Copyright

Certain details in this story, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the family’s privacy.

HarperElement

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First published by HarperElement 2017

FIRST EDITION

© Rosie Lewis 2017

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

Cover photograph © Victoria Haack/Trevillion Images (posed by model)

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

Rosie Lewis asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780008113018

Ebook Edition © January 2017 ISBN: 9780008113025

Version: 2016-12-19

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

By the same author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Epilogue

Moved by Taken?

Also available

Moving Memoirs eNewsletter

About the Publisher

By the same author

Helpless (e-short)

Trapped

A Small Boy’s Cry (e-short)

Two More Sleeps (e-short)

Betrayed

Unexpected (e-short)

Torn

Chapter One

Mothers steered their buggies around the orange barricades, small wheels snagging on the rumpled pavement. The low hum of overheating motors filled the heavy air and behind me someone tooted their horn. Squinting against the plumes of dust, I watched a couple stepping out from the taxi in front of me, others ambling hand-in-hand towards the shops. On any other day I might have escaped the clattering of jackhammers and taken refuge down one of the sloping side streets, among the flower stalls and earthy cafés.

As it was though, I didn’t mind being stuck behind the wheel. Browsing the central courtyard for samples of cedarwood and patchouli oil while street entertainers played the crowds was one of our most favourite weekend pursuits, but not nearly tempting enough to compete with the experience that lay ahead.

It was a clear morning in mid-July 2011 and my Fiat was rolling slowly towards Queen Charlotte’s Hospital in the city centre where Megan, a baby girl, was being cared for by midwives. Born with a cleft palate three days earlier, Megan had been surrendered into the care of social services by her birth mother under a Section 20 voluntary order and, as a foster carer, I had been asked to begin daily visits to the special care baby unit with a view to bringing the newborn home as soon as she was well enough.

Peggy, Megan’s social worker, was also responsible for another child in my care – Zadie, a 13-year-old girl who had been staying with us since May. Quiet and helpful, Zadie had begun to relax in her new home and, though I still had a few concerns about her, I was fairly confident that taking on another foster child wouldn’t undermine the fragile trust growing between us. When Peggy told me about Megan though, there was a moment’s hesitation before I agreed to become her foster carer.

Having looked after little ones before, I knew how easily love could creep into your heart, stealthily taking you by surprise while your mind was distracted with other things. I also knew how painful it could be to say goodbye to children who had carved their own unique place in your family. Tess and Harry, young siblings who came to me as babies, had moved onto adoption after almost three years in our family. It had taken many months to adjust to the loss. After they left I told myself that I wasn’t suited to fostering tiny ones – it was so hard to let them go – but as the weeks passed the wonder of their early years came back to me.

Gradually the sadness faded, if not into insignificance, then insubstantial enough for me to appreciate what a privilege it had been to be a part of their lives. I knew that if I wanted to continue fostering I had to accept that helping children to move on to permanent placements was a crucial, and perhaps even the most pivotal, part of my role, and when I ran through the handover in my mind, I realised that even though I’d been jelly on the inside as I readied myself to let the siblings go, I had managed to keep my own feelings hidden from them. The handover had been painful, there was no doubt about that, but from the point of view of the little ones, it went very well.

Though I hadn’t seen them since the day they left, I had heard through the grapevine that they were doing very well, and slowly my confidence returned. Soon after Tess and Harry came Sarah, a baby born with severe neonatal withdrawal symptoms. Perhaps inevitably, the bonds grew quickly and though Sarah was only with us for a few weeks, parting with her wasn’t easy either.

I was honest enough with myself to suspect that moving another baby onto adoption might be painful, but Peggy had assured me that Megan’s case was unlikely to drag on – Megan’s birth mother, Christina Hardy, was a severely depressed young woman with a substance addiction who seemed unable to stick to any of the treatment programmes she had been referred to. Besides her dependence on illegal drugs, she had recently fled a violent partner and, with no home of her own, was staying in a refuge.

Although Christina wanted to keep Megan, she had agreed to her being fostered to avoid the trauma of a forced separation. Technically, Christina could revoke her agreement to the Section 20 at any time, but in light of her homeless state and drug-dependency issues, she was more than likely aware that social workers would have little trouble obtaining a more formal, interim care order through the courts.

From what Peggy had said, Christina’s chances of securing a full parenting assessment were minimal and the social worker was keen to push for a swift resolution of the case so that Megan could be settled quickly into permanence. Having known the social worker for several months, I felt I could trust her word. Initially she came across as a little brisk, but as I got to know her I realised that she was a professional who was happy to go the extra mile for a child in need. I knew that she would do her best for Megan.

As well as having an excellent social worker on the case, a recent review of the family justice system had found that the excessive delays in care proceedings were damaging for looked-after children. According to Peggy, the findings placed renewed pressure on local authorities to resolve cases within six months so that family finding could begin early on in the child’s life. I felt certain that I could handle a separation after a relatively short time.

Chapter Two

And so at a little after half past one I climbed the stairs to the third floor of B wing in Queen Charlotte’s Hospital, filled with the anticipation that a new placement always roused in me. Though it would be nice to claim it, I had no feeling of foreboding at that time, no sense of the dramatic twists and turns that awaited us in the months to come.

What I could say honestly enough though was that I was struck by a strong sense of recognition as soon as I caught sight of Megan’s little face. I’m still not sure how it was even possible, but from that very first moment she felt as familiar to me as all of the veins and tendons on the back of my own hand.

At the reception of the special care baby unit, one of the midwives checked my Bright Heights security pass and gave Peggy a quick call to confirm my identity. After I had washed my hands and used the alcohol rub to cleanse them, the nurse showed me into the unit and guided me to Megan’s crib. Several of the other mothers gave me curious glances as I went, but I was so excited to see the baby that I only half-registered them.

Swaddled snugly in a white cellular blanket, Megan lay on her side in a see-through Perspex open incubator, a folded blanket tucked behind her back to prevent her from rolling over. As I neared, the first thing I noticed was her dark, downy hair. Long for a newborn, it emerged from beneath the white woollen hat she wore in soft wisps, falling across the tops of her ear and towards the nape of her neck. Her delicately fine fringe brushed her eyebrows and skimmed the tips of dark lashes.

Taking in her rounded forehead, flattened nose and large hazel eyes, I felt a rush of tenderness, so much so that my eyes misted over and a lump rose in my throat. She looked so beautiful and vulnerable and, rocked by the strength of my feelings, I’m ashamed to say that, for a split-second, I considered calling Peggy to tell her I had made a mistake – I wasn’t sure I was up to caring and then parting with another baby.

‘Adorable isn’t she?’ the midwife whispered. About fortyish, she slipped her arm around my waist as she stood beside me, giving me a friendly, unexpected hug. The tip of a name badge was visible over the top of the plastic apron she wore, fixed to her royal-blue uniform. When she released her grip and turned to face me, I could just about make out the letters: ‘ANGIE’. ‘We’ve barely taken our eyes off her since she came in,’ she added.

I smiled, knowing that babies in care were often singled out by midwives for their most special attention: the empty visitors’ chair at the side of the crib a poignant reminder of their aloneness in the world. ‘Absolutely,’ I said, all thoughts of fleeing put firmly aside. I loved being a foster carer and my whole family adored looking after little ones. Saying goodbye was tough, of course it was, but I had managed it several times before and there were hundreds, if not thousands, of people all over the country who would snap up the chance of caring for a newborn baby. I was lucky enough to be in a position to take that opportunity. And besides, nothing worthwhile was ever going to be a piece of cake.

‘Ready for a cuddle?’ the midwife asked, one eyebrow cocked.

‘I thought you’d never ask.’ I cast my shoulder bag aside on the empty chair beside the crib and rubbed my hands together as if they needed warming up. They didn’t – if the inside of my car had turned into a sauna, the hushed, airless interior of the unit felt like a kiln.

‘Here she is,’ Angie said, planting the tiny baby in my arms. Megan registered the change with a blink of surprise. After several longer, slower blinks she fixed me with an unfocused but slightly amused gaze, as if she’d been expecting me and was wondering why I had taken so long to arrive.

A floating sensation ran through my limbs, the feeling spreading up my torso and fanning itself out inside my chest. I stood transfixed, aware of her warmth seeping into my arms. Edging backwards until my calves touched the back of the chair, I lowered myself down, ignoring the bulk of my bag pressing against the base of my spine. Angie reached over and grabbed the bag, tucking it on the floor beneath the crib. I thanked her without looking up and shuffled back in my seat, my eyes taking in the tiny purplish veins running in minuscule branches across Megan’s cheeks and the slightly mottled skin covering the soft contour of her forehead.

Her button nose was slightly squashed against one cheek and, beneath the small fist hovering an inch from her face, I noticed a cute little pleat in her chin. Just above, her tiny mouth pulsated at intervals around a small medical-looking dummy. It was only then that I took in the small gap, maybe a centimetre or so wide, visible in her top lip. Tilting my head, I tried to see how large an area was affected by the cleft – as far as I could make out, without removing her dummy, it wasn’t nearly as extensive as I had feared when I had spoken to Peggy on the telephone. ‘I’ve seen worse,’ Angie said, picking up on my scrutiny. ‘She’ll need surgery in a few months, but if she’s lucky she might get away with just one or two procedures.’

‘Oh, that’s good,’ I answered absently, my heart skipping as I touched Megan’s small hand. Tranquil and pale, she fixed her gaze on me and closed her fingers tightly around one of mine, almost as if she was claiming me. ‘She seems very contented,’ I managed to say, though I was so absorbed that my voice sounded muted, even to my own ears.

‘That’s the baby methadone doing its work,’ Angie murmured, leaning close. ‘She had another dose a couple of hours ago.’

