A Stolen Childhood (12 page)

‘Likewise,’ Mrs Bentley said, standing up also and offering me a hand to shake. ‘And sorry about that –’ she rolled her eyes towards the ceiling. ‘You know how things can get when they’re that age, I’m sure. Please feel free to call again, won’t you? Oh, but do phone in advance to check I’ll be home. I’ve managed to alter a few of my shifts, as I told your Mr Clark, but I’ve had to agree to provide cover if anyone is off ill or anything, so I might get called in at short notice.’

‘I will do,’ I said as I opened the porch door. ‘And thank you for the coffee. Will you say goodbye to Kiara for me? Tell her I’ll see her tomorrow?’

Mrs Bentley agreed and stood by the door as I walked down the path and up the road towards the school, where I’d left my car. And as I walked I reflected on the little outburst I’d just witnessed. Perhaps Mrs Bentley was half right; perhaps Kiara’s hair pulling and drifting off were simply symptoms of her distress at the dire state of her parents’ relationship. With her mum so censorious about her dad, and Kiara loving him so much, she was bound to feel torn about where her loyalties should lie. It was a nasty situation and one which the poor child should never have been brought into. And it could be, probably would be, nothing more than that. Which made the business of helping her reasonably straightforward.

But if that were so, why, oh
why
, was my brain screaming
no!
at me so loudly?

Chapter 9

Though I mulled over my brief visit to Kiara’s home all the way back to school, and then again as I drove the short journey home, by the time I got there I wondered if I wasn’t scratching an itch that was mostly in my mind.

It wouldn’t have been the first time; I knew I had a tendency to over-analyse – that was my nature, and one of the reasons I’d jumped at the job running the Unit. When ‘behaviour’ is in your job title, it kind of goes with the territory to spend half your time analysing exactly that.

But as the days passed, and we reached the start of the Easter holidays with nothing of note occurring (not in the sense of ringing alarm bells), I began to convince myself that whatever the reason for Kiara having presented to me as a child in need of extra support, the support we were giving her was reaping rewards. She was a model pupil, too – yes, she still came into school tired and slightly tense at times, but within the cocoon of the Unit classroom she seemed to be having her needs met, and, at the same time, proving a real positive in Chloe’s life, which, in turn, fed back into her own sense of self-worth.

And as for the boys – well, they were boys, and of a certain age and persuasion, and both were benefitting from having some lessons in personal development, away from the many triggers and flashpoints of normal school life – something that was key in them adjusting to their different situations and having the tools to cope with the challenges they brought. Jonathan, in particular, had been a real revelation, making me surer still that he’d just got locked into chronically low self-esteem – I made a mental note to speak to Gary about chatting to his foster mum about not using the points chart for anything that happened at school.

All told, it was a productive quartet in the Unit currently, so I skipped off to enjoy the Easter holidays in positive mood. I also had something of a mission in mind. Mike and I had been house hunting for a while now, for no reason other than that I fancied a change. This happened to me quite frequently – there was something of the gypsy in my soul – and was the main reason I’d always preferred to rent rather than buy.

‘Itchy feet’ was what my mother called it, invariably rolling her eyes when she mentioned it, so the gypsy in my soul clearly hadn’t come from her side. Put me in the same location for more than a year or two and, sure as night follows day, I’d soon be pestering Mike to go somewhere else. It was a standing joke in our family that we never got to put up the Christmas tree more than once in any house. Though I wasn’t having that. It was rubbish – I could count at least three places where we’d done this. Still, when my mind was made up …

I usually started by throwing in the odd complaint about the current property, just to set the ball rolling; set out my stall, so to speak. I’d suddenly announce that the garden was either too big or too small, or I’d grumble about the size of the dining room or lack of a conservatory – any perceived ‘defect’ that I laid eyes on, basically.

Mike and the kids had grown accustomed to this by now, and would always roll their eyes (just like my mum did), shake their heads and then realise that however much they groaned about the prospect, before long we’d be moving house again. We never went far; always remaining close to the schools and our various friends, so nobody
really
minded. And, truth be known, once the process was properly under way, the kids would get excited too, proving my restless gene had been passed on to them.

