A Long Way from Home: Part 3 of 3. Cathy Glass

      

      

       Copyright

      Certain details in this story, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the family’s privacy.

      HarperElement

      An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

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      First published by HarperElement 2018

      FIRST EDITION

      © Cathy Glass 2018

      Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

      Cover photograph © Elly De Vries/Arcangel (posed by model)

      A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

      Cathy Glass asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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      Source ISBN: 9780008275891

      Ebook Edition © February 2018 ISBN: 9780008275907

      Version: 2018-01-26

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

       Copyright

       Chapter Twenty: Bad at Home

       Chapter Twenty-One: Review

       Chapter Twenty-Two: Frightened of Her Daughter

       Chapter Twenty-Three: Save a Child

       Chapter Twenty-Four: A Family Torn Apart

       Chapter Twenty-Five: Ian

       Chapter Twenty-Six: Missing Her

       Chapter Twenty-Seven: Bad Ending

       Chapter Twenty-Eight: A Long Way from Home

       Suggested topics for reading-group discussion

       Cathy Glass

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       About the Publisher

      Chapter Twenty

       Bad at Home

      The strain of having Anna live with us was taking its toll on Adrian and Paula. Since she’d arrived I had hardly spent a minute with them, and they were looking forward more than usual to spending the day with their father on Sunday, when he would take them out somewhere nice. He saw them every month and phoned in between. Regardless of what I thought of him leaving us, I didn’t let it impact on Adrian and Paula’s relationship with him. I told Anna they were seeing their father and I wondered if this would prompt a comment from her about seeing her own parents. She’d hardly mentioned them at all since she’d arrived, which was very unusual. Most children who come into care, even those who have been abused by their parents, pine for them, want to see them as soon as possible and often ask when they can return home. Anna had originally said she didn’t want to see her mother. Had that changed? Apparently not. She didn’t mention wanting to see her parents at all – not then, at least.

      Once Adrian and Paula had left with their father, I asked Anna what she would like to do and suggested the cinema, a park (the weather was cold but dry) or an indoor activity centre. She didn’t want to do any of these, so I said we could do something at home then. She shrugged and didn’t offer a better suggestion, so I opened the toy cupboard in the conservatory and asked her to choose some games we could play together. The phone rang and I answered it in the living room. It was my mother; we usually spoke a couple of times a week, but now I said I’d have to call her back later for a chat. When I returned to the conservatory Anna was nowhere to be seen. I’d only been away from her for a couple of minutes. I went round the downstairs calling her name and then upstairs. My bedroom door was wide open and I went in to find her going through my wardrobe.

      ‘Anna, whatever are you doing?’ I asked, going over.

      ‘Nothing,’ she said. But she didn’t immediately stop.

      ‘That’s private,’ I said, and closed the wardrobe door. ‘Do you remember when you first arrived, I explained our bedrooms were private and we didn’t go into each other’s rooms unless we were asked?’

      ‘You go into mine,’ she said.

      I was taken aback. It wasn’t the reaction of an average five-year-old, even one with behavioural issues. ‘Yes, because I am your carer and I look after you. I go into your room to make your bed, put your clothes away and keep it clean and tidy. At your age it’s part of my responsibility. When you are older you can do it yourself. Now come on, out of here, we’re going downstairs to find a game to play.’

      She didn’t move, but stood with her back to the wardrobe. ‘I go into my parents’ bedroom whenever I want,’ she said brazenly.

      ‘That’s up to them,’ I said.

      ‘No, it’s up to me.’

      I believed her, and not for the first time I saw that the distinction between adult and