I looked up sharply. Peggy had mentioned that Megan’s mother had a history of drug and alcohol abuse, but somehow I hadn’t processed the possibility that she might have used during her pregnancy. I wasn’t sure why it hadn’t occurred to me – I had cared for babies suffering from neonatal abstinence syndrome, or NAS, before – but I think it was probably because I found it difficult to believe that any drug had the potency to override a mother’s instinct to protect. I knew from caring for Sarah that babies were only prescribed methadone if their withdrawal symptoms were particularly severe. In most cases, TLC and a heavy helping of stamina were enough to nurse them through the worst of it. Angie pouted grimly and I pulled a face back. ‘Oh dear, poor thing.’ And then another thought occurred to me. ‘Is that what caused –?’ I tilted my head towards Megan, indicating the cleft.

Angie whistled softly. She crossed one leg behind the other, leaned her elbow on the crib and put her other hand on her hip. ‘It’s hard to say. Some drugs are linked to clefts – diazepam for instance – but as far as we know Mum wasn’t on that.’ The midwife was speaking so quietly that I had to lean forward to make out her words. ‘Christina swore she wasn’t on anything. Sister realised little one was clucking the day after she was born. We couldn’t leave her to muddle through, poor little love, not without a bit of help. She was in a lot of pain.’ And then, with sudden vehemence, she added in a fierce whisper: ‘In the States they recognise unborns as victims, so I’m told, but over here we don’t seem to see them as people in their own right. Personally I’d prosecute these mothers. We’re told not to stigmatise them; that they’re the victims and they need help, but most of the time they don’t even want to stop. They must know how awful it feels to go cold turkey, but that doesn’t stop them putting their own baby through it.’ Angie lowered her voice still further. ‘And we’re supposed to feel sympathy for them?’ She blew out her lips. ‘Look at the harm they do.’

Quietly enraged, spots of pink appeared on Angie’s cheeks. I pressed my lips together, shaking my head. Her words had reminded me of something I learned recently when I attended a local-authority-run course on drug and alcohol addiction. According to the tutor, roughly 1,500 babies a year were born addicted to drugs in the UK, and the figure was rising year on year. What really surprised me, though, was that some remained in the care of their mothers, despite their ongoing addiction.

While I had seen some birth parents battle against the grip that illegal substances held over them, plenty of others seemed to indulge themselves without troubling their consciences too much. Working at the sharp end in one of the largest cities in the UK, I imagined that Angie’s view had been coloured by the number of babies she had seen suffering as a result of their mothers’ addiction.

Angie ran a hand across her forehead and blew out some air. ‘Anyway, what can you do except deal with the fall-out as best as you can? The good news is that baby’s coping well on the minimum dose and we’re stretching it out to six-hourly now. She’ll be on eight-hourly by tomorrow and hopefully off a few days after that.’

‘How long before I can take her home?’

Angie smiled then, the vestiges of anger leaving her face. ‘Oh, that’s wonderful to hear. Lovely to know she’ll be going home to a family.’ She tilted her head. ‘Do you have your own children?’

‘Yes, Emily’s 16, Jamie’s just 13 and we’ve got another girl staying with us at the moment who’s almost 14. They can’t wait to meet this little one,’ I said, which was mostly true. Emily and Jamie were really excited to have another baby in the house but Zadie had seemed nonplussed when I broke the news about Megan.

Last night Emily and Jamie had delighted in helping me to order a cot, pram and all the accessories online, but Zadie had hidden herself away in her room. I suspected that she was worried about being sidelined with the arrival of another child but I was sure she would warm to the idea when she realised her fears were unfounded.

‘That’s great, really great,’ Angie said, and I was surprised to see her eyes filling up. ‘Oh heck, look at me. We grow close to them here, you know. It’s surprising how quickly it happens when Mum only has limited contact.’

I threw my eyes up to the ceiling and then gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘Yes, tell me about it.’

‘God, I’d make a terrible foster carer.’ Angie leaned closer and laughed conspiratorially. ‘They’d find me halfway across Europe with the baby stuffed inside my coat or something. Angie Wickens, wanted by Interpol! I can see it now.’

I laughed along with her, trying not to jog around too much because Megan’s eyelids were beginning to droop. ‘I don’t let myself think about the end until I have to.’

‘Oh,’ Angie said, fanning her eyes with her hand. ‘It gets me, just thinking about it.’ She bit down on her lower lip, looking at Megan thoughtfully. ‘We won’t discharge her until she’s off the medication. Methadone can suppress breathing so she’ll need close monitoring all the while she’s on that – but as soon as she’s off it you can take her home. She’ll be at the hospital for her surgery, but she’ll come back here for outpatient check-ups. She’s only 5lb so they’ll want to monitor that, but she’s doing well, considering. Feeding can be a bit tricky but don’t worry, I’ll show you what to do.’ She stilled for a moment and then tapped my arm. ‘Tell you what, she’s due a bottle soon. We try to time her feeds between doses, when she’s not too sleepy but not too fretful either. Give me two ticks.’

A few minutes later the midwife returned armed with a bottle of milk and a plastic pipette with a rubber bulb on the end, similar in appearance to the ones I had seen gardeners use to feed plants. Noticing my puzzled stare, she tucked the bottle under one arm and held the pipette out to me with her free hand. ‘It’s a bulb suction,’ she explained. ‘You use it if milk pools in her nose when she’s feeding.’ She must have noticed the look on my face because she quickly added: ‘Don’t worry – it sounds worse than it is. We won’t send her home until you’re confident about what you’re doing. There’s lots of support if you find it tough. I’ll give you all the contacts before you leave.’

Angie handed the bottle to me and then gently pinched Megan’s toes to rouse her. The baby’s eyelids fluttered and then she snorted a half-yawn, half-cough. Her dummy fell out, rolling over the blanket and out of sight. ‘Keep her fairly upright,’ Angie said, coming around the back of the chair and leaning over the top so that her arms were free to guide me. ‘That’s it. Now, reach round with what I call your embracing hand, the one you’re cuddling her with, and hold her lips together with your fingers. There,’ Angie said encouragingly as I touched the teat to Megan’s lips. ‘You want a tight seal to create some suction.’

Megan’s mouth fell open and she shook her head, rooting. ‘Make sure you position the teat over her tongue,’ Angie said, pressing down gently on Megan’s chin. ‘The bottle has soft sides so you can squeeze them if she doesn’t seem to be getting much, but we’ve found she can suck effectively if you get the seal right. The cross-cut teats help.’ Latching onto the teat, Megan began sucking sleepily. At first there was a random slurping noise, a bit like the sound of a dog lapping at a puddle, and I could tell that it was a bit unproductive. ‘Don’t be afraid to be a bit more forceful. Unless you fix a seal she won’t get much milk,’ Angie said, placing her hand on my forearm.

‘I’m worried I’ll hurt her.’

‘You won’t. She’s a lot tougher than she looks, honestly.’

It was a tricky manoeuvre, and at the back of my mind I was wary of letting her suck too hard in case she choked, but after a couple of attempts I relaxed and got the hang of it. I couldn’t help smiling at the loud clicking noises she made as her tongue worked at the teat and then the cute little goya-goya of her swallows. She sucked with a sort of desperation, as if she knew she was going to have to fight harder than the other babies on the ward, the ones with parents close by.

Rivulets of milk ran from her nose down to her chin. Angie tucked a folded muslin square in the fold of her neck, reassuring me that leakage was normal with cleft babies. ‘Perfect,’ she said, patting my arm. But a minute or so later Megan jerked back, eyes widened in alarm. She fixed a panicked gaze directly on me as if to say, Please, DO SOMETHING! ‘Here you go,’ Angie said briskly, pressing the suction into my hand. With quickening pulse, I worked to clear her nasal passage while she floundered in my arms. It was a relief to find that the suction did its job quickly. Instinctively I shifted the baby to an upright position, making a pillow of my shoulder. After a few rattling breaths she gave a sigh, the curve of her back moulding itself magically into my palm. My heart melted. ‘That was great, Rosie, well done.’

I let out a breath and rolled my eyes. ‘Phew! That was a bit hairy.’

‘It is at first, I know, but you’ll get used to it,’ Angie said, as Megan began to complain. I set her on my lap again and offered her some more milk, keeping the suction close by on the arm of the chair. Megan pounced eagerly on the teat and Angie gave a little laugh. After a minute or so, she patted my shoulder and bustled off to the nurses’ station in the middle of the ward.

Knowing that I wasn’t causing Megan any discomfort, it was easier to fix a seal the second time around. Every so often she opened her eyes and gazed up at me, the look so trusting that my heart swelled. Time stalled and, immersed in what I was doing, I didn’t notice anyone approaching until a shadow fell across Megan’s face. I turned, taking in a pair of pink slippers. I looked up, the swollen but slightly deflated stomach belonging to the woman in front of me revealing that she was one of the newly delivered mothers.

‘Hi,’ she whispered, introducing herself as Erin. She smiled down at Megan. ‘Ah, bless, what a darling.’ Her eyes swept over Megan’s face, lingering on my fingers as they held the cleft together and the soft-sided bottle. Her brow furrowed inquisitively. ‘I can’t tell you how glad I am you’re here,’ she said after a short pause, leaning forward so that her face was level with mine. ‘My heart bleeds when she cries. She goes on and on, till she’s hoarse. We can’t bear it. She even whimpers in her sleep.’ Erin pouted her lower lip in a gesture of sadness and frowned. ‘Then all of a sudden she goes still, just staring up at the ceiling and you don’t hear a peep out of her. It’s like she’s given up, as if she knows no one’s coming.’

The methadone, I thought, glancing down at Megan, though of course, I didn’t say anything. She had stopped sucking and dropped off to sleep again, her soft breaths rattling in her chest. ‘I came over to give her a cuddle yesterday but’ – Erin rolled her eyes sideways in the direction of the nurses’ station then lowered her voice to a whisper – ‘I got told off. It’s not allowed apparently, but I can’t bear it, seeing her so upset and all alone.’

