The Child Bride. Cathy Glass

T-shirts – normal stuff.’

      ‘I see,’ I said, no less confused but wanting to reassure Zeena. ‘Don’t worry, I keep spares. I can find you something to wear until we can get your own clothes from home. I guess your mother made a mistake.’

      Zeena’s bottom lip trembled. ‘She did it on purpose,’ she said.

      ‘But why would your mother give you the wrong clothes on purpose?’ I asked.

      Zeena shook her head. ‘I can’t explain.’

      I’d no idea what was going on, but my first priority was to reassure Zeena. She was visibly shaking. ‘Don’t worry, love,’ I said. ‘I’ve got plenty of spares that will fit you. I can wash and dry your school uniform tonight and it will be ready for tomorrow.’

      ‘I can’t believe she’d do that!’ Zeena said, staring at the case.

      Clearly there was more to this than her mother simply packing the wrong clothes, but I couldn’t guess what message was contained in those clothes, and Zeena wasn’t ready to talk about it now.

      ‘I’ll phone my mother and tell her I’ll go tomorrow and collect my proper clothes,’ Zeena said anxiously.

      ‘Do you think that’s wise?’ I asked, concerned. ‘Perhaps we should wait, and ask your social worker to speak to your mother?’

      ‘No. Mum won’t talk to her. My phone and charger are in my school bag in the hall. Is it all right if I get them?’

      ‘Yes, of course, love. You don’t have to ask.’

      As Zeena went downstairs to fetch her school bag I went round the landing to my bedroom where I kept an ottoman full of freshly laundered and new clothes for emergencies. I knew I needed to tell Tara the problem with the clothes and that Zeena was going to see her mother. I would also note it in my fostering log. All foster carers keep a daily log of the child or children they are looking after. It includes appointments, the child’s health and well-being, significant events and any disclosures the child may make about their past. When the child leaves, this record is placed on file at the social services and can be looked at by the child when they are an adult.

      I lifted the lid on the ottoman and looked in. Zeena was more like a twelve-year-old in stature, and I soon found a pair of leggings and a long shirt that would fit her to change into now, and a night shirt and new underwear. Closing the lid I returned to her room. She had moved her suitcase onto the floor and was now sitting on her bed with her phone plugged into the charger, and texting. In this, at least, she appeared quite comfortable.

      ‘I think these will fit,’ I said, placing the clothes on her bed. ‘Come down when you’re ready, love.’

      ‘Thank you,’ she said absently, concentrating on the text message.

      I went into Paula’s room where she and Lucy were still excitedly discussing the boy-band concert, although it wasn’t for some months yet.

      ‘When you have a moment could you look in on Zeena, please?’ I asked them. ‘She’s feeling a bit lost at present. I’m going to make dinner.’

      ‘Sure will,’ Lucy said.

      ‘She seems nice,’ Paula said.

      ‘She is. Very nice,’ I said.

      ‘Don’t worry, we’ll look after her,’ Lucy added. Lucy had come to me as a foster child eight years before and therefore knew what if felt like to be in care. She was now my adopted daughter.

      I left the girls and went downstairs. I was worried about Zeena and also very confused. I thought the clothes in the case were hers, although they seemed rather revealing and immodest, considering her father appeared to be so strict. But why had her mother sent them if Zeena couldn’t wear them? It didn’t make sense. Hopefully, in time, Zeena would be able to explain.

      Downstairs in the kitchen I began the preparation of dinner. I was making a pasta and vegetable bake. Zeena had said she ate most foods but not a lot of meat. I’d found in the past with other children and young people I’d fostered that pasta was a safe bet to begin with.

      After a while I heard footsteps on the stairs, and then Zeena appeared in the kitchen. She was dressed in the leggings and shirt and was carrying her school uniform.

      ‘They fit you well,’ I said, pleased.

      ‘Yes, thank you. Where shall I wash these?’ she asked.

      ‘Just put them in the washing machine,’ I said, nodding to the machine. ‘I’ll see to them.’

      Zeena loaded her clothes into the machine and then began studying the dials. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s different from the one we have at home. Can you show me how it works, please?’

      ‘Do you do the washing at home, then?’ I asked as I left what I was doing and went over.

      ‘Yes. My little brothers and sisters get very messy,’ Zeena said. ‘Mother likes them looking nice. I don’t mind the washing – we have a machine. I wish it ironed the clothes as well.’ For the first time since she’d arrived, a small smile flicked across her face.

      I smiled too. ‘Agreed!’ I said as I tipped some powder into the dispenser, and set the dial. ‘Although many of our clothes are non-crease, and Lucy and Paula usually iron their own clothes.’

      ‘And your son?’ Zeena asked, looking at me. ‘He doesn’t iron his clothes, surely?’

      ‘Not yet,’ I said lightly. ‘But I’m working on it.’

      Zeena smiled again. She was a beautiful child and when she smiled her whole face lit up and radiated warmth and serenity.

      ‘There’s a laundry basket in the bathroom,’ I said. ‘In future, you can put your clothes in that and I’ll do all our washing together.’

      ‘Thank you. I don’t want to be any trouble.’

      ‘You’re no trouble,’ I said.

      Zeena hesitated as if about to add something, but then changed her mind. ‘I tried to phone my mother,’ she said a moment later. ‘But she didn’t answer. I’ll try again now.’

      ‘All right, love.’

      She left the kitchen and I heard her go upstairs and into her bedroom. I finished preparing the pasta bake, put it into the oven and then laid the table. A short while later I heard movement upstairs and then the low hum of the girls’ voices as the three of them talked. I was pleased they were getting to know each other. I’d found in the past that often the child or young person I was fostering relaxed and got to know my children before they did me.

      Presently I called them all down for dinner and they arrived together.

      ‘Zeena phoned her mum,’ Lucy said. ‘She’s going to collect her clothes tomorrow.’

      ‘And your mum was all right with you?’ I asked Zeena.

      She gave a small nod but couldn’t meet my eyes, so I guessed her mother hadn’t been all right with her but she didn’t want to tell me.

      ‘Does she always speak in Bengali?’ Lucy asked, sitting at the table.

      ‘Yes,’ Zeena said.

      ‘Can she speak English?’ Paula asked, also sitting at the table.

      ‘A little,’ Zeena said. ‘But my father insists we speak Bengali in the house, so Mum doesn’t get much chance to practise her English.’

      ‘You’re very clever speaking two languages fluently,’ Paula said. ‘I struggled with French at school.’

      ‘It’s easy if you are brought up speaking two languages,’ Zeena said.

      While Paula and Lucy had sat at the table ready for dinner, Zeena was still hovering. ‘Sit down, love,’ I called from