The Child Bride. Cathy Glass

her. ‘Do you have any photographs of them?’

      ‘Not with me; they’re at home.’

      ‘We could ask Tara to get some when she visits your parents?’ I suggested. I usually tried to obtain a few photographs of the child’s natural family, as it helped them to settle and also kept the bond going while they were separated. ‘Shall I phone Tara and ask her?’

      ‘I can text her,’ Zeena said.

      She now drank some of her water and finally allowed her gaze to wander around the room and out through the patio windows to the garden beyond.

      ‘You have a nice home,’ she said, delicately holding the glass in her hands.

      ‘Thank you, love. I want you to feel at home here. I know it’s probably very different from your house, and our routines will be different too, so you must tell me if there is anything you need.’

      ‘Thank you,’ she said, and set her glass on the coffee table. ‘I expect I’ll have to ask you lots of questions,’ she added quietly.

      ‘That’s fine. Do you have any questions now?’

      She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Yes. What time would you like me to serve you dinner?’

Chapter Three

       Good Influence

      ‘Serve dinner?’ I asked, thinking I’d misheard. ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘What time shall I make your evening meal?’ Zeena said, rephrasing the question.

      ‘You won’t make our evening meal,’ I said. ‘Do you mean you’d like to make your own?’ This seemed the most likely explanation.

      ‘No. I have to cook for you and your family,’ Zeena said.

      ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ I asked.

      ‘I cook for my family at home,’ she said. ‘So I thought it would be the same here.’

      ‘No, love,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t expect you or any child I looked after to cook for us. You can certainly help me, if you wish, and if there’s something I can’t make that you like, then tell me. I’ll buy the ingredients and we can cook it together.’

      Zeena looked at me, bemused. ‘Do your daughters do the cooking?’ she asked.

      ‘Sometimes, but Lucy’s at work and Paula is at sixth form. They help at weekends. Adrian does too.’

      ‘But Adrian is a man,’ she said, surprised.

      ‘Yes, but there’s nothing wrong in men cooking. Many of the best chefs are men. How often do you cook at home?’

      ‘Every day,’ Zeena said.

      ‘The evening meal?’

      ‘Yes, and breakfast. At weekends I cook lunch too. In the evenings during the week I also make lunch for my youngest sister who doesn’t go to school, and my mother heats it up for her.’

      While I respected that individual cultures did things in their own way and had different expectations of their children, this seemed a lot for a fourteen-year-old to do every day. ‘Does your mother go out to work?’ I asked, feeling this might be the explanation.

      ‘No!’ Zeena said, shocked. ‘My father wouldn’t allow her to go out to work. Sometimes she sews at home, but sometimes she is ill and has to stay in bed.’

      ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said. ‘I hope she fully recovers soon.’

      Zeena gave a small shrug. ‘She has headaches. They come and go.’

      It didn’t sound as though her mother was very ill, and Zeena didn’t appear too worried about her. I was pleased she was talking to me. It was important we got to know each other. The more I knew about her, the more I should be able to help her.

      ‘Shall we take your case up to your room now?’ I suggested. ‘You’ll feel more settled once you’re unpacked and have your things around you.’

      ‘Yes. I’m sorry I’m such a burden. It’s kind of you to let me stay.’

      ‘You’re not a burden, far from it,’ I said, placing my hand lightly on her arm. ‘I foster children because I want to. We’re all happy to have you stay.’

      ‘Are you sure?’

      ‘Positive.’

      ‘That’s very kind of you.’ She was so unassuming and grateful I was deeply touched.

      We stood, but as we left the living room to go down the hall a key sounded in the front door. Zeena froze before she remembered. ‘Is that your other daughter?’

      ‘Yes, it’s Lucy. Come and say hello.’

      We continued down the hall as Lucy let herself in.

      ‘This is Zeena,’ I said.

      ‘Hi, good to meet you,’ Lucy said easily, closing the door behind her. ‘How are you doing?’

      ‘I’m well, thank you,’ Zeena said politely. ‘How are you?’

      ‘Good.’

      I kissed Lucy’s cheek as I always did when she returned home from work. ‘I’m taking Zeena’s case up to her room,’ I said. ‘Then I’ll start dinner.’

      ‘Is Paula back?’ Lucy asked, kicking off her shoes.

      ‘She’s in her room.’

      ‘Great! She’ll be pleased. I’ve got tickets for the concert!’

      Lucy flew up the stairs excitedly, banged on Paula’s door and went in. ‘Guess what!’ we heard her shout. ‘The tickets are booked! We’re going!’ There were whoops of joy and squeals of delight from both girls.

      ‘They’re going to see a boy-band concert,’ I explained to Zeena.

      She smiled politely.

      ‘They go a couple of times a year, when there is a group on they want to see. If you’re still here with us, you could go with them next time,’ I suggested.

      ‘My father won’t allow me to go to concerts,’ she said. ‘Some of my friends at school go, but I can’t.’

      ‘Maybe when you are older he’ll let you go,’ I said cheerfully, and picked up her case.

      Zeena gave a small shrug but didn’t reply, and I led the way upstairs and into her room.

      ‘I’m pleased you’ve got some of your clothes with you,’ I said, positively. ‘I’ve plenty of spare towels and toiletries if you need them.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      Zeena set the case on her bed, but then struggled to open the sliding lock. It wasn’t locked but the old metal fastener was corroded. I helped her and between us we succeeded in releasing the catch. She lifted the lid on the case and cried out in alarm. ‘Oh no! Mum has packed the wrong clothes.’ The colour drained from her face.

      I looked into the open case. On top was what appeared to be a long red beaded skirt in a see-through chiffon material. As Zeena pushed this to one side and rummaged beneath, I saw some short belly tops in silky materials, glittering with sequins. I also saw other skirts and what looked like pantaloons, all similarly embroidered with sequins and beads, similar to the clothes Turkish belly-dancers wear. Zeena dug to the bottom of the case and then closed the lid.

      ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. She was clearly upset.

      ‘Mum hasn’t packed my jeans or any of my ordinary clothes,’ she said, flustered and close to tears.

      ‘What are these clothes