‘Don’t the nurses see to her when she frets?’

‘Oh yes, don’t get me wrong, they’re brilliant in here. They do their best but sometimes there’s no one free to pick her up. They’re so busy. That’s what I said to them – I don’t mind giving her a cuddle when my little one’s asleep, I said – but it’s against the rules and regulations and God knows what else. You know what these places are like.’

My stomach clenched at the thought of Megan’s cries being ignored. I held her a little closer after that, tilting her towards me so that her heart was next to mine. Through the tinted windows of the unit, the bright clear sky was subdued in dusty shades of pale blue and grey.

From my position in the low chair there was no view of the road and the only reminder of the city centre was the persistent hum of traffic and the faded shadow of inky buildings set against the sky. With Megan’s gentle warmth pressed against my chest and the hypnotic clicking noise as she began sucking again, the city streets fell away into a different realm, vague and irrelevant.

Chapter Three

Barely five minutes later the peace was shattered by a series of howls and loud bangs coming from outside the unit. Turning sharply towards the glass security doors and the reception beyond, I must have jogged the bottle because Megan suddenly spluttered and began to choke again. Silently cursing myself and fumbling for the suction, the commotion going on behind me instantly faded.

I did my best to clear Megan’s airway quickly, only vaguely aware of Angie rushing across the ward, another nurse following hastily behind. As her breathing settled I snatched another glance over my shoulder, wondering what on earth was going on.

It was difficult to see anything beyond a blur of royal-blue uniforms, but from the nurses’ frantic movements and strained voices of forced calm, I could tell they were concerned. Perhaps sensing something, Megan began to cry. I got to my feet and soothed her, rocking gently from foot to foot. Thankfully she brought up some wind as I rubbed her back, and as soon as she’d quietened I settled her into her crib and popped her a fresh dummy back in. It was just as well I had because at that moment a midwife I didn’t recognise hurried over. ‘Mum’s outside,’ she said in a rush, reaching for my bag and handing it to me. ‘She’s insistent that it’s her time for contact so you’d best leave. We’ll take the staff exit.’

With a regretful glance Megan’s way, I followed the nurse past several other incubators, the tiny babies inside surrounded by a tangle of wires and tubes. Their parents, seated protectively nearby, stared between me and the commotion going on beyond the doors with shocked astonishment.

The further away from Megan I got, the more aware I became of the gritty, surprisingly deep voice of her mother. Almost at the other end of the ward, I couldn’t resist another glance behind and saw the face of a small woman somewhere in her early twenties pressed up against the glass doors, her hands resting either side of her like giant suction pads. Dressed in blue tracksuit bottoms and a loose white t-shirt, she had light, thin hair and a narrow face with bloated, heavily hooded eyes. She was flanked by two nurses, each trying to peel her hands away. ‘Get off o’ me!’ she bellowed, her words punctuated by a rattling buzz as she lunged out and jabbed at the intercom. ‘Why you letting some stranger hold my daughter? She’s my fucking baby. Mine.’

Despite her aggression, her expression was distraught and when a thread of uncertainty entered her voice, so that she began to sound more upset than angry, I felt an unwelcome trickle of sympathy for her.

‘This way,’ the midwife said with a curt nod, flinging the door open and ushering me through. Sweeping through a set of double doors, the nurse turned right and then took a sharp left along a narrow, less brightly lit corridor. When we reached another flight of stairs she stopped and faced me. ‘We’re going to have to speak to the social worker before you visit again,’ she said, sounding apologetic but brisk. ‘I don’t know what they can do about it, but she’s going nuts up there. We can’t let that happen again.’

After the sterility of the unit, it was lovely to get home to the scent of coffee and the pancakes Emily was making in the kitchen. She downed the whisk she was holding as soon as she realised I was back. ‘Tell me, tell me!’ she said, waving her hands so that little puffs of flour rose, speckling her rosy cheeks and settling in her dark-blonde hair. ‘What’s she like? Did you take some photos?’

‘Sorry, Ems. I didn’t get a chance.’

Her face fell. ‘Oh, why not?’

‘Photos?’ my mother said, coming into the kitchen. Mum was my back-up carer – after attending a course for respite carers she had been interviewed by my fostering agency, who had also checked her background to make sure she was responsible enough to take care of the children I fostered when I was unable to, and had child-proofed her home to pass the local authority health and safety standards check – and had come over to babysit while I went to visit Megan.

My son, Jamie, loped in closely behind, listening to his iPod. With earphones in place, there was that vacant, slightly sleepy look on his face that teenagers so often wore. I slipped a finger behind one of the thin dangling wires hanging from his ears and gave it a tug. ‘Hey!’ he moaned, jerking away, though there was a playful light in his eyes. ‘Quit messing with my muse, Mum.’

‘Just saying hello,’ I said, smiling. Cool aloofness was the attitude he generally aimed for lately but, at just 13, there were still lots of times when it eluded him.

‘Show us then,’ he said, with as much detachment as he could muster. He leaned in, trying to shoulder Emily to one side.

‘Ow, give over, Jamie!’ she groaned.

‘Sorry, I don’t have any piccies,’ I said, holding my hands up. ‘The visit came to an, um, abrupt end.’ I pulled a face and they nodded knowingly. Having fostered a number of children over the last ten years, my family were well aware of the pitfalls as well as the joys of fostering. While I was always careful not to tell them more than they needed to know, out of respect for the child’s right to privacy rather than any lack of trust, they had seen enough over the years to reach accurate conclusions of their own.

I spent the next half an hour telling them all about Megan and how lovely she was, all the while aware that Zadie was still shut away in her room. I wanted the teenager to feel as much a part of this new adventure as Emily and Jamie and, still unaware of the real reason for her withdrawal, I made a conscious note to try and include her as much as I could in the coming days.

Her reticence worried me slightly, but it was Megan who was at the forefront of my mind when I went to bed that night. Whenever I thought of her I felt an irresistible itch to get back to the hospital – I just couldn’t wait to hold her again.

Chapter Four

It was another week before Megan was able to cope without the methadone. Her cot was set up beside my bed, the newly purchased sleep suits were all freshly washed and folded, and a steriliser filled with bottles and teats ordered from a specialist supplier over the internet sat unplugged on the kitchen worktop next to the kettle. We were excited for her to join the family, but the midwives had reported that she was frequently uncomfortable and, according to Angie, feeding remained a challenge. There was also some concern that, due to frequent vomiting, she might fail to thrive. She had already lost two ounces since birth so in some ways it was a relief to know that she was in the hands of experts and getting the best care possible, and that when she finally came home, she’d be that little bit more robust.

During the day, whenever Emily and Jamie were at school and my mum was free to spend some time with Zadie, I drove to the hospital and sat in the low chair, alternately feeding and holding her. With small fists tucked beneath her chin she gazed at me as she fed, occasionally stretching out her short arms towards my face. Her cheeks were still red and blotchy; her mother’s struggle with addiction leaving its trace on her skin, and often she cried, her knees drawn up to her chest as fierce abdominal cramps gripped hold of her – yet another unwanted legacy from the womb. After each dose of methadone she lay peacefully, gazing ahead with quiet self-possession, but when the drug wore off she screamed herself breathless. I felt awful when mid-afternoon came and I had to leave.

Contact for Megan’s birth mother had been arranged for late afternoons to reduce the likelihood of any further upsets, but the midwives had warned me that Christina had a habit of turning up randomly, banging on the security doors and hollering demands to see her daughter. I felt sorry for the nurses; they did their best as stand-in bouncers until hospital security staff showed up, but physical tussles with relatives were way outside the remit of their job. After extracting themselves from the fracas, they then had the task of soothing the other parents on the ward who wished for a gentler introduction to the world for their own babies.

Fortunately there was only one close encounter between us during that first week: Christina climbing the stairs to the third floor as I made my way down. Hands held out in front of her in a position of prayer, as she neared I saw that she was clutching a phone between them, her thumbs running speedily over the keys. When she looked up I slowed my step and steeled myself for introductions, only to find that her eyes drifted over me unseeingly, without a flicker of recognition. Half a second later they fell back to her phone.

I had no idea what she was really like, or how well she handled Megan during her supervised contact sessions, but somehow it was nice to know she was close by, and that there were only a few hours during the day when the chair beside her newborn daughter sat empty.

The day of Megan’s planned discharge, the third Sunday in July, was clear and bright. With record high temperatures forecast for midday and no air-con in my old Fiat, I set off early, keen to avoid getting caught in another snarl-up. Mercifully, with only DIY store enthusiasts, football mums and committed members of the National Trust on the roads, the morning traffic was light. By 11 a.m. I had completed the mandatory infant resuscitation course hosted by the hospital and packed the few bits that Christina had bought for Megan in the little Winnie-the-Pooh case I’d bought especially for her homecoming. A small white rabbit went in there as well – a gift from Angie, and some beautiful sleep suits that the other parents on the ward had clubbed together to buy.

Midday found us back on the ring road, Queen Charlotte’s Hospital shrinking in the rear-view mirror, the precious cargo secured in her car seat beside me. Driving along, I was struck by the number of speed bumps between the city centre and my house, something I rarely noticed before. I cringed every time we went over one, holding myself stiff as if the effort would somehow lessen the impact on Megan’s tiny form. She seemed unconcerned though, alternately dozing and then staring with curiosity around the car, tongue darting out through her parted lips.

There was a welcoming committee waiting at the door when we got home, Emily clasping and unclasping her hands and Jamie making a poor job of maintaining his cool. There was no sign of Zadie, I noticed, as I walked up the path with the car seat resting in the crook of my arm, which was probably just as well because by that time the baby was shrieking, the skin on her face a deep, blotchy red – not the gentlest way to make a first impression.