This was one such time, and the Easter holidays gave us the opportunity we needed to really get stuck into viewing properties and searching the internet for something that struck my fancy. Mike had booked a week off and Kieron was off from college so, as far as I was concerned, there were no excuses to dither either.

On this occasion, however, it seemed my kids had other plans. ‘Mum, I swear if I have to look at one more house I’m going to go nuts!’ Kieron announced when I was running around the front room with the local newspaper, assuring everyone that this time I had found
the
perfect place. ‘The last
three
flipping houses have been perfect,’ he moaned on at me irritably. ‘Can’t I
please
just leave it to you and dad this time, please? Honest, Mum, you’re driving me
mad
!’

Much as Kieron disliked change from routine (all a part of his Asperger’s) he was actually used to this process by now, and, in my defence, I always went back to what the doctor had told me when he was younger, that while I shouldn’t stress him needlessly, it was also important to challenge his various ‘security blankets’ in order to prepare him for the travails of adult life.

But he clearly didn’t want to be part of the decision-making process, and perhaps I needed to rein in just a bit. ‘I know how he feels, love,’ Mike added loyally, ‘and to be fair, he shouldn’t have to if he doesn’t want to; Riley doesn’t have to, does she? Because she’s out at work. No, Kieron,’ he said, before I had a chance to push another set of details under my son’s nose, ‘you go off with your mates or something and enjoy your time off. Me and your mum will sort this one out.’

‘Charming!’ I huffed, though, actually, I
did
take his point. ‘Well, just don’t either of you be moaning after the fact, then,’ I finished, putting down the newspaper and heading off to find my shoes so I could – all being well and a 30-second phone call confirmed it – drag Mike round my newest perfect prospect then and there.

And it was perfect; a beautiful little bungalow with a big bedroom downstairs, and two further ones – his ’n’ hers – nestled in the roof. It also sported a big front garden, mostly laid to hard-standing – handy for extra cars and visitors – and a back garden to die for, with both a cherry tree in it and the cherry on the top adjacent to it, in the form of a massive conservatory that led out on to the ‘must have’ of the moment: a great expanse of decking that I knew Alan Titchmarsh would approve of.

‘So you see?’ I explained, as we headed off to see it in person. ‘It’s going to be perfect in every way.’

Mike sighed the sigh of a man who knew there was probably no arguing with me. ‘Have you got shares in the bloody estate agents, woman?’ he said instead.

I was right, of course. By the time the Easter holidays had finished, we’d not only eaten half our combined body weight in chocolate, we’d also signed up to take over the bungalow in six weeks’ time, which fitted in perfectly for the half-term holiday. I couldn’t wait, and went back to work with a determined spring in my step and a smile of happy anticipation (all that lovely clearing out and cleaning up to look forward to) etched on my face.

It was a winner all round, in fact, as it was practically across the road from Kieron’s college, and also had a bus stop 20 yards from the front gate that would ensure an extra five minutes in bed every morning.

Till then, it was sleeves up and time to re-focus on work and my small but engaging little quartet. Or, rather, quintet-to-be, as one of the first things Gary Clark told me when I got to work (super-early) was that there was a new child potentially joining me.

‘I’ll fill you in more fully later, though,’ he said, ‘as I don’t have all the details yet. All I know is that she’s another one who’s new to the school. I believe Mike’s going to meet with the family first and we’ll go from there.’

Mike Moore being the headteacher, who didn’t usually do the introductions with new pupils; that task generally fell to the deputy head, Don. Either way, there would be some reason why the girl was being considered for the Unit before she’d even started, something I’d find out in the fullness of time. I was happy for her to join us anyway – I could easily accommodate half a dozen children or more, if needed, and a new pupil always added something to the dynamic. In the meantime, since Kiara hadn’t yet turned up at school, I thought I’d start the day with a good deed, and give Chloe a quick make-over, following my first ‘domestic rationalisations’ over the weekend.

‘Come here, sweetie,’ I called to her as she trotted into the classroom after the second morning bell, ‘I’ve got a couple of things over here that I think you might like.’

