Trapped: The Terrifying True Story of a Secret World of Abuse. Rosie Lewis

herself in a half-crouched position. The ends of the towel draped into the bath and over the toilet seat. When she finally stood up the floor got a soaking but at that moment a slip hazard was the least of my problems. Not wanting to let her out of my sight, I darted into my bedroom to grab the cordless telephone and guided her back into her own room.

      ‘You get dried and dressed while I make a phone call. Don’t worry, I won’t look.’

      ‘Don’t worry, I won’t look.’ Her voice rippled as though speaking underwater. Clasping the towel tightly around herself she went to her suitcase and rifled through the clothes. It struck me as peculiar that she showed no concern for her own welfare: when my own children were unwell, if they ever caught on that I was worried about them, they would ask endless questions, seeking reassurance. But it seemed as if Phoebe didn’t remotely care that she might be in danger. I wondered whether she lacked the mental capacity to understand the consequences of her actions.

      A quick call to our local surgery reassured me that there was no need to dash to the hospital for an emergency stomach pumping. According to the doctor, children’s bubble bath was non-toxic and unlikely to cause any long-term damage but he did suggest that Phoebe drink plenty of milk or water and told me to keep an eye out for any further symptoms.

      Before she went to bed that night I conducted a sweep of the room, removing anything I thought she might be tempted to nibble on and unwinding the decorative lights that Emily had twisted around the foot of the bed. I was still fretting about what might be going on in her stomach. She hadn’t eaten a morsel since arriving hours earlier, nothing edible at least. No wonder she was so thin, I thought. I had managed to persuade her to drink half a cup of milk, though only through a straw. She gagged whenever I tried to tempt her into eating anything else, heaving at the mere mention of food.

      Consuming bubble bath was one thing but I worried that if she was really hungry she might decide to snack on something solid during the night. If an object slipped down her throat, how on earth would I know about it before the morning? The thought paralysed me and as I stood at the door and watched her climb into bed that night I almost sighed with relief at the temporary reprieve.

      ‘Goodnight, sweetie. Now, you mustn’t put anything in your mouth, OK? I’m just down the hall if you need me.’

      As I went downstairs I felt as if I was lowering myself into a narrow box, the sides closing in around me and the lid nailed down by unseen hands. It may sound strange but at the beginning of every placement I’ve taken on, there has been a short period when I’ve felt trapped by my decision to foster. I guess it’s a natural reaction – it feels surreal to suddenly be responsible for another human being, especially when there is absolutely no connection between you.

      Thankfully, I have managed to build a rapport with each of the children I’ve cared for in a short space of time, usually within a few days. As each relationship strengthened, I found that the claustrophobia ebbed away. The trouble was, with Phoebe, I just couldn’t see it happening. Down in the living room, I visualised the virtual calendar I had in my head; she would be gone before the end of the Easter holidays – one day down, 13 to go.

Chapter 5

      The next morning I woke at just after 6am, feeling a bit more positive. Phoebe had slept right through the night, something I hadn’t expected at all. Most children struggled to settle for the first few nights in a strange bed and so I had been prepared for some degree of sleep deprivation.

      Relishing the silence, I washed and dressed then pottered downstairs and made myself a coffee. Sitting at the kitchen table, I watched a pair of robins settling on the branch of our apple tree, their wings shining in the bright, early morning sunshine. The scent of winter jasmine floated through the open window, boosting my already lightened mood. As I sipped my warm drink, I dared to think that the placement might not be as difficult as I had first thought. With firm boundaries in place, Phoebe’s symptoms might not be so pronounced as they were on her arrival. I wasn’t that knowledgeable about autism but I had heard that routine went a long way in helping sufferers to cope with the everyday stresses that other children barely noticed.

      And anyway, that was the nature of fostering; no one ever said it would be straightforward. Whatever the reason for their removal from home, fostered children arrive in placement at probably one of the lowest points in their lives. It’s not surprising that they may then ‘act out’ their unhappiness, perhaps by stealing food, money or items of sentimental value, destroying property, refusing to wash, being deliberately provocative, violent or aggressive, or more passively, wetting the bed or self-harming. But having a hand in helping a child to mend was hugely satisfying and certainly worth all the hardships along the way.

      That’s not to say there is always a happy ending. It took me a while to accept that. Alfie, for instance, whose mother was imprisoned for a short period for his neglect, stayed with me about four years earlier, while a Care Order was secured through the courts. Members of his wider family were assessed and it was decided to award his grandmother special guardianship. I have since heard through the grapevine that Alfie’s mother left prison and went straight to live with her own mother in the flat where she cared for Alfie.

      Within weeks a new young boyfriend had joined her there and recently grandmother (who hadn’t yet celebrated her fortieth birthday) fell for a roofer from Essex and spent long periods of time drinking with him in his bedsit in Hornchurch. I have known social services to spend two years and an inordinate amount of money securing a Care Order through the courts, only for the children to then return home via obliging friends or relatives. It’s not an ideal system.

      It is sometimes said that foster carers are ‘in it for the money’. I find it difficult to believe that anyone could survive more than six months as a foster carer unless there was a powerful drive to ‘heal’ hurt children.

      For one child, a foster carer’s ‘wage’ is around £200 per week, although this amount varies depending on the local authority. On top of that an allowance of between £60 and £100 is paid (depending on the age of the child), an amount that must be spent solely on the child and meticulously accounted for. Surviving on £800 a month can be a struggle, particularly in a one-parent household. With two children in placement, life is a bit more comfortable but certainly not luxurious.

      I’ve never been driven by money; for me a happy home life and contented children holds far more value and so being able to just about manage was all I needed to be content. Fostering had given me many ‘I will never ever forget this’ moments, some of them for their awfulness, but others that were almost magical.

      By 7.30am I was beginning to find the stillness unsettling. In my experience it was unusual for the under-10s to sleep in. Reluctant to disturb the blissful peace but unable to relax without checking on Phoebe, I crept up the stairs and along the hall. The smell hit me before I reached her closed door and I groaned, anticipating the scene before I had even laid my hand on the handle.

      It was worse than I’d thought.

      Retching as violently as Phoebe had done the evening before, I clamped my hand over my mouth and forced my feet to shuffle into the room, flicking the light switch on with my elbow. Phoebe lay serenely in bed, the duvet pulled up to her neck just as it was when I left her the night before. The room was considerably different, though: the magnolia walls were smeared with streaks of excrement, each lilac butterfly spattered with a generous coating of stomach-churning brown. Even the curtains hadn’t escaped Phoebe’s attention, with clumps of stinking excrement clinging to the fabric.

      I couldn’t help myself: ‘My God, what have you done?’

      ‘My God, what have you done?’

      That was it. I charged into the room and yanked the duvet away from her. Phoebe squealed, drawing her soiled hands up to her cheeks and rolling to one side. Curled up in a foetal position, she buried her face in her stained and smelly pillow. My fury ebbed away at the sight of her lying there, so thin and pitiful. Instantly I felt ashamed that I’d broken my promise by entering her room without being invited.