My mother was standing behind her grandchildren. Shorter than both of them, all I could see of her was an arm resting on each of their shoulders. ‘Oh, look at the little love,’ she said reverentially, peering around Emily’s shoulder.

‘Me first!’ Emily trilled, on her knees in front of the car seat as soon as it touched the floor. Carefully, almost in slow motion, she released the wide straps and laid them gently to one side before reaching in and lifting Megan out. I resisted the temptation to offer any advice; the mother of one of her school friends recently came by a perimenopausal surprise of her own and Emily had been over to babysit quite a few times in the last few weeks. She knew what she was doing well enough.

With Megan secure in her arms she turned away and walked slowly into the living room, the three of us an eager entourage behind. We spent the next hour passing the blanketed bundle between us, already enchanted. When it was Jamie’s turn to hold her he sat with rigid arms and scrunched shoulders, as if she were made of the most delicate silk.

Sometimes it took time to encompass foster children into our home and feel completely at ease around them, but we seemed to mould ourselves easily around the under-fives, I suppose because our family dynamics remained largely unchanged.

Chapter Five

What with visits from Peggy, the community midwife and our health visitor, plus an unexpected dash to Accident and Emergency one night after Megan suffered convulsions (a frightening but rare symptom of withdrawal) the next few days alternated between frenzied activity and dazed sleeplessness.

The jarring cries of a newborn were such a foreign sound in our house that when I woke during Megan’s first night at home, I lay still and staring into the darkness, thinking that perhaps foxes were getting acquainted outside my bedroom window, or that next door’s cat lay injured somewhere nearby.

I knew that babies born with substance addiction sometimes suffered a range of health problems, and Megan seemed to have more than her fair share – if anything about neonatal abstinence syndrome could ever be described as fair. Violent stomach cramps left her crying piteously for hours at a time, interspersed with bouts of vomiting and diarrhoea, and then periods of the jitters, when her hands, legs, and even her lips trembled. Clammy to the touch, her chest rose and fell at alarming speed and when I sat still with her in my arms, I could feel her body vibrating, almost like a toy that was running low on batteries. If I placed my hand flat on her tummy her insides trembled against my palm, something that caused my heart to lurch.

The emergency doctor suspected that reflux was partly responsible for her frequent vomiting and prescribed Infant Gaviscon, an antacid in powder form that was to be added to her formula milk. The thickened feed was more likely to stay down, so he said, but he told me that I shouldn’t expect her symptoms to disappear overnight.

He explained that Megan’s system was overwrought and advised swaddling her tightly and handling her as little as possible. The less stimulation the better, he recommended, but it wasn’t advice that sat easily with either of us. In truth, there were a handful of occasions in that first testing week when I felt I would go mad if I didn’t have a few moments to myself. Almost at the end of my tether, I tried placing her firmly in her cot and walking away, but I didn’t get far. After a few minutes of pacing the hall, trying to block out the noise, her hoarse screams always drew me back. At least when she was in my arms I felt I was doing something to alleviate her discomfort, and when I picked her up her small body would sag in relief, though she often continued to fret.

Our nights were worse, each a feat of endurance sliced into short, disorientating segments where I got little and Megan got poor-quality sleep. If I tucked her up in her crib she bellowed with a desperation that seemed, in those disconcerting early morning hours, life threatening in its intensity. On more than one occasion, gripped by unadulterated fear, I called the on-duty midwives at Queen Charlotte’s Hospital to make sure I wasn’t ignoring dangerous symptoms that needed urgent medical care – I’m still grateful for their unending patience and generous reassurances.

My mother, a woman capable of giving the researchers at GCHQ a run for their money, scoured online forums on Mumsnet and Netmums in search of a solution, producing and printing off a detailed list of suggestions for me to try. I worked my way through all of them, and then varying combinations of each, though nothing worked better than a good old-fashioned cuddle.

After the first few nights I got used to snatching a few moments of sleep sitting upright, with Megan’s contorting tummy pressed against my chest and her lips quivering against my neck. She still fretted, but it was a soothed, soft whimper rather than a full-on assault on the ears.

As the days went on and the last of the methadone wore off, her cries escalated to shrill, agonising screams. She loved her dummy, sucking on it with furious gusto, but even that didn’t stop her crying. Whenever she was out of my arms she grew frantic; in her pram and car seat, strapped in the sloped seat of a supermarket trolley. Sweeping around the shops at speed, I tossed whatever I needed quickly into the trolley with barely more than a glance and then raced into the street again, desperate to offer her the comfort of a hug.

In desperation I bought one of those all-singing, all-dancing bouncy chairs, the ones that some mothers swore by, their newborns whiling away many a contented hour swinging to and fro. Megan was having none of it though, not even for two minutes while I attempted a solo visit to the bathroom.

One of my most successful purchases was a baby sling, and for much of the day I kept Megan strapped close to my chest as I pottered around. After a few hours my shoulders felt like they didn’t belong to me, but at least my arms were free to get on with other essential tasks, like eating.

There were days when the tiredness didn’t affect me much, and others when my mind was so vague that even making up Megan’s bottles seemed like a cryptic puzzle that was beyond me. I can remember standing at the kitchen worktop on at least two occasions and losing count as I scooped the powdered formula milk into carefully measured amounts of boiled water, so that I had to tip the rogue mixture away, sterilise all six bottles and start all over again.

Apart from all the crying, her cleft meant that feeding seemed to take for ever. With barely two hours in between bottles, day trips were not as easy as they might have been, especially as she was frequently sick afterwards. Our health visitor reassured me that, while it may have seemed as if Megan brought up the entire feed, enough probably stayed inside to nourish her.

I had always loved the school holidays but I was glad that Emily and Jamie were both tied up with their own projects during the first couple of weeks of the summer break – Emily had taken a voluntary job at our local hospital, lining up songs for the DJ running the children’s radio channel, and Jamie had started working towards his Duke of Edinburgh Award. If he wasn’t on the football pitch practising new skills, he was at his friend’s house, learning riffs on an electric guitar. When they were home they didn’t seem to mind Megan fretting as I worried they might, always offering to take a turn in walking her around.

There were some rare peaceful moments as well. Sometimes during the late evening the cramps relaxed their grip on Megan and she would stare around at us in wonder, as if seeing us for the first time. Emily and Jamie delighted in those times, whispering softly as they dipped their faces to her neck, nuzzling her gently with their chins. Whenever she was out of her room, which wasn’t much during Megan’s early weeks, Zadie would watch her with quiet intensity, an anguished look on her face. I wondered again whether she felt pushed out, but when I tried to include her or even spoke about Megan, she would lose colour in her face and fly back to her room. I considered the possibility that Zadie was disturbed by Megan’s cleft, but she loved to watch those graphic fly-on-the-wall medical documentaries that made my stomach flip over, so I knew she wasn’t squeamish like me.

Anyway, Zadie had seemed unsettled by the mere idea of a baby in the house, even before the placement had begun.

When Megan had been with us for about five days my mum kindly offered to babysit so that I could take the older children out on their own. We decided to go to the cinema and then on for a meal, and it was lovely to spend some uninterrupted time with them all, but strangely surreal as well. Every so often a mild panic gripped me; that sudden sense that something was amiss. When the film was over I called Mum, who assured me in an insistent (if slightly strained) voice that all was fine, but I could hear Megan’s cries in the background and, though I’d been longing for a break from the regime of pacing and feeding, I felt a strong urge to get back to her.

It was late when we finally got home and I was pleased to see that Megan had stopped crying. Stretched out on the sofa in one of her cramp-free moments, she was staring up at Mum’s face with avid fascination, her shallow breaths racing with intrigue as Mum clucked and cooed. Suddenly she made a funny whistling noise and we all laughed, Emily and Jamie crouching on the floor to join in the fun. It probably didn’t help much towards establishing a day-time/night-time routine, but I went along with the fun and games anyway, aware that this baby’s charms were already drawing all of us in.

Chapter Six

A week after Megan’s arrival, something happened that arrested our long summer days and, for a while at least, turned them upside down. After an early-morning self-harming incident and a high-speed trip to Accident and Emergency in an ambulance, I was astounded to discover that Zadie was several months pregnant.

Deep down I had known that something was wrong – the feeling had dogged me for weeks – but the news still came as a huge shock, particularly as Zadie was the last teenager I would ever have suspected of engaging in risky behaviour. Devout and introverted, she had struggled to maintain eye contact when she first arrived, and, until recently, had barely spoken above a whisper.

The shock was marginally cushioned by the confirmation that Zadie had been several months pregnant when she arrived (the part of me concerned with holding on to a job I loved relieved that it hadn’t happened while she was in my care), but she was so young and vulnerable that it was difficult to imagine her sneaking off to meet someone against her father’s wishes. The hideous alternative possibility, that she hadn’t had any choice, lurked, unacknowledged, somewhere in the back of my mind.

Driving away from hospital the next morning, guilt washed over me. Zadie had spent ten weeks in my care but hadn’t felt able to confide in me – a failing that no foster carer would be keen to admit to. Not only that, but I had overlooked signs that now seemed so obvious, such as her unexplained nausea, frantic exercising, no evidence of monthly periods – I felt such a fool.

My mother had held the fort at home and it was a relief to share some of my fears for Zadie over a cup of tea when I got back. It was only after she’d left that the wider implications of Zadie’s pregnancy began to sink in.

Soft mutterings from Megan’s carrycot interrupted my thoughts and drew me to the dining room, and as I lifted her up the first thing I realised was that she had slept for a whole hour without crying out in pain. Thrilled at this first sign of progress, I kissed her forehead, her soft skin warm against my lips. Her small splayed fingers moved purposely through the air as I carried her along the hall, her lips moving with such deliberation as she stared up at me that it really felt like she was miming. ‘Yes, I know what you’re trying to tell me, my love, I know,’ I said, smiling down at her. ‘Your first comfortable sleep. I’m very happy about that too.’

