Moving Fostering Memoirs 2-Book Collection. Casey Watson

my open bedroom window, trying to dismiss thoughts of Phoebe from my mind.

       Chapter 6

      The smart-looking couple stood a few feet inside the entrance of La Trattoria, their shoulders turned fractionally away from each other, expressions downturned. When he spotted us, the man, in his early 40s and tall, stepped forward with a confident air. Phoebe bounded ahead of us and ran to his outstretched arms, throwing her thin arms around his neck.

      ‘How have you been, my little sweetheart?’ Robin Steadman asked, smiling warmly as he lifted his daughter from the ground and tickled her side. She squealed with excitement. Slim but broad-shouldered, he looked immaculate in his double-breasted suit and tie, every inch the man about town. Salt and pepper, wavy hair was swept back from his tanned face; it was easy to imagine him sitting behind a shiny desk in a suave London bond broker’s office.

      Phillipa, Phoebe’s mother, lingered behind: although clearly younger than her husband, she looked tired, concern etched onto her features. While Robin gave the impression he had just returned from some exotic holiday in Dubai, his wife looked as if this was her first venture into the sunshine for several months. Her skin appeared washed out and she gave off an anguished air. It seemed that Robin was coping with the sudden separation from his daughter with more ease than Phillipa.

      ‘Hello, darling,’ she said in lady-like, reedy tones, once Phoebe had released her grip on her father. I wasn’t sure if it was just her middle-class accent but her voice sounded brittle to me, lacking in any warmth.

      ‘Hello, darling,’ Phoebe repeated, rebuffing her mother’s attempt to cuddle up to her. Phillipa’s lips drew into a tight line. So, you find her parrot behaviour infuriating too, I thought, noticing the flash of irritation in her expertly kohl-lined eyes.

      As Robin shook my hand the cuff of his shirt shifted, revealing an expensive watch on his wrist. ‘Shall we?’ he asked in an impressive, well-educated accent, gesturing to a nearby table. He smiled charmingly as he pulled out a chair for me to sit down. Waving Emily and Jamie along to the opposite end of the table, I seated myself between my children and the temporarily reunited family. It was close enough to monitor their conversation but far enough away to allow them a little privacy too.

      Glancing around, I was grateful to see that the place was near-empty, in case the smell of pizza should set off Phoebe’s gagging again. Jamie scanned the drinks menu. Emily feigned an interest but every so often she took a surreptitious peep sideways, eyeing Phoebe’s parents. At 14, Emily was old enough to stay at home but had asked to come along. I think she was as curious to meet them as I was.

      Once we were settled in our seats, Robin lifted his hand and seconds later a waiter appeared. Phoebe cuddled up to her father, bouncing up and down so that her head kept bumping into his chin. ‘Careful, darling.’ She ignored him, continuing to bob furiously and squealing loudly. Patiently, he craned his neck, ordering drinks over the top of her head.

      Phillipa, by contrast, was perched nervously on the edge of the seat opposite Phoebe, her hands twisting a napkin. Expensively coiffured, with high cheekbones and thickly lashed blue eyes, she made me feel a bit scruffy in her presence and I began flattening down my disobedient hair. She should have been beautiful and yet an air of coldness shaded any radiance from shining through. She glanced towards me then quickly looked away, smiling towards her daughter. ‘So, what have you been up to, darling? Have you been keeping busy at Rosie’s?’ I got the feeling she made the enquiry because it was expected of her, rather than out of genuine interest. There was definitely a distance there.

      ‘Been keeping busy at Rosie’s?’

      An uncomfortable silence followed Phoebe’s mocking of her mother, eventually broken by a self-assured Robin. ‘I bet you’ve been – the most …’ I couldn’t make out the entire sentence because the pair were snuggled so closely together, him whispering affectionately into her ear. Every now and again her bony hand rose up, touching her father’s cheek. It was as if Phillipa’s presence was superfluous to both father and daughter. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one to notice.

      Phillipa lowered her gaze, looking ill at ease. I felt instant pity for her. Leaning across the table, I decided to try and engage her in conversation, an effort to ease her discomfort.

      ‘Do you mind if I ask you a few things, Phillipa?’

      She shook her head. ‘Not at all.’

      ‘What does Phoebe like to eat? The only thing I can tempt her with is porridge.’

      Phillipa reddened. ‘She’s fixated on cereal at the moment, I’m afraid. Becoming fanatical about certain things can be one of the effects of autism.’ She seemed to shudder when she mentioned her daughter’s condition. It was strange, really – she was so articulate that I should have been the one who felt intimidated and yet it was she who appeared flustered.

      Embarrassed to delve into issues of hygiene with someone so refined but feeling obliged to investigate, I asked her why Phoebe’s hair was matted.

      She didn’t directly look at me as she answered. ‘She hates water so we try and get bathtime over with as quickly as possible. I’m afraid she’s been even more obsessive about it lately – she just won’t allow me anywhere near her hair.’

      At that moment Phoebe lunged across the table, catching her mother’s face with her fingernails. ‘Shut up,’ she screeched, ‘stop talking about me!’

      Phillipa flinched, glancing around the restaurant with embarrassment. How difficult it must be, I thought, to have every outing ruled by someone so unpredictable. It would hardly be surprising if their marriage were under strain. Even so, they did seem to indulge rather than control Phoebe’s spoilt behaviour. Were they really that frightened of their own daughter’s tantrums that they couldn’t even persuade her to wash her hair? Robin lowered flattened hands through the air in front of his daughter, trying to placate her. ‘It’s alright, Phoebe. Mummy’s not going to talk about you any more.’ He had a rich, deep voice that would have been perfect for radio. ‘Ah, here we are, sweetheart,’ he said, as a hesitant-looking waiter lowered a tray of drinks on the table.

      Phoebe peppered the next hour with outlandish actions and loud screeches. Phillipa sat meekly, watching as her unruffled husband tried to cajole his out-of-control daughter into calming down. Robin remained remarkably cool throughout, making no attempt to restrain her, even when she lashed out at her mother again. I found myself getting more and more wound up as I watched them let their child walk all over them.

      Apart from a few monosyllabic replies from Emily and Jamie in response to my attempts at conversation, they spent most of the time in silence, avidly watching the interaction between Phoebe and her parents. As 11 o’clock approached, Phillipa made a show of checking her watch as if trying to remind me to call time on their session. I wondered how she managed to get through whole days in the company of Phoebe, if she found just an hour so torturous.

      When Robin signalled that we were ready to leave the waiter quickly returned with two separate bills, no doubt relieved that our noisy party would be gone before the lunchtime trade arrived.

      Robin swept the receipts across the table with his well-groomed, long fingers. ‘They’re for you, I believe.’

      ‘Oh, thanks.’ I took the bill for Emily and Jamie’s drinks, handing the other back to him. ‘If you go to the civic centre, you can claim it all back there.’ I knew from experience that social services covered the cost of contact in the community, with no apparent limit. If Phoebe’s parents had chosen to take her to the cinema or the theatre, the money would be diverted from already overstretched budgets to pay for the trip. In the past I had found the idea galling, particularly when the children had been removed as a result of severe abuse. I couldn’t help but feel that feckless parents were being rewarded for their appalling behaviour. Surely you can afford to pay for your daughter’s own milkshake? I thought acerbically.

      ‘No.’