I’d already been unpacking my satchel and now I delved deeper, pulling out a set of old curling tongs, a mirror and a big hairbrush, all the while watching her eyes growing wider at this unexpected Mary Poppins trick. ‘According to my daughter, Riley,’ I told her, uncurling the lead from the tongs, ‘these things can do wonders with frizzy hair. Can make you look like a little princess, or so I’m told. What do you think? Because I thought we might give them a bit of try-out on you, Chloe. Would that be okay?’

There was little doubt that it would be more than okay. ‘Oh
yes
, miss, it definitely would be, miss,’ she told me, beaming. ‘My Auntie Koreen has some of those and she looks
beautiful
. Can you make my hair pretty like hers? Are you
allowed
to?’

I jumped straight on this, having never heard any mention of an aunt before. ‘Course I’m allowed to,’ I told her. ‘And, hey, what about this auntie of yours? Does she help you do your hair sometimes?’

‘I don’t really remember,’ Chloe said chattily. ‘I haven’t seen her since I was little. I just saw them in some holiday photos.’

‘She doesn’t live nearby then?’ I asked, alert to any possible support out there. This was a niece, after all – and perhaps a cherished one?

But Chloe shook her head. ‘She lives in Spain,’ she said. ‘And my mam says she doesn’t know she’s born. I don’t think they like each other very much. What’s don’t know you’re born mean anyway?’

So not a great deal to build on there, I decided, as I plugged in the curling tongs. Though had there been, the school probably would have known yonks ago. Well, we’d just do our best then. And right now, I’d do my best with her candyfloss hair. I had no idea about the protocol with matters of hair and make-up, nor indeed whether tonging Chloe’s hair might breach some health and safety order, but since we’d spent three days at the end of the previous term working in what had felt like Arctic temperatures, I felt I’d be on pretty safe ground if someone tried to tick me off. Besides, not asking anyone’s permission first was a tried and tested strategy – if it turned out I was wrong, I could simply plead dumb.

‘Well, here goes nothing,’ I assured her, once I’d tried to make some sense out of ‘don’t know you’re born’ with her, and possibly failing. ‘And, yes, I will do my very, very best. You’ll look even more pretty than you are already,’ I added, which made her smile light up even more. I glanced over at the boys, who were working on their daily diaries and paying us no attention whatsoever. I usually had them work on dairies first thing every morning, writing about anything noteworthy that might have happened the previous day, or, in this case, anything that might have happened over the Easter holidays, meaning they’d probably have more than usual to write. ‘Boys, when you’re done with those,’ I told them, ‘you can take out your Maths workbooks and do the next three pages, please – until Mrs Watson’s beauty salon closes.’

The boys groaned predictably, but also good-naturedly, while Chloe clapped her hands together, obviously thrilled to have been singled out for this unexpected treat. And I soon had her hair looking relatively tamed and neatly curled into Bo-Peep style ringlets, which I then gathered into a bobble to make a ponytail.

‘Look, boys!’ she gushed, flicking up her bouncing curls once I’d finished. ‘Just look how pretty I am! Do you like it?’

The boys gave another grunt, this time to express mild affirmation – the making of any more gushing a gesture obviously being tantamount to a proposal of marriage.

‘She does look lovely, doesn’t she, Tommy?’ I prompted. ‘Doesn’t she, Jonathan?’

‘Yeah,’ Tommy said. ‘Like that mermaid doll my sister used to have off that Disney film.’

‘Oh, Tommy,’ Chloe trilled, ‘you mean Ariel! I do, I look like the Little Mermaid, don’t I! I do, don’t I, Jonathan?’

Jonathan shrugged. ‘I dunno. I don’t even know who that is. But yeah,’ he finished. ‘Yeah, you look alright.’

Once again I was struck by the world according to Jonathan. He’d come to school accompanied by a fat file, bristling with annotations, and now I’d had the chance to delve further into his past, I’d learned that up until he’d been brought into care, he had never learned how to play, didn’t own any toys and had no idea about what all the other kids were talking about when they discussed favourite TV shows or movies. I thanked God for that neighbour who had found him scavenging in her bin for food and decided to phone social services. What sort of adult might he have become had she not?