The living room looked like the storeroom in the basement of a shockingly disorganised branch of a baby-merchandising retailer. Apart from all the usual baby equipment, there were baby gifts dotted all around the room; a pink and white blanket crocheted by my mother, a pile of assorted furry and velour soft toys and fluffy blankets from our neighbours all along the street, and a small pink kitten from Peggy.

I was just contemplating the arrival of a second baby in the house and all the associated regalia that might entail, when another thought struck me – what if Peggy decided, when she heard the news, that two babies and a teenager was too much for one foster carer to cope with? Might she worry that my attention would be too thinly stretched? If that was the case, there was a chance that, on the basis of ‘last-in, first-out’, Megan might be moved on to another foster carer.

A fair number of the foster carers at Bright Heights Fostering Agency operated a strict ‘no babies’ policy, but there were plenty of others who loved caring for newborns.

I lowered Megan onto her padded mat and gently removed her wet nappy. Her legs were still so thin and scrawny that I couldn’t wait to tuck them back into her sleep suit, for fear they might break. As I dabbed her bottom with damp cotton wool, my eyes fixed on the stump of an umbilical cord clinging stubbornly to her tummy. It was sad to think of any baby being parted from their mother so soon after birth. I felt a pang in my chest at the prospect of Megan going through yet another separation so early on in her life.

Chapter Seven

When Zadie came home the next day she broke down and told me the whole horrific story – she had fled the family home to escape her abusive elder brother, and by then she was already three months pregnant. After talking to me she fell into an exhausted sleep and, with Megan asleep in her carrycot, I took the opportunity to email a report to Peggy while the disclosure was still fresh in my mind.

Foster carers are encouraged to keep detailed and accurate notes because, in some cases, their records are summoned by the courts to form part of the case for the prosecution in any criminal trial. I force myself to listen passively if a child makes a disclosure, however strong the temptation to elicit more information from them. Most children possess a strong desire to please and so, if they’re asked a question more than once, there’s always a risk that they might alter their answer in the mistaken belief that they haven’t said what the adult wants to hear. In that way, well-meaning carers asking intrusive questions can influence a child’s testimony, thereby prejudicing the case.

Peggy called after breakfast the next morning, shock and concern audible in her tone. Her voice had that slightly echoey quality created by activating the loudspeaker mode and instinctively I lowered my voice, feeling slightly self-conscious. We discussed Zadie and the prospect of her continuing with the pregnancy and then I took a deep breath. ‘What about Megan?’

‘No change as far as I’m concerned,’ Peggy said in that definite, no negotiation tone of hers. ‘I can’t think of a better way for Zadie to learn about caring for a baby than watching someone she trusts do it, can you?’

Relieved, I leaned against the wall and loosened my grip on the cord of the telephone. It sprang out of my hand and vibrated against the receiver. ‘No, no, I can’t. Thanks, Peggy,’ I added after a moment, slightly worried that I’d been worrying in the first place. I was well aware that I needed to keep myself in check, striking the right balance between giving Megan everything she needed, everything she deserved, and all the while bearing in mind that our time together was limited.

‘Anyway, if things go to plan Megan might have moved on to adopters by then.’

‘Great,’ I said, pleased that Peggy was still committed to keeping to tight timescales in Megan’s case. There was no doubt that making the transition from foster to forever family early on in her life would help to minimise any lasting sense of trauma and loss – we were often told in training that separating a child from their main caregiver could have profound effects, interfering with their development and the quality of all of their future intimate relationships as well as impacting on their self-esteem, social skills and long-term mental health – and, infinitely less important but nonetheless also present in the back of my mind, it would be easier for all of us to let her go. ‘Now, before I forget, Megan’s LAC review is scheduled for tomorrow at ten. I’ll need you there obviously.’

‘Tomorrow?!’ I cried, exasperated. ‘That’s a bit late notice to arrange cover, isn’t it?’ Looked after children, or LAC, reviews were meetings held at regular intervals during a child’s time in care to discuss their care plan and keep everyone involved in looking after them – the child’s parents, their foster carers, school or nursery teachers, health professionals and, in certain circumstances, police officers – updated in terms of their progress and any difficulties they may be experiencing. In other circumstances I would have been happy for Emily to babysit while I popped out, but local authority rules dictated that looked after children must only be cared for by registered back-up carers with a minimum age restriction of 18.

Peggy tutted. ‘Well, you’ll just have to bring the children along if you can’t organise something in time.’ There was a crackle on the line and a shuffling of papers. I pictured the social worker tapping urgent notes in a Word document using one finger on the keyboard and motioning silent, stern commands to the administration staff around her with the other.

A whirlwind character, Peggy never held back from speaking her mind and I had heard on the grapevine that her blunt honesty had put one or two noses out of joint in her office, particularly those of the senior management. Despite being sent on repeated diversity and equality training refresher days, she refused to toe the party line simply to keep her bosses happy, steadfastly sticking to her strongly held views.

Once, so I’m told, she brought her dog into the office for a week when he was unwell, in direct defiance of instructions from above. Through closed doors, in the middle of a heated ‘discussion’ with one of her line managers, Peggy was overheard to say, ‘I haven’t taken a day off sick in ten years, not a single one, which is more than I can say for you lily-livered lot with your stress vacations and mini-breakdowns. Now, either Pug stays and I work, or I’m taking unpaid leave until he’s better. It’s up to you.’ Despite misgivings, the manager caved in and Pug spent the week resting in his basket underneath Peggy’s desk.

One of the joys of working with someone like Peggy was that you could say exactly what you thought and she never took offence, although you had to be prepared to hear her own opinions pointed out in no uncertain terms. I had often thought that if Alan Sugar ever needed a replacement sidekick to keep a stern eye on the applicants in The Apprentice, Peggy would have been his ideal woman.

‘Someone here can watch them for an hour if needs be but it’s not very convenient. I’d rather you made other arrangements.’

Chapter Eight

As it was, I didn’t have to bring the children along. Emily and Jamie were both out with their dad for the day and my mother was more than happy for me to drop Megan and Zadie over to her while I went. The LAC review was to be held in one of the interview rooms at the local authority municipal buildings and Peggy was waiting in reception when I arrived. Solidly built, with steely grey hair and heavy-framed glasses, she angled her chin when she saw me, a greeting I had come to accept as friendly, though until I drew closer and she smiled, it looked anything but.

Des, my supervising social worker from Bright Heights Fostering Agency, usually accompanied me to LAC reviews but plans were in place for him to transfer to the US to conduct research into a youth scheme that was working well there. With a mountain of paperwork to catch up on before he left, he had sent me a text to say that he wasn’t sure whether he’d make it to the meeting. Apart from the statutory visit each month that he was obliged to make, I had heard very little from him in the past weeks, although he had paid us a flying visit in the week, to meet Megan. Having developed a close friendship with him since becoming a foster carer, I missed his impromptu visits and calls.

Angie, the midwife who had overseen Megan’s care in hospital, was standing at Peggy’s side. She held her arms out when she saw me and after giving me a hug the first thing she wanted to know was how Megan was doing. I was about to tell her when Peggy said, ‘Shall we get on, ladies?’ She rammed the thick file she was holding under her arm and turned, marching wheezily in the direction of the lifts. Angie raised an eyebrow and we exchanged smirks, like chastised schoolgirls, before falling into step behind. ‘Christina’s not here yet but we’ll go ahead without her,’ Peggy said as the lift moved towards the second floor. I had been feeling a bit nervous about meeting Megan’s birth mum after witnessing her volatility at the hospital and so was quite relieved to hear that. ‘The morning’ll run away with us otherwise and I’ve got far too much to do.’

The interview room was tiny, so small that it was a struggle to open the door wide enough to get inside. A long table took up the entire width of the space, leaving no gap at either end to access the mismatched chairs on the opposite side. The chairperson, a thin man in his early forties with a well-manicured beard and coppery, thinning hair, was already seated in one of the nearest chairs. Standing awkwardly in the cramped quarters, he shook our hands and introduced himself as John Noble.

‘It was the only room free, sorry, everyone,’ Peggy said, her voice booming off the walls. ‘Now, I would climb over there, but I’m not sure I’d ever make it out again. At least, not without a hoist.’

‘It’s all right, I’ll go,’ I offered, pleased that I was wearing trousers. I perched on the desk and swung my legs over the other side, taking a seat on one of the unforgiving wooden chairs. Angie followed my lead and sat beside me. Peggy thanked us, taking one of the seats opposite with a loud humph. John retook the seat beside Peggy and glanced at his watch. It was almost ten o’clock, the time the meeting was scheduled to begin.

‘Christina’s not here,’ Peggy told John. ‘I received a call from the legal team earlier, which I’ll tell you about in a moment. I suggest we start on time and if she turns up we’ll have to recap. Agreed?’

Peggy’s tone invited compliance and we all nodded our agreement. John went on to tell us that he was present to mediate between the different parties and ensure the correct procedures were followed, but without Christina present it was unlikely that any disagreements would arise. After introducing ourselves, Angie was invited to give a summary of Megan’s health-care needs and I was surprised to hear that there were some concerns about her hearing as well as her low weight.

Apparently, a test conducted in the hospital soon after Megan was born had suggested that there might be some loss of hearing, and the details had been recorded in her red book. While I had skimmed through the log, in truth I had been so focused on dealing with her symptoms of withdrawal that I hadn’t taken much notice of anything else. I knew that children with neonatal abstinence syndrome could suffer a range of health, behavioural and learning difficulties, and my heart squeezed at the possibility of little Megan having so much to contend with. I felt a sudden stab of fury towards her birth mother.

