The Child Bride. Cathy Glass

A note from The Fostering Network

       About the Publisher

Also by Cathy Glass

      Damaged

      Hidden

      Cut

      The Saddest Girl in the World

      Happy Kids

      The Girl in the Mirror

      I Miss Mummy

      Mummy Told Me Not to Tell

      My Dad’s a Policeman (a Quick Reads novel)

      Run, Mummy, Run

      The Night the Angels Came

      Happy Adults

      A Baby’s Cry

      Happy Mealtimes for Kids

      Another Forgotten Child

      Please Don’t Take My Baby

      Will You Love Me?

      About Writing and How to Publish

      Daddy’s Little Princess

Acknowledgements

      A big thank-you to my editor, Holly; my literary agent, Andrew; Carole, Vicky, Laura, Hannah, Virginia and all the team at HarperCollins.

Prologue

      A small child walks along a dusty path. She has been on an errand for her aunt and is now returning to her village in rural Bangladesh. The sun is burning high in the sky and she is hot and thirsty. Only another 300 steps, she tells herself, and she will be home.

      The dry air shimmers in the scorching heat and she keeps her eyes down, away from its glare. Suddenly she hears her name being called close by and looks over. One of her teenage cousins is playing hide and seek behind the bushes.

      ‘Go away. I’m hot and tired,’ she returns, with childish irritability. ‘I don’t want to play with you now.’

      ‘I have water,’ he says. ‘Wouldn’t you like a drink?’

      She has no hesitation in going over. She is very thirsty. Behind the bush, but still visible from the path if anyone looked, he forces her to the ground and rapes her.

      She is nine years old.

Chapter One

       Petrified

      ‘And she wouldn’t feel more comfortable with an Asian foster carer?’ I queried.

      ‘No, Zeena has specifically asked for a white carer,’ Tara, the social worker, continued. ‘I know it’s unusual, but she is adamant. She’s also asked for a white social worker.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘She says she’ll feel safer, but won’t say why. I want to accommodate her wishes if I can.’

      ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, puzzled. ‘How old is she?’

      ‘Fourteen. Although she looks much younger. She’s a sweet child, but very traumatized. She’s admitted she’s been abused, but is too frightened to give any details.’

      ‘The poor kid,’ I said.

      ‘I know. The child protection police office will see her as soon as we’ve moved her. She’s obviously suffered, but for how long and who abused her, she’s not saying. I’ve no background information. Sorry. All we know is that Zeena has younger siblings and her family is originally from Bangladesh, but that’s it I’m afraid. I’ll visit the family as soon as I’ve got Zeena settled. I want to collect her from school this afternoon and bring her straight to you. The school is working with us. In fact, they were the ones who raised the alarm and contacted the social services. I should be with you in about two hours.’

      ‘Yes, that’s fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll be here.’

      ‘I’ll phone you when we’re on our way,’ Tara clarified. ‘I hope Zeena will come with me this time. She asked to go into care on Monday but then changed her mind. Her teacher said she was petrified.’

      ‘Of what?’

      ‘Or of whom? Zeena wouldn’t say. Anyway, thanks for agreeing to take her,’ Tara said, clearly anxious to be on her way and to get things moving. ‘I’ll phone as soon as I’ve collected her from school.’

      We said a quick goodbye and I replaced the handset. It was only then I realized I’d forgotten to ask if Zeena had any special dietary requirements or other special considerations, but my guess was that as Tara had so little information on Zeena, she wouldn’t have known. I’d find out more when they arrived. With an emergency placement – as this one was – the background information on the child or children is often scarce to begin with, and I have little notice of the child’s arrival; sometimes just a phone call in the middle of the night from the duty social worker to say the police are on their way with a child. If a move into care is planned, I usually have more time and information.

      I’d been fostering for twenty years and had recently left Homefinders, the independent fostering agency (IFA) I’d been working with, because they’d closed their local branch and Jill, my trusted support social worker, had taken early retirement. I was now fostering for the local authority (LA). While it made no difference to the child which agency I fostered for, I was having to get used to slightly different procedures, and doing without the excellent support of Jill. I did have a supervising social worker (as the LA called them), but I didn’t see her very often, and I knew that, unlike Jill, she wouldn’t be with me when a new child arrived. It wasn’t the LA’s practice.

      It was now twelve noon, so if all went to plan Tara and Zeena would be with me at about two o’clock. The secondary school Zeena attended was on the other side of town, about half an hour’s drive away. I went upstairs to check on what would be Zeena’s bedroom for however long she was with me. I always kept the room clean and tidy and with the bed made up, as I never knew when a child would arrive. The room was never empty for long, and Aimee, whose story I told in Another Forgotten Child, had left us two weeks previously. The duvet cover, pillow case and cushions were neutral beige, which would be fine for a fourteen-year-old girl. To help her settle and feel more at home I would encourage her to personalize her room by adding posters to the walls and filling the shelves with her favourite books, DVDs and other knick-knacks that litter teenagers’ bedrooms.

      Satisfied that the room was ready for Zeena, I returned downstairs. I was nervous. Even after many years of fostering, awaiting the arrival of a new child or children is an anxious time. Will they be able to relate to me and my family? Will they like us? Will I be able to meet their needs, and how upset or angry will they be? Once the child or children arrive I’m so busy there isn’t time to worry. Sometimes teenagers can be more challenging than younger children, but not always.

      At 1.30 the landline rang. It was Tara now calling from her mobile.

      ‘Zeena is in the car with me,’ she said quickly. ‘We’re outside her school but she wants to stop off at home first to collect some of her clothes. We should be with you by three o’clock.’

      ‘All right,’ I said. ‘How is she?’

      There was a pause. ‘I’ll tell you when I see you,’ Tara said pointedly.

      I replaced