He sat back. ‘God,’ I said, ‘the things some kids have to go through. And of course we want to help Sophia, don’t we, love?’ I turned to Mike.
He nodded. ‘Absolutely. But tell me, John. You mentioned something about an illness. What’s wrong with her?’
John sat forward again. ‘That’s what we need to discuss. Have the two of you ever heard of a condition called Addison’s disease?’
We shook our heads. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Never.’
‘I doubted you would have. Neither had I, until now. It’s rare, apparently – a disorder which destroys the adrenal glands. And it’s even more rare for it to be diagnosed in someone so young. But it’s controlled – she has to take tablets every day, which replace the hormones she’d be producing naturally – cortisol and, let me see, yes – something called aldosterone, so, in that sense, it won’t present you with too much of a problem. Apparently, it only becomes one if she gets stressed or feels under pressure …’
‘Which she might well do at the moment, mightn’t she?’ asked Mike.
John nodded. ‘Fair point. But I’m not really the one to tell you how it might become a problem. Apparently, social services are going to arrange for you both to have a quick tutorial with her doctor and her specialist nurse.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘That sounds sensible. Better to know what we’re doing than not. But how is she generally? Sounds like she’s been to hell and back, from what you say.’
‘I don’t know, to be truthful,’ John answered. ‘There really isn’t a great deal more on her file.’
Where have I heard that line before, I thought ruefully. It had become almost a catch phrase when we’d taken on Justin. John caught my expression and looked apologetic. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s just that she hasn’t been in care that long, and when they are fostered with other family members, they never seem to be as strict with the record keeping. I’ll see what else I can find, obviously, but, in the meantime, how are you placed for taking her next Wednesday?’
‘That’s quick,’ said Mike. ‘How will we manage to fit in an initial visit? I’m sure neither she nor we would want to commit until we’ve met each other.’
‘I know,’ John said, the hope in his face clear as day. ‘But I was hoping we could do that on Monday. Jean goes into hospital on Wednesday, you see, for tests, so it would get complicated if …’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Monday is fine. The poor thing. But one thing, John.’
He nodded. ‘Yes?’
‘Why us? Why me and Mike? It sounds to me that this is a pretty mainstream and also very short-term placement. Why have you picked us and not a general foster carer? Is it the illness?’
He shook his head. ‘Well, okay, partly,’ he agreed. ‘But mainly because her behaviour apparently can be a little challenging. Nothing major – and you’ll know from experience that I don’t use the word lightly. She’s just a little undisciplined, it seems. And the feeling is – and this is strictly between you and me, okay? – that there’s been a general lack of discipline in her life since she’s been with Jean, and what with the complication of the Addison’s – well, you can see how easily a child with that sort of issue can become manipulative if allowed to.’
‘I get it,’ I said. ‘She needs some boundaries, then?’
‘I think that’s about the size of it. So it’s right up your street. No points, as I say, as this really is just temporary, but just do what the two of you do so well. And don’t let your heads swell, because I shouldn’t tell you this, but it was my boss who suggested we place her with you. He said, “If anyone can turn her around, the Watson family can. After all, look how well they did with Justin.”’
‘That’s nice,’ said Mike, though I could tell by his voice that he knew he was being sweet-talked.
‘And just as well I cracked on and got the room ready, then,’ I added. ‘Why don’t you take John up to see it, love, while I put the kettle on again.’
My head was whirring while they went up to admire my creative efforts. The poor child. How tragic. To lose her mum – to lose all she had in the world – and to have to cope with what sounded like such a debilitating condition on her own. I wondered if she ever got to see her mother in hospital at all, and when John and Mike came back downstairs I asked.
‘Yes, she does,’ John said. ‘Every six weeks or so, for an hour. Not that she gets anything out of it. She apparently gets really upset after each visit, which is why she doesn’t go there more often.’
‘Poor kid,’ I said. ‘It must be awful.’
‘The world we live in, I’m afraid, Casey,’ he said. ‘Hey, but a great job on the bedroom. Fit for a princess! Oh, and be prepared, because it’ll seem like she really is a little princess. She has quite an entourage, this one, in terms of a team. So you’ll need plenty of cups at the ready …’
When John had gone, Mike and I retreated to the living room, where we sat and talked about what was to come. A pointless exercise really, though one which we’d go on to repeat many times. You could never second-guess the future, particularly in our line of work.
‘See, though,’ I said. ‘It was worth me getting all that decorating done, wasn’t it? I’m like a walking girl guide motto. Be prepared!’
I said it in jest, but little did I know. Those prickles of mine didn’t happen for nothing. Because nothing could have prepared us for Sophia.
Chapter 2
Monday morning arrived, and with it a fresh flurry of snow. Which made me groan because I’d just finished painstakingly polishing my wooden floors and now they were going to be trodden all over by soggy footwear.
‘Do you think I should ask everyone to take their shoes off?’ I asked Mike.
He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t, love. It’ll only take a quick mop once they’re gone.’
‘A quick mop!’ I railed at him. ‘As if! I’ve spent all bloody morning polishing these floors – and by hand! You should try it some time. It’s –’
‘Hey!’ he snapped. ‘Calm down! Stop flapping – the floor’s fine. As is the rest of the house!’ His expression softened then, if just a little. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ll help you do the mopping, okay? And I’m trying to be helpful. So don’t take your nerves out on me.’
He stomped off to the conservatory, and I felt a bit bad. I just wanted to make a good impression – I always did. And a spotless house seemed a good way to do that. It was probably my mother’s fault, this obsession, I decided. We were Catholics, and when we were kids she was just the same as I was now – on account of the parish priest and the nuns forever calling round and, more often than not, doing so unexpectedly. She’d always be in a complete tizzy, so, just to be sure, she’d scrub the house from top to bottom every day.
But there was no time to dwell on the fate that might befall my wooden flooring, because just as I was finishing giving it a last careful scrutiny I could see a car – no, three cars – pulling up outside.
‘Mike!’ I hissed. ‘Get back here! They’ve arrived. God, how many are there?’
He joined me at the living-room window and peeped out. ‘Bloody hell, that’s some posse,’ he agreed.
The first car, which we recognised, held John Fulshaw, of course. The second contained a young girl – presumably Sophia – and two females, and in the third was another woman, plus a man.
We repositioned ourselves behind the front door in time to open it and welcome them, allowing a blast of cold air to swirl around