Angie must have noticed the unease on my face because she was looking at me when she said: ‘Just because we failed to get a clear response from the first hearing test doesn’t mean we won’t at the next one. It’s difficult to test hearing in a baby as young as Megan and the results are certainly not conclusive. We find that, for most, their hearing improves when their cleft is corrected.’

I nodded my thanks to Angie and at John’s invitation I summarised Megan’s first week at home. I told them that she had been prescribed an antacid and that her sickness had eased a little. ‘She’s coping well, bless her. I’m beginning to see light at the end of the tunnel.’

Angie tilted her head to one side and gave me a warm smile. After updating them on Megan’s routines and general well-being it was Peggy’s turn to address the meeting, and what she had to say took us all by surprise. ‘Christina was arrested yesterday for shoplifting,’ she said, looking at each of us in turn. ‘Her probation officer has been in touch with our legal team to say that she’s been bailed and was released this morning. Heaven knows where she is now.’ The social worker sighed and then looked at Angie. ‘I have to say, any suggestion of disability isn’t going to help us in tying things up quickly this end. Most adopters run a mile at the mention of health problems.’

Angie held up her hands. ‘It’s a consideration at this stage, that’s all. Megan’s head circumference is on the small side but we’d expect that with NAS babies and, as I said, newborn hearing tests aren’t conclusive. Megan will need a repeat test in a few weeks to see if the results are the same. If they are, she’ll be referred to an audiologist.’

Peggy nodded decisively and then moved on to discuss Megan’s care plan. Usually, when a baby is removed from its mother, an assessment is undertaken to establish their ability to parent, but since Christina’s drug-dependence problems were so severe, Peggy was almost certain that she would relinquish her parental rights of her own accord.

It was unusual for parents to give up their rights to their children without a fight, in my experience, although it sometimes happened, particularly when they knew in their hearts that they weren’t able to care for them. If Christina contested the local authority’s plans to permanently remove Megan from her care though, a lengthy legal process would follow, with lots of toing and froing between Christina’s representation and the local authority legal team. It wasn’t unusual for cases to take anything up to two years or more to resolve, so I was happy to hear Peggy reiterating that she was confident of a speedy resolution.

‘We’re making efforts to trace Megan’s birth father at the moment, which is proving to be more complex than you might think,’ Peggy said with a coded glance. ‘Christina is insistent that’ – she glanced down, consulting her notes – ‘Briz Clark, her most recent partner, the one she fled from, isn’t Megan’s father, although as you probably know, we need to demonstrate to the court that we’ve exhausted all avenues of enquiry in finding him, whoever he may be, before we rule the option out. Of course, if he’s found he may want to be considered to care for Megan, but my guess is that Christina is simply plucking names out of the air and hoping she’ll come up trumps. She isn’t at all sure who he is.’

Angie inclined her eyebrows meaningfully and blew out some air. After establishing that no one had anything further to add, John proposed a date for the next review and closed the meeting. Angie gathered her belongings and gave me a quick hug. Peggy inclined her head. ‘Thank you, Angie,’ she said, as the midwife shuffled herself back over the table. ‘You too, John.’ The chairman shook our hands. I grabbed my bag ready to follow them out but Peggy lifted her hand. ‘Rosie, would you stay a moment? I’d like a word if I may –’

John held the door open for Angie and when it was just the two of us left, Peggy asked how Zadie was coping after the shock confirmation of her pregnancy. I had just finished updating her when the door swung open and crashed into the back of Peggy’s chair. The social worker’s jaw dropped, one of her habitual habits, and she turned around.

Both of us stared at the young woman standing in the doorway.

Chapter Nine

‘Fuck, what you doing sitting in a cupboard?’ Christina demanded of Peggy in the rich, husky tone I remembered from the hospital. I hadn’t noticed it then, but Megan’s birth mother was clearly from the Newcastle area; her Geordie accent unmistakable in the confined space.

‘I wanted somewhere small enough to contain you in case you flew off the handle again,’ Peggy retorted, standing up with a groan and rubbing the small of her back. She tilted the back of her chair and ushered Christina in, the vague twinkle in her eyes the only clue that she wasn’t completely serious.

Christina was wearing a short denim skirt, black ankle boots and a closely fitted, low-cut top. She looked so slender that I never would have guessed she’d recently given birth if I hadn’t known already. ‘What d’you expect?!’ she cried, though without the venom I might have expected. There was a degree of warmth in their rapport, suggesting that Peggy and Christina knew each other of old. After slamming the carrier bag she was holding and a mobile phone with a large glossy screen onto the table, Christina slumped heavily into the nearest seat, sideways on, one elbow hooked over the back. She ran her eyes around the pokey room and sniffed. ‘Well, ain’t this the dog’s bollocks?’

Peggy returned to her own seat. ‘Strictly speaking, Christina, this meeting is over.’

Christina scowled and shifted herself around. ‘Christ almighty, this chair’s hard! Where’s the cushions?’

Peggy shook her head and sighed. ‘Fucking government,’ Christina continued, oblivious to the social worker’s stern glare. ‘Snatch your kid before the nurse’s even stitched up your oo-jah, then can’t be arsed to give you proper chairs. Bloody arseholes!’ She twisted her legs around, rested her elbows on the top of the carrier bag and fell into conversation with me. ‘They took her off me the minute I dropped,’ she said in a nasally tone, the skin around her nostrils red and sore, as if she’d blown her nose too much. ‘Plain. Fucking. Rude.’ Each word was stated with a noisy slap on the table. ‘I’m sick to the back teeth of it all, to be honest.’

Peggy’s mouth twitched at the corner. She breathed out so that her nostrils flared, and then composed herself. ‘Megan needed immediate medical care, Christina. You were told that was likely after your 20-week scan. You jolly well knew what was going to happen and don’t pretend otherwise.’ I was surprised to see how easily Peggy confronted her and how naturally relaxed she seemed; I guessed that, in her job, being able to construct a dialogue with all sorts of people while challenging them as well was a valuable asset.

‘Yeah well, you know you’re gonna croak one day, don’t mean you’re fucking happy about it,’ Christina snapped, unfolding her arms and banging her hands down on the table, the rings she wore on each finger jangling against the grey melamine top.

‘Christina,’ Peggy said with a warning note.

‘What? I’m telling it like it is, that’s all.’ She sniffed again and let her eyes roam the room. Her gaze finally settled on me. ‘Who’s she anyway?’ she asked in a tone that was suddenly perfectly reasonable and serene. She jerked her head in my direction.

‘This is Rosie Lewis, Megan’s foster carer.’

‘Oh right,’ she said, looking at me from the corner of her eye now she knew who I was. ‘Beautiful, ain’t she?’ she asked and there was a note of aggression in her tone, as if daring me to disagree. I was used to that and knew better than to expect instant trust when caring for someone else’s baby. It was something that grew slowly; each time a parent saw their little one clean and nicely dressed for contact, every time they found fresh nappies and wipes in the bag sent with them, or perhaps a photo addressed to Mummy or Daddy tucked away somewhere for them to find. Trust usually came in time.

I nodded, smiling. ‘Absolutely, yes, she’s gorgeous.’

Her jawline softened and she turned her face towards me again, leaning closer. ‘Ain’t nothing wrong with her, ’cept for that gap in her lip and loads of babies have that. I keep telling them she’s all right but they don’t wanna listen. All babies puke, it ain’t just Megan. She’s got it a bit worse, probably ’cos of the butter.’

I frowned. Opposite me, Peggy gave a sigh of exasperation.

‘What’s that face about? I ate a load of butter when I was pregnant. It was like one of them cravings or something. That’s what did it.’

‘Is that what they’re calling it these days?’ Peggy mumbled.

Christina cut across the social worker with a contemptuous look, turning her attention back to me. She looked worn out, which wasn’t surprising considering she’d recently given birth, but there was sharpness in her face too, in character rather than features. She looked knowing somehow, as if she’d gathered more experience through the years than most other twenty-somethings.

Her brown eyes were red-rimmed and watery, shadowed with heavy greyish pouches, and her irises were bloodshot and dull, as if she hadn’t slept in days. In some ways her appearance was a surprise; apart from looking extraordinarily tired and laid low with an apparent heavy cold, she was actually quite attractive, her dark blonde hair fluffy around her face and no trace of the wizened, emaciated look you expect of an addict. Without looking at Peggy she jabbed a thumb fiercely over her shoulder. ‘This is the sort of shit I get every time I come here. Nazis, the lot of them. They’re all the same. I don’t get told nuffink about my own baby. All they do is pick holes all the time.’

‘Well, it would help if you’d turn up on time,’ Peggy pointed out. ‘If you’d arrived at ten when the meeting began you would have heard all about how Megan is doing. We’ve discussed her care plan, daily routines, contact arrangements,’ she said, tapping each one off on her fingers with the forefinger of her other hand. ‘I can recap now, if you’d like? You have contact this afternoon as a matter of fact. You’ll be hosting, Rosie. I presume that’s OK?’

My eyes widened. Peggy had summarised contact times about twenty minutes earlier, but said nothing about me hosting the event. She had also emailed a copy of the contact schedule through to me a few days earlier, but no venue had been stated. ‘Uh, I –’ I floundered. Since the demand for supervised contact at family centres was high, social workers were often keen for foster carers to cover sessions in their own home, provided there was no threat to their personal safety. Issues surrounding contact were usually discussed at the beginning of a placement, when plans for the child’s care were set out by the social worker. Peggy hadn’t said a word about it, so I had naturally assumed the contact would go ahead without any involvement from me. It was typical of her to spring the idea on me.

‘We’re at full capacity our end,’ Peggy said firmly. ‘We’d appreciate it, Rosie.’

‘Of course,’ I said, trying not to grimace.

