‘That’s quite alright,’ one woman said airily, with the patronising air of an accomplished mother confronted with apparent Slummy Mummy. In spite of the politeness in her tone, I knew there was no genuine warmth there. I could have told them then that I wasn’t Phoebe’s mother, but suddenly I had no urge to do so. It was perverse, I suppose, but withholding information from them gave me a sense of satisfaction – I didn’t care, let them judge me.
In that moment I could understand why people sometimes behaved in outlandish ways as a form of protest, perhaps by having offensive tattoos or pierced body parts. It was a strangely pleasurable power, being able to irritate the snooty women simply by being there.
Later in the afternoon, as we were queuing for an ice cream, we encountered the same two women: they joined the queue just behind us, their toddlers standing patiently by their sides, still looking remarkably spotless.
‘Can I just have some chocolate, Rosie?’ Phoebe asked. ‘I don’t like ice cream, blwah, yuck!’
There was a quizzical cast to their eyes as they ran over our hotchpotch group, finally settling on Phoebe. One of the women opened her mouth to say something but perhaps she noticed a reserve in my stance because she faltered and closed it again.
‘Yes, OK, honey,’ I said, still aware of the woman’s internal battle. She was probably unsure as to whether to risk having a conversation with a mother so disgraceful as me. A moment later and curiosity had evidently got the better of her.
‘So, do your children not call you “Mummy” then?’ she asked, her face contorting like she was chewing a wasp; she couldn’t disguise her disapproval.
‘I’m a foster carer so, no, she doesn’t call me Mum.’
As soon as I uttered the word ‘foster’ they both noticeably thawed. One of them clapped her hands to her face: ‘Oh, I could never do that! Could you, Celia?’
I cringed, wondering how on earth Phoebe must feel being spoken about as if she was a hot potato that no one wanted to be left holding.
‘Oh no, I just couldn’t!’ Celia cried. ‘I’d get too attached.’
Somehow I doubted that to be true. The pair of them hunkered round to include me and suddenly I was part of a triangle. Shifting uneasily, I turned back to the children, trying not to notice that I was being rewarded me with benevolent, apologetic smiles.
Over the next couple of days Phoebe’s behaviour began to improve and her symptoms seemed to lessen. Not to the point where she could be regarded as an ordinary eight-year-old girl, far from it, but as the Easter holidays drew to a close, and Phoebe had been living with us for almost two weeks, I noticed a definite reduction in her parroting and arm flapping.
I also became aware of a growing warmth between the two of us. It was strange, but the disapproving ‘shiny’ mums from our day out had stirred the instinct of a lioness within me and I felt an increasing protectiveness towards Phoebe. The experience had definitely brought us closer and she began to ‘accidentally’ brush against me as she passed by. It was more of an aggressive lunge than a hug, but still, I felt the right sentiment was there. Perhaps she sensed my growing fondness and was merely responding to that.
Jamie was also spending more time with Phoebe, something I hadn’t bargained on. She followed him around like a loyal puppy in awe of its owner, but rather than being irritated by it, as I would have expected Jamie to be, he tolerated the attention with good humour. An easy intimacy crept into their play and I began to suspect that he actually enjoyed having someone look up to him. I knew he welcomed the privileges that came with no longer being the youngest, like not being the first to bed, for instance.
There was also more coherence to Phoebe’s conversation, less ‘off the wall’ rambling. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was Emily and Jamie’s influence that had helped her to ‘normalise’ her behaviour.
So it was that once more I felt hopeful that we were over the worst and Phoebe wouldn’t feel unhappy enough to need to soil herself again. But at 8.30am on the first Monday after the holidays, as I stood next to her in the playground of Englebrook House School, I felt an unpleasant ache rising in my throat. Watching the other children play, I couldn’t help but feel that Phoebe didn’t belong there. Her body language told me that she felt exactly the same way.
Despite being away from her friends for two weeks, she showed no interest in seeing any of them, and they certainly made no attempt to include her in their games. Instead Phoebe hovered at my side, her face turned into my shoulder, staring avidly at my coat. Looking around, there were several children I recognised as having Down’s syndrome, a few that were wheelchair bound and others who walked with strange gaits, much as Phoebe had done when she arrived, two weeks earlier.
The playground itself was cheerful and welcoming, with lots of different play areas marked out in bright colours, and shiny mobiles hanging from the gables of various school huts. There was a fenced zone with adventure play equipment and, beyond a concrete area, a large grassed field with a running track and football nets.
‘Can you see any of your classmates here yet?’ I asked Phoebe. Reluctantly she pointed a number of children out to me and I gently placed my hand on her back. ‘Go on then, go and say hello to them. Have a play.’
She groaned, then wandered a few feet away, before turning around to look at me. I flapped my hand at her. ‘Go on,’ I said, trying to encourage her to join in. ‘Off you go.’
She rolled her eyes and shuffled along, turning in one direction and then the other. She seemed to fix her gaze on someone, then head towards them only to change her mind at the last minute and do an about turn. After a few minutes she began circuiting the playground, trudging unhappily along with her head lowered. Weirdly, her strange gait had returned. It was a heartbreaking sight and I really felt for her as I watched her loping along.
And that’s when it hit me.
I sensed the realisation with full force, a jolt to my stomach so strong that I felt my chest constrict. It was a moment when everything else seemed to move in slow motion, only my thoughts sharpening as they raced around my mind. Phoebe wasn’t stumbling along because she was struck intermittently by faulty wiring in her brain, a symptom of her autism, she was choosing to copy the children around her.
It was a feeling, I came to realise, that I had held in the deep recesses of my gut for several days, but now it had risen, embedding itself as a conviction firmly in the forefront of my mind.
When the school bell rang and the children were asked to line up outside the assembly hall my thoughts were still tumbling over themselves, but my shoulders sagged with relief. It had been difficult to watch her regress and I was glad that she would soon be out of my sight. Phoebe gave me a small wave before heading off to join the back of one of the lines. To me she looked to be on the verge of tears. There was lots of noisy, excited chatter as the classes filed in, though no one turned to talk to her.
The playground gradually emptied around me as parents headed for the school gates. I had phoned ahead and asked if I could have a brief chat with Phoebe’s class teacher, largely to introduce myself but also to see if I could glean any more information about her condition.
The receptionist smiled brightly after buzzing me in through the main school entrance doors. She made a quick phone call and a few minutes later a rotund woman of around 50 or so arrived in reception, smiling warmly.
‘You must be Rosie?’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m Miss Angel, Phoebe’s class teacher. It’s lovely to meet you.’