Broken: A traumatised girl. Her troubled brother. Their shocking secret.. Rosie Lewis

anything she’s particularly fond of at home? A cuddly toy or a blanket … something to help her settle?’

      He gave me a blank look. ‘She has a duvet in bed, not blankets.’

      I nodded. ‘Okay. Is she always tricky at bedtime?’

      His eyes surveyed his cards and then he looked up, not quite meeting my eyes again. ‘Yep. Takes me ages to get her into bed. If she has a sleep in the day it’s impossible. She gets up, she rolls around. I have to sleep next to her on the carpet sometimes to get her off.’

      Where was his mother while he was doing all of that, I wondered. ‘Well, I saw earlier what a knack you have with little ones. You were very good with Megan.’

      He smiled, pleased with the compliment. ‘I learned skills from dealing with her up there,’ he said ruefully, lifting his eyes to the ceiling.

      ‘Ah, yes,’ I said, wondering again just how much he might have been left in charge of his sister. Several of the children I’ve fostered had taken on the responsibility of caring for their younger siblings as well as themselves when they were at home. I’d once looked after an eighteen-month-old toddler who had insisted on changing his own nappy, so adept was he at taking on adult tasks. ‘You’ve got lots of experience then?’

      He nodded. ‘It’s hard though. She never does anything I tell her.’

      ‘Well, now you’re here you can leave Bobbi to me. I’ll take care of all the grown-up things. Your job is to make yourself comfortable and let me look after you.’

      He looked at me. ‘Rosie,’ he said hesitantly, ‘how can I find out if Mum’s okay?’

      ‘You’re worried about her?’

      He lifted his shoulders. ‘A bit.’

      ‘Did your social worker explain anything to you about contact?’ Contact refers to the regular meetings arranged between birth parents and their children. The meetings are usually held in a local family centre and monitored by contact supervisors who observe the family’s interactions and record their findings. In some cases, if there are no security concerns, contact takes place in the foster carer’s home. Some birth parents are permitted to spend time with their children unsupervised, although usually only when they have agreed to voluntary care, or during reunification, when their children make the transition from foster carer back to the birth family home.

      He nodded. ‘He said he couldn’t arrange anything until he’s had a meeting with Mum though.’

      ‘That’s right, that’s what usually happens. I expect the holiday period has delayed things a bit, but I’ll get in touch with him tomorrow and see if I can find out how she is. Is there anything else you’re worried about?’

      ‘Not really. No, wait …’ He looked at me hopefully. ‘Do you think I might be able to see my dad?’

      From the brief conversation I’d had with the placements team social worker, I got the impression that the children’s birth father hadn’t been on the scene for quite some time. ‘I’ll certainly ask. Do you see your dad often?’

      He shook his head, his expression downcast. ‘We used to. He used to come and take us out, but Mum says he doesn’t want to see us anymore.’

      ‘How long is it since you’ve seen him?’

      He shrugged. ‘I dunno. Ages. I sort of saw him on my birthday.’

      ‘In October?’

      He looked at me and nodded. ‘He came round with loads of presents, but he had a row with Jason and Mum wouldn’t let him in.’ He rubbed his forehead brusquely.

      ‘That’s tough,’ I said.

      ‘I waved out the window but he didn’t see me.’ A shadow crossed his eyes but then he quickly added: ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter. It’s nice here, I really like it.’

      I felt another twist of sympathy for him. Many of the children I have cared for display hair-trigger anger because it makes them feel less vulnerable than sadness, but Archie didn’t seem able to express either. ‘Things haven’t been easy for you, have they, honey?’

      He shook his head stiffly but then gave me a hopeful, not quite meeting my eyes, look. ‘Maybe now I’m here though … if I can see my dad?’

      I patted his hand. ‘I’ll see what I can find out.’

       Chapter Five

      The next day, Friday 2 January, began peacefully enough. I woke at just after 5 a.m. to the gentle sound of glass bottles clinking against doorsteps as the milkman made his deliveries. Hoping for half an hour to myself, I got up immediately and went downstairs. Mungo greeted me, tail wagging, in the hall and followed me as I switched on the computer and went into the kitchen. I made myself a coffee and fussed him while I waited for it to boot up.

      With the steaming drink at my side and Mungo at my feet, I sat at my desk to type up the previous day’s notes into my foster-carer diary. Foster carers are expected to keep detailed daily notes for each child they care for, recording such things as times and dates when babysitters are used, incidents of difficult behaviour and potential triggers, periods away from home, illnesses, medication, doctor’s visits, meetings, any disagreements that may have occurred – either with the child, their birth family during contact or with professionals – damage, theft, or involvements with police, and then email them at the end of each week to the child’s social worker for uploading onto social services’ computer system.

      Record keeping is an important part of a foster carer’s role, not only to protect against possible allegations (emailing the diaries provides the foster carer with proof that nothing has been added to the record or altered at a later stage) but also to provide a detailed history for the child in the future, should they choose to read their file when they reach adulthood. When I’d finished, I set the table for breakfast so that it was ready for the children as soon as they came down.

      Megan was first to rise, if you discounted Bobbi’s six wake-ups during the night. As Joan had mentioned, she talked a lot in her sleep, and every hour or so she called out to me. The first time I went in she complained that she didn’t like the dark, so I put a couple of plug-in night lights in the room. I went back to bed and she called me ten minutes later to tell me that the teddies I’d arranged around her bed were too starey. I collected them up and put them in the hall but she still woke an hour or so later.

      I went in to her each time and reassured her she was safe, but no sooner had I gone back to sleep than she was calling out again. The noise woke Megan several times as well, who was finding it difficult to sleep anyway because of a stomach ache. I gave her some Calpol and a hot-water bottle to ease her cramps, but she still tossed and turned, groaning whenever Bobbi called out. Tucked away in the top bunk, Archie somehow slept through the entire racket.

      ‘Morning, my angel,’ I whispered, lifting Megan into my arms. ‘How’s your tummy this morning?’

      She frowned, her disturbed night all forgotten. She cuddled close as I carried her downstairs, her head resting on my shoulder. I could feel the hard plastic of her hearing aid pressing into my skin and felt a swell of pride at her resourcefulness; over the last week or so she had taken to fitting the aid herself each morning. Sometimes she forgot to switch it on, but negotiating it into her ear was a feat in itself.

      I told her how clever she was and she beamed – her reaction evidence that she had managed to switch it on. I gave her some milk and we cuddled up on the sofa, the soft fur of Mungo’s head warming my feet. I buried my head in Megan’s hair, relishing the opportunity to hug her while she was in a sleepy state of early morning calmness, and so unusually still. It was still only half past six and I was hoping to spend at least half an hour of one-to-one time with her, as I had always tried to do with Emily and Jamie when they were younger. Megan, it seemed, had other