Christina’s mobile wobbled and pinged. She swiped at it and then stared down at the screen, her expression going blank. Peggy cleared her throat noisily and pushed a sheet of A4 paper across the table. Christina snatched at it, the scrunching noise as she screwed it up in her palm clearing the glaze from her eyes. She stared at it for a full two minutes and then looked up at Peggy, her expression agog. ‘Ten?!’ she cried, waving the paper around, although she seemed to be responding to Peggy’s earlier comment about the start time of the LAC review. ‘I was told eleven, not ten. Who can get anywhere by ten o’clock? What am I, a fucking owl?’

‘The rest of us managed to get here punctually,’ Peggy said wearily, as if she’d said the same thing time after time. ‘And I haven’t the faintest idea where you got 11 o’clock from. I sent a letter with the time clearly stated to the manager at your refuge three days ago, along with a voucher to claim back any transport costs. A copy was sent to your solicitor and I also sent you a text-message confirmation, an email and I called your mobile this morning and left a voice message.’ Peggy clasped her hands together and rested them on the thick file in front of her. She leaned forward, staring hard at the young woman. ‘What else would you have me do, Christina? Arrange for a butler to wake you? Tea, croissants and the morning paper perhaps?’

I sank back, cringing inwardly, though I couldn’t help feeling a flash of admiration for Peggy at the same time. It was refreshing to hear her challenging Christina’s attempts to shirk responsibility, though I feared the young woman might explode in response. She did colour slightly, but then all she did was give a slow roll of her eyes. ‘Yeah, well, people like you don’t have to get buses everywhere, do you? You don’t have a clue what it’s like in the real world. The buses don’t run that regular where I am.’

‘Twaddle,’ Peggy scoffed. Christina stared at her, wide-eyed and adamant, but she didn’t say anything in defence. ‘It wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that you were only released from police custody this morning, I suppose?’

Christina sniffed briskly, her eyes flicking over to me and then quickly away again. ‘Yeah, well, might have been that an’ all.’ She rolled her shoulders, quickly recovering her dignity. ‘I wanted something to wear to the meeting today, didn’t I? I need to make a good impression so you give me my baby back. What was I supposed to do? Turn up naked?’ She looked back at me, garnering support. I tried to keep my expression non-committal.

Peggy adjusted her glasses and consulted the thick wad of papers in front of her. ‘Let’s see. Ah yes, here we are. I’m told you stole five pairs of trainers and 19 liquid eyeliners.’ She turned back to Christina and fixed her gaze keenly. ‘Who exactly were you trying to impress?’

Christina’s mouth opened and quickly closed. She examined her nails, which were short and jagged, and then turned back to me. ‘Fucking police state, that’s what this country is. I might as well pack up and go and live in Russia. Even they don’t dish out this sort of crap. In fact I’d go today if it weren’t so fucking cold over there. More cameras than rats where I live, there are.’

‘Hmmm, evidently,’ Peggy snorted. ‘A dearth of buses but no shortage of cameras.’

Christina’s jaw fell slack. ‘What you on about now?’ She looked across at me again. ‘I only get about half of what comes out of ’er mouth.’

Peggy scratched her short grey hair with sudden vigour. ‘All I was trying ’a do was make myself presentable,’ Christina continued. ‘Make a bit of an effort, you get me? What’s wrong with –’

‘What you need to do is get yourself clean,’ Peggy cut in matter-of-factly, whipping her glasses off and waving them in the air to punctuate her point. ‘There’s no benefit in prancing around in fancy trainers when you’re rotting away from the inside out, is there?’ Her tone was flat with no room for negotiation and, aside from muttering something crude under her breath, Christina didn’t bother trying.

My head was spinning. Christina was antagonistic and outrageous and she seemed to have a completely distorted idea of how the world worked but, in spite of a lingering resentment towards her for the harm she had caused Megan, I actually found myself liking her. I wasn’t sure if it was her Geordie accent, which seemed to make the most fearsome people sound friendly, or her complete lack of any artifice, but there was something about her that was genuinely disarming. I shook my head and blinked a couple of times, tuning back into the conversation. ‘– and we want to secure Megan’s future while she’s young enough not to know too much about it,’ Peggy was saying. ‘We know from studies that the sooner babies are settled, the easier –’

‘But I love her,’ Christina burst out, her lips puckering. Her legs were jiggling up and down so violently that one of her kneecaps hit the table. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ she growled, wincing. ‘That’s what you lot don’t understand. I love her to bits.’ The muscles beneath one of her eyes began to twitch. I could tell she was close to tears. ‘God, don’t you get it? I just wanna hold her without ten thousand people standing around, judging me. It really fucking hurts, all this shit.’

Peggy’s expression softened. She sighed, rubbed the inner corners of her eyes with thumb and forefinger then put her glasses back on. ‘I don’t doubt it, Christina. But love alone can’t keep her safe. Megan needs warmth and security and someone calm to take care of her. Someone who’s able to put her needs first. You live a rackety life, love, not right for a baby, especially one with additional needs. You know that, deep down, don’t you?’

Christina started to cry. It wasn’t a howling display designed to garner sympathy but rather a quiet, reluctant release of emotion. Tears trickled down her cheeks and I bowed my head, a lump rising in my throat. Peggy handed her a tissue and she blew her nose loudly. I glanced out of the small window at the end of the room and stared out over the local authority car park, the sound of Christina’s quiet sobs moving me more than I would ever have expected or wanted them to. She had harmed a helpless baby and I had strong feelings about that, but viewed dispassionately, there was no malicious intent – it had happened as a by-product of hurting herself. It was such a sorry state of affairs that I couldn’t help but feel sad for everyone involved.

‘Come on now, don’t upset yourself. Let’s talk about these referrals you keep ignoring, shall we?’ Peggy said, kindness creeping into her tone. ‘You’re a young girl. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you and you’re surrounded by people who want to help, love. Let’s get you booked in again and –’

‘Oh God,’ Christina screeched bitterly. She stood and grabbed her carrier bag. One of the plastic handles caught on the back of the chair and she gave a cry of frustration. There was a waft of tobacco as she hauled it free and threw herself at the door. ‘I can’t hack no more of this shit!’ she shouted, in the corridor before Peggy even had a chance to protest. The door banged behind her. I stared at Peggy in surprise.

‘Bloody hell,’ the social worker said, gathering her papers into a pile and banging one end into a block on the table. ‘I could shake her, honestly I could.’

‘She won’t go for help?’

She sighed loudly, air wheezing in her throat. ‘Oh, she goes all right, picks up her methadone and then tops it up with God knows what else when she gets out. She’s a character, I’ll grant you that. I actually quite like the girl; that’s why it’s so damn frustrating.’ She raised her eyebrows, heaved another sigh and then set her papers down gently, patting the top. ‘Anyway, on the bright side, Megan’s doing a little better you say?’

I nodded. ‘She seems to be a bit more comfortable. The Gaviscon’s helping, I think, although she still throws up after every feed.’ I gave her a rueful smile. ‘She has a knack of catching me right here,’ I said, patting my chest, ‘no matter which position I hold her in.’ Peggy huffed a soft laugh. ‘She’s sleeping a little easier as well. She really is a gorgeous baby.’

The social worker levelled her gaze. ‘Hmmm, yes, she is. And I’m supposed to constantly undermine your relationship with her so that you don’t get too attached. It’s what we’re told to do for our foster carers when they’re looking after babies.’ She bit her lip thoughtfully. ‘Only, if Megan were my own child I’d want you to love her utterly and completely, no holds barred, because the way we’re loved as babies defines how much love we’ll have in our hearts when we’re adults.’

I smiled at her. ‘I’ll keep her close, don’t worry about that.’

‘Yes,’ she said, looking directly at me. ‘I thought as much. But you’ll suffer the consequences when she leaves, that’s all I will say. And believe me, it’s going to hurt you a lot more than it’ll hurt anyone else.’

I gave a soft shrug. ‘That’s as it should be.’ I knew that if Emily or Jamie had been taken into care, I would have wanted whoever was looking after them to be smitten, however painful the eventual parting.

Peggy gave me a satisfied nod. ‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Right, so, contact stands at four times a week for now, as you’d have seen on the schedule I emailed. When we next go to court I’ll try and get it reduced. Let me know how it goes this afternoon. If it’s too difficult at home we’ll try to work something out, but Christina’s mild enough. Her bark’s worse than her bite.’

‘So today’s contact is going ahead then?’

Peggy’s jaw dropped again so that she gained a severe look. She peered at me over the top of her glasses. ‘As far as I know,’ she said abruptly. ‘Why would you think otherwise?’

‘I thought maybe, with Christina’s cold and everything, she didn’t look well enough to be around a baby and if she’s infectious –’

‘That’s no cold, Rosie,’ Peggy scoffed. ‘She’s been at the snuff, that’s all that is. And she’s got a touch of sinner’s eye, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Sinner’s eye?’

Peggy nodded grimly. ‘It’s one of the places hardened addicts use to inject – the soft tissue around the eye. Either Christina’s worked her way through all the veins she can find and it’s the only place left, or she’s going for the big guns now she’s no longer pregnant.’

I blanched; my stomach contracting.

‘High impact,’ Peggy explained as she pushed her chair back and rose. She winced, her lips clenched together as if in pain. ‘Hits the brain faster,’ she added a little breathlessly, a few beads of sweat appearing on her brow. ‘Gives them the head rush they’re looking for.’

I grimaced again and Peggy shook her head, her expression relaxing. ‘My goodness, Rosie, you’ve led a sheltered life,’ she said, eyes twinkling with amusement. ‘You should do my job for a few months. That’d cure you.’ She turned stiffly and held the door open for me. ‘By the way, I’ve got to go into hospital tomorrow so you’ll need to contact the fostering team manager if there are any problems while I’m away. I’ll be back in the office next week, all being well.’

