The Silent Witness. Casey Watson

under the strain of something apparently minor. Every one of us really is unique.

      Which is why, with Bella, as with any child, I assumed nothing. Yes, I’d make assumptions about what she might or might not be feeling, but how those feelings played out in terms of how she coped with her current lot was something no one could predict. She also came to us without much back-story, which would have enabled us to get a better feel for her, and which was in contrast with several of the children we’d previously fostered, such as Justin (he of the bulging, six-year, thirty-failed-placements file) and little Georgie, who was autistic and had been in care, and therefore monitored, for almost all of his life.

      Three days in, therefore (we were by now in the lull before New Year, the bedroom ‘snow’ gone and forgotten), and I felt almost as clueless about Bella’s emotional make-up as I had when she’d arrived on Christmas Eve – the moving scene on Christmas night notwithstanding. She’d clearly got something out of her system, which was obviously going to be A Good Thing, but she’d spent almost all of Boxing Day – which was a quieter one, with the little ones gone, and the day lazier – withdrawn and uncommunicative. And though she’d come out with us on a trip to town, to have a nose around the German Christmas market, she’d simply done as asked, like a biddable elderly relation almost, putting her coat on, doing the buttons up, donning the gloves I’d found for her and then trailing along, hand in mine, but completely disengaged. The most animated she’d been was eating a doughnut. And she’d only managed to eat half of that.

      Two days later, and she was still saying almost nothing to any of us bar Tyler, and what she did say – the odd ‘yes’, ‘no’ and ‘thank you’ – was always in response to something said to her. For much of the time, and I didn’t push it, she had her nose in the Harry Potter book we’d given her. Reading, it was becoming clear, was her main refuge.

      So today’s masterplan (which wasn’t any sort of masterplan, really; I was leaving that for John to organise once everyone was back in their various offices) was for the pair of us to go wedding-dress shopping with Riley, while her David stayed at home to mind the kids.

      I had promised my eager-beaver daughter that I’d fit some time in in the New Year to go dress hunting, but with Mike back in work – to cover sickness; there’d been some grim virus going round – and Tyler off to spend the day with Denver, I figured today was as good as any to make a start, not only as it would stop the four walls of the silent house closing in, but also, despite the inevitably fraught nature of competitive sale shopping, it did mean we had at least a fighting chance (fighting being the operative word) of bagging a bargain. And since Mike and I were footing the bill, that would be a major bonus.

      It was now 10 a.m., however, and though I’d been happy generally to let Bella sleep for as long as she needed to, given that Riley would be over soon, keen to hit town and do battle, it was probably time I went to wake her up.

      And when I went upstairs I was pleased to find her bedroom door open; she’d obviously already woken up and gone to wash, though, in contrast to the previous three mornings, she’d left her duvet flung back and pillows awry. Perhaps evidence that she was finally beginning to settle, rather than carrying on as if in an institution, like her mother?

      ‘Morning, love,’ I called, seeing the bathroom door was also open, before heading off into my own bedroom to change.

      I hadn’t been expecting a response, but almost immediately I got one, though not in the form of words, more an anguished, groaning sob.

      I backtracked to the bathroom and pushed the door properly open, to be confronted by an unexpected, shocking scene. Bella was sitting on the bathroom floor, her legs drawn up to her chest and her arms clenched around them, while, moaning softly, she rocked back and forth. And as she did so, because of where she was sitting, beside the toilet, the back of her head was drumming rhythmically against the sink.

      Straight away I could see she wasn’t doing it deliberately. Head-banging is a particularly distressing form of violent self-soothing so I was relieved to be able to see it wasn’t that. She was simply oblivious, or, at least, not particularly concerned that the basin was in the way of her rocking. She certainly seemed out of it, like she’d gone into some kind of fugue.

      And she clearly needed to be moved before she hurt herself. I bent down in front of her, which was when I noticed the vomit. There was sick all down her front, in her hair and on the carpet, as well as liberally decorating the bottom of the toilet seat and loo, the former presumably only having just been raised in time. How hadn’t I heard all this? But perhaps it had happened while I’d been down in the conservatory, sorting the washing. Which meant she’d been here for quite a while. I cursed myself for not having checked on her since I’d come down at seven.

      ‘Bella, love,’ I said, automatically reaching to feel her forehead for a high temperature. ‘What’s wrong, sweetie? Do you feel ill?’

      I pushed my hands under her armpits as I spoke, in order to help her up, and she raised her eyes to look at me in a way that made me realise she was only just becoming aware of her surroundings.

      ‘Are you okay, lovey?’ I said. ‘You’ve been sick. Did you realise? Come on, let’s get you off the floor and cleaned up.’

      Again, I felt that same gentle compliance as I lifted her; felt the load drop a little as her legs took some of the strain, so I was at least able to release one arm to flip the toilet seat back down, and via a natty swivel place Bella back down on it, where she remained while I ran the tap and filled the washbasin with warm water and shower gel.

      ‘I’m just going to wash your face, love, and wipe the sick up a bit,’ I said, and when she nodded I found myself feeling slightly exasperated at her continuing inability – or was it determination – to communicate properly with any of us. Had she called out earlier – just that, just my name, so I could help her – she wouldn’t be in this state now, would she? Not to mention my bathroom.

      I quashed my resentful thoughts even as I had them. This was presumably why her previous carers had said they wouldn’t have her back. And as they now had a brand new granddaughter, and all the anxiety and excitement that went with it, I could hardly blame them. They simply wouldn’t have the emotional energy left to spare.

      I had no such complications to excuse me. So, having elicited that she no longer felt ill, and that she didn’t have a temperature, I dipped a flannel in the fragrant water, wrung it out and washed her down, making eye contact and willing her to respond to it. Which she sort of did, by way of heavy tears that sped down her newly cleaned cheeks – a picture of intense and perfect misery; ethereal, as if a character from a Victorian novel.

      That job done, her hands dunked and dried, and her pyjama top wiped down, I helped her up and led her back into her bedroom. She needed to get out of her soiled pyjamas, obviously, but at twelve I hardly imagined she’d want me to help her with that, so instead I instructed her to strip them off and get dressed while I went back and sorted out the bathroom.

      ‘If you want to have a shower and go back to bed, that’s fine too, of course …’ But I had barely said the words when she became suddenly galvanised, crossing the room and flinging the duvet back over the bed, before furiously straightening it all out. It was almost as if she was terrified she’d get a slap if she didn’t, and I filed the observation away for future reference.

      ‘Don’t worry about that,’ I said, going across to her chest of drawers, where I pulled out a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and her new Christmas hoodie, which she had told me – on being asked – had been from her mum. Not her mum and dad, I noted. Just her mum. ‘There you are, love,’ I said, tossing them onto the bed. ‘I’ll go and sort the bathroom out while you get these on. And pop your pyjamas onto the landing for me to pop in the wash, will you? Then we’ll try to find out what’s made you sick, eh?’

      I left her gingerly undoing the buttons on her wet pyjama top.

      Back in the bathroom, I found myself in the unlikely position of ruing the fact that a day at the Christmas sales was probably a non-starter. Though logic told me Bella’s sickness could have been down to a virus (in which