Another thing I haven’t gotten around to.’
Zadie seemed so interested in the blind school that I wished I knew more about it. Making a mental note to find out more from Mum, I drifted onto other subjects, none of which caught her interest in the same way. She fell silent but I no longer felt like I was jabbering away to myself. Bobby loped ahead, every now and again performing an emergency stop to grab a stick or a stone between his teeth. Zadie delighted in his company, frolicking around with him in the long grass. Nettles stung my ankles as I waded after them and I was beginning to long for a cup of tea.
Eventually Zadie came to a halt by a cobbled stone wall. A large oak tree stood nearby, skirted by a wooden bench. When I caught up with her I asked, ‘Shall we sit here for a bit?’ Bobby’s breath was raspy and his tongue was hanging out. ‘It looks like I’m not the only one who could do with a rest.’
We sat down, Zadie planting herself a couple of feet away from me. She crossed her legs and rested her hands in her lap but then they tumbled over themselves in that nervous way of hers, continually smoothing invisible folds in her robe. I made a mental note to get some aqueous cream; her skin looked painfully sore. The wind was picking up and there was a sudden chill in the air. I wrapped my cardigan around myself and watched her movements surreptitiously.
She sat hunched over, her head trailing low. On closer inspection I noticed that her chapped fingers weren’t just wringing themselves in a random way; they were strumming a particular beat. Not only that, but her lips were moving silently, as if she was counting or chanting something. Recalling the way she had rearranged her toast so fastidiously earlier that morning, I was beginning to suspect there was more to her twiddling than absent-minded nerves.
‘Your hem is wet through, honey,’ I said. ‘Are you cold?’
Her fingers froze for a moment, then she rested them sedately on her knees. She shook her head.
I sat staring into the middle distance, trying to think of ways to get a conversation going that involved more of a response than a nod of the head. I told her about the time Emily and I went blackberry picking, her clothes getting so heavily plastered in squashed fruit that they turned her car seat blue. I talked about the day I took Jamie for a walk in the hills when he was just three or four. ‘It started to rain and his wellies got stuck in the mud. I had to lift him out of them and carry him to the car. We never did get those little boots back.’
Nothing sparked a response that wasn’t closed-mouth silence. Darker clouds gathered and the air around us was scented with the cloying dampness of impending rain. I listened to the stillness and decided to plunge right in with direct questions. It wasn’t going to be an easy time for her in foster care unless she learnt that she could trust us. ‘So, enough about us. Tell me about your family.’
She turned abruptly, a bit taken aback.
‘There’s not much to tell,’ she said, twisting her lip.
‘Well, do you have any other brothers and sisters, apart from Chit?’
She nodded. ‘I have another older brother. Vijay.’
‘And do Chit and