‘Oh, nothing serious, I hope?’

‘Something and nothing,’ she said briskly, flapping her plump, reddened fingers through the air. She barked a laugh as she followed into the corridor. ‘Mind you, if you call the office next week and they tell you I’m dead, you’ll know I underestimated the situation.’

I laughed, and then we both went our separate ways.

Chapter Ten

I collected Megan from my mother’s house straight after the meeting, but Zadie asked if she could stay for a while longer and help to sort some coloured squares into a pattern for making a patchwork quilt. Mum readily agreed, especially when I told her about Christina coming over for contact. ‘Best you stay here,’ Mum said, giving Zadie a wink.

I was surprised to see Des waiting on the doorstep when I got home. ‘Ach, I’m sorry, Rosie,’ he said, as I climbed out of the car. I wondered whether he had been talking to his brothers back in Scotland – his accent was particularly pronounced today. ‘I was too late to make the meeting. I thought I’d try and catch you’s here.’ His hair was wilder than ever, presumably because he’d been rushing, the long curls criss-crossing over themselves across the top of his head, his slightly crumpled trousers and shirt-tails visible beneath the leather jacket he wore lending him a dishevelled glamour that could only ever happen by accident.

In contrast to his appearance, Des gave off an air of indefinable knowing. Nothing ever seemed to faze him or rob him of his calm. No matter what was going on around him, you always got the feeling that he’d been expecting it all along.

‘That’s OK.’ I pulled my handbag up onto my shoulder, closed the driver’s door and walked around to the other side of the car, for Megan. Des got there first, chivalrously lifting her seat out for me and holding it easily in one hand. Since finding out that he was leaving, something had changed between us. I wasn’t sure what, but I stood awkwardly for a moment, my keys dangling in my hand. Des seemed perfectly comfortable, though, as usual. With his long legs planted wide, he gave a small jerk of his head. ‘Coffee, then? Before I head back to the office?’

I nodded, turning towards the house, but he caught hold of my arm with his free hand. ‘I thought we’s could take a walk, grab something on the way.’

Megan wailed as I secured her into her baby harness, but the noise softened to a whimper as she curled herself up against my chest. With one cheek pressed against my top, she blinked in the sunlight and gave a contented sigh. The air was perfumed with the sweet summery scent of newly cut grass, but in the light breeze I could still smell Megan; her soapy cleanness, and the faint spice of freshly washed linen.

As we walked along, the movement soothed her and she nuzzled further down into her cocoon. I curled my arms around the bulk of her, even though the support wasn’t needed, and listened distractedly as Des told me about the foster-carer recruitment drive being initiated by Bright Heights. I think he mentioned something about the agency looking for volunteers to stir up some local interest. Normally I would have been happy to help out, but I was too absorbed by Megan’s movements against my chest to take much notice. I found myself concentrating on her tiny, bird-like breaths, making sure that she was getting enough air.

‘C’mon,’ Des said, when we passed a café. He guided me up the shallow steps with one hand, and then held the door open for us. At the table I loosened the straps of the carrier, but Des insisted on taking Megan so that I could have a rest and drink some tea.

He lifted her out and sat across the table from me, shushing and rocking her when she mewed. I rolled my shoulders, lifted the carrier over my head and let out a long breath. I felt two stone lighter whenever I put Megan down.

Des was a lively character who always seemed to take up so much space, so it was funny to see him metamorphosing in front of my eyes; his big hands arranging Megan’s blanket with such gentle attentiveness, his usual booming voice softly controlled. It was at times like that I thought it was a shame he’d never had children of his own. It was easy to imagine him surrounded by adoring, slightly rowdy kids, gales of laughter rippling around their comfortable home.

I smiled involuntarily. It didn’t escape his notice. ‘Something funny?’ he said, lifting his brow. I shook my head, but I couldn’t rid myself of the smirk. He didn’t comment, but I detected the faint flicker of a smile on his lips, creases of amusement around his eyes.

I started to tell him about the LAC review, but stopped abruptly when the waitress arrived to take our order. Des glanced up at her and made some comment I can’t quite remember, but it made her laugh. From that standing start, they very quickly progressed to discussing a joint love of rock music and geometric art. I sat watching them in silent admiration. Des always seemed to fall into easy conversation with people, no matter where he went. It was a gift that never ceased to amaze me.

When the drinks arrived I offered to take Megan back while Des drank his, but she had fallen asleep in his arms and he didn’t want to disturb her. I told him more about the meeting and he nodded here and there, but for most of the time he kept his gaze down, fixed on the baby’s face. He looked up sharply when I told him about Christina coming over for contact though. ‘Why did you’s agree to that?’ he said, looking annoyed. ‘You’re under no obligation to host. Ach, it’s my fault, I should have been there. I’ll call Peggy this afternoon; tell her it’s not happening.’

I put my cup down, shook my head. ‘No, don’t do that. I’ve agreed to it now. Let’s just see how it goes.’ Supervising contact was rarely an appealing prospect for foster carers, but there were advantages to holding the sessions at home. Bungled arrangements, overstretched contact supervisors and transport issues meant that sessions held at family centres were often delayed or cancelled.

Hosting the contact at home, as well as providing a relaxed, comfortable environment for what was sometimes a difficult, stressful experience for children, gave foster carers an opportunity to observe and record any changes in their behaviour while their parents were around. In my experience, children found it reassuring to know that the people responsible for caring for them were able to interact positively.

Megan was too young to worry about the politics of it all of course, but staying at home meant that her feeding routine and nap times weren’t interrupted, and she wouldn’t need ferrying around in unfamiliar cars by a stream of different contact supervisors either.

‘Aye, OK, but you call me if you feel you’re in over your head, right?’ He kept his gaze fixed on me until I nodded, then he looked away, but his heavy brows were still knitted together, his lips set in a stern line. Something about his irritation pleased me, I think because I felt that there was someone looking out for me. I was grateful for his concern.

We left the café in silence, Megan back in place on my chest. We walked on together for maybe 200 yards or so, but then Des stopped. I went on for a pace two before I realised he wasn’t beside me. When I turned he said, ‘Rosie?’

It seemed as if he were about to ask me something, but our attention was snatched by a whirling buzz as a helicopter passed overhead. We both looked up, watching as its bulk faded to a distant dot and then out of sight. I looked back at him questioningly, but the moment had passed. He took a few brisk strides towards me and went on ahead. I fell into step beside him.

Chapter Eleven

Later that afternoon I awaited Christina’s arrival with trepidation. The session had been scheduled for 2 p.m., but the hour came and went with no sign of her. At first I wondered whether she might have had trouble finding our house, but by half past two I decided she probably wasn’t coming and got ready to go to the shops. Just as I was about to strap a sleeping Megan into the pram though, I heard a commotion beyond the front door.

I stood in the hall for a moment with Megan in my arms, my head tilted as I tried to work out what was going on outside. The silhouettes of two people were visible through the frosted glass of the door, and from the way they merged, parted, then crossed over again, there seemed to be some sort of scuffle going on between them. Instinctively, I held Megan closer and ducked out of sight, but then I heard loud outbursts of laughter. A few seconds later, the doorbell rang.

‘Oh, hello,’ I said, my eyes drifting from Christina to the man standing behind her. At least a decade older than her, he was skinny, with a drawn, pale face and bedraggled, shoulder-length hair. ‘I’d almost given up on you.’ I didn’t bother trying to disguise the thread of irritation in my tone.

Christina, who was holding an ice cream, gave me a blank look. Her companion stared at me, equally vacant. After giving her a brief shove in the back, propelling her towards the house, he took a puff of his cigarette, blew a smoke ring in the air and then dropped the stub on the path. I stared at him with incredulity, but neither he nor Christina batted an eyelid, although she jabbed him hard in his chest and threw out one leg, grinding the stub under her shoe.

‘You’ll have to wait for Christina outside, I’m afraid,’ I said, as they readied themselves to come in. I tried to sound as if I wasn’t going to brook any argument, although my pulse was beginning to race. Megan stirred in my arms.

‘This is Lee,’ Christina said, as if she thought that was enough to prove his credentials. ‘He’s all right.’ She was wearing leggings, shoes with extraordinarily high heels and a stringy long-sleeved black top that slipped off one shoulder as she climbed the front step. Once in the hall she took Megan from me without a word and tottered off out of sight. Lee made a move to follow her but I quickly took a step sideways, blocking his way.

‘Sorry, Lee. There’s a café in the park along the way if you’d like a cuppa while you’re waiting.’ My pulse quickened again, but I stood firm.

He stared at me for a second or two, shrugged and then craned his head around the doorjamb, his face just a few inches from mine. ‘Laters, Chris,’ he shouted down the hall, his fusty breath hot on my face. I turned, partly because of the overwhelmingly strong stench of nicotine and stale aftershave, but also to see if I could work out where Christina had taken herself off to. There was no sign of her, but from somewhere downstairs she grunted a noise of acknowledgement.

‘Oh, Lee?’

He turned. ‘Yeah?’

‘Would you mind taking that with you?’

‘Huh?’

I nodded towards the path, where faint wisps of smoke were still rising from the half-finished cigarette. He gave me a look that suggested he thought I was the sort of person who kept the food tins lined up in the cupboard in alphabetical order, then trudged over and kicked the butt into the hedge.

In the living room, Christina had kicked off her shoes and was sitting on the sofa, her legs tucked up beneath her. Megan lay sleeping in the curve of her right arm, and in the same hand she held a mobile phone, the back of which was chequered with green and yellow striped tape. One of her thumbs moved swiftly over the screen. With impressive dexterity, she managed intermittent licks of the ice cream she held in her other hand without disturbing Megan or diverting attention from her phone. ‘All right?’ she said, biting off the bottom of the cone.