Rolling her lips in on themselves, as if she’d just applied a layer of lipstick, she hitched one shoulder up to her ear. ‘Meh, tastes like crap if I’m honest.’
Emily’s mug froze an inch from her mouth, her eyes darting to meet mine.
‘I’d rather you just said you didn’t like it, Taylor,’ I told her, my voice off-key. Sudden tiredness had drained my desire to remind her of the house rules or embark on a lecture.
She looked at me and shrugged. ‘Actually, Reece, stick some more on there then,’ she said to her brother, holding her knife and fork to one side to accommodate. ‘May as well ’ave some while you’re at it.’
Hastily swallowing my mouthful, I said, ‘No, Taylor, no more, not if you don’t like it. If you’re still hungry after you’ve finished what’s on your plate you can have a piece of fruit instead.’
Livid, she coloured at once, her cheeks flame red. Her eyes flitted around the room as if trying to conjure a retort but it seemed she couldn’t think of one. She stabbed a piece of pasta with her fork instead, snapping at it with fury as she thrust it into her mouth. For the next few minutes I listened in silence as Emily and Jamie told me about their day, aware that Reece hadn’t taken his eyes off me since I’d spoken to his sister. With his head angled slightly to the side, it was as if he was analysing me, trying to gauge my mood. I wasn’t sure why – my tone with Taylor had been firm but not fierce. Every so often I threw a smile his way, trying to reassure him that all was well. He reciprocated with an instinctive smile but each time my gaze wandered he grew serious again, the inspection continuing.
When Emily and Jamie mentioned their meal I was tempted to ask them what they thought of Debbie – it was the first time they’d been introduced to her – but I quickly decided it wasn’t fair to quiz them, and certainly not in front of Taylor and Reece. I gave myself an imaginary pat on the back for my maturity and my earlier composure. Sometimes I didn’t feel all that mature; actually, there were still times when I marvelled that they let me foster at all.
‘Who was that man what brought you home?’ Reece asked Jamie, his mouth full of garlic bread.
‘My dad,’ Jamie told him. ‘He took us out for pizza.’
‘Where’d he go then? Has he gone back to work?’
Jamie’s gaze dropped to his lap and my stomach lurched. Of the pair of them, Jamie seemed to be the one who missed his father the most. A few weeks earlier, after visiting a friend who lived with his parents in a beautiful house by the river, Jamie had arrived home full of excitement. ‘Mum!’ he’d said in urgent, excited tones. ‘I’ve got a great idea. If you and Dad make up, we can all live together in a house like Max.’ The expression of hope shining bright in his eyes almost broke my heart.
After an uncomfortable pause I said: ‘Emily and Jamie’s dad lives in a flat not far from here. You’ll meet him soon I expect.’
‘Why don’t he live here then?’ Taylor demanded in an interrogative tone, fixing Emily and Jamie with a stony glare.
I paused, mid-chew. Emily and Jamie, frozen, looked at me in mute appeal. ‘I’d rather not discuss it with you, Taylor,’ I said, lowering my cutlery to the table and wiping my hands on a piece of kitchen towel. It was a struggle to maintain the mild air that I had instinctively adopted since her arrival.
Silence hung in the air like thick fog, the children glancing uneasily between each other. Taylor, her flush deepening, turned her eyes on me and tilted her head. ‘Is it because you’re a shit cook?’ she asked, delivering the question with a few innocent blinks.
The rain was still hammering down late into the evening, when all the furniture had been moved and everyone was settled in bed. After locking up I padded through to the dining room, where my mattress sagged against the wall looking every bit as weary as I felt. The base of my bed lay in two halves against the fireplace, duvet and pillows in a heap on the table in the middle of the room.
With a hyperactive edge that gave me the jitters, Reece had shadowed me while I lifted and carried, moving obstacles out of my way whenever I drew near. He had tried his best to help, bless him, and though I found his over-eagerness to please a little disconcerting, there was something sweetly old-fashioned about him that I couldn’t help but find endearing. But it was as he was getting ready for bed that my heart really went out to him. Bobbing around on his heels, his eyes screwed up into small balls, he had seemed so nervous that my own stomach churned in sympathy. At first I thought his anguish must be homesickness, but then after several circuits of his room he blurted out: ‘Have you got any nappies, Rosie? I might wet the bed.’ His relief was palpable when I took him to the airing cupboard and showed him my stock of nappies in various sizes. ‘Phew, I was that worried, Rosie, I thought I was going to have a heart attack,’ he had said, hand clamped to his chest. With his bygone clichés and earnest expressions, it was almost as if he’d strolled out from the pages of a children’s storybook.
Taylor’s persona, on the other hand, was less Pollyanna, more Stephen King’s Carrie. She was only a child but there was something about her that made me feel uneasy. I wasn’t sure it was all down to her brittle manner either. Sinking down on one of the hard-backed dining chairs with a sigh, I watched as heavy droplets of rain swam down the misty glass, reflecting gloomily on the way I had handled Taylor’s earlier comment. Caught off-guard by the spitefulness of her question and, though it pains me to admit it, irrationally hurt, I had lost my patience and dragged her plate away, telling her to leave the table immediately.
When I attended the initial foster-carer training course three years earlier, not a single social worker had mentioned that foster carers need to develop a really thick skin. Caught between abusive parents, stressed-out children and occasionally insensitive social workers, the role was not ideal for shrinking violets or anyone with even the mildest inferiority complex. I had a feeling that living with Taylor would challenge my own tendency to avoid confrontation; it was going to be a case of sink or swim.
I sighed, disappointed in myself because deep down I knew that part of the problem was my own lack of experience. My reaction had nothing to do with Taylor’s comment about my cooking; I wasn’t that precious. But what had really got my goat, if I’m honest, apart from being irritated by Taylor’s assumption that my private life was up for discussion, was that she seemed to have effortlessly located my Achilles heel. Sometimes worried about the effect our divorce might have on Emily and Jamie, I was still sensitive about it. The trouble was that by reacting badly I had given Taylor carte blanche to wind me up, whenever she felt she needed to let off steam.
Sullen, provocative and cunningly astute, the ten-year-old certainly seemed nothing like her brother. And yet as I had shown her into her new bedroom and said goodnight, I sensed hesitancy there – a brief moment of candour in her body language that showed me she was close to reaching out, if not for comfort then at least reassurance. Of course, as soon as I took a step towards her she shrank away, as I’d suspected she would.
With a soft groan I forced myself to my feet, telling myself that things would quickly improve. Taylor was probably overwrought with all the emotion of the day and it was inevitable that I, as the nearest adult, would bear the brunt of it. Somehow though, I couldn’t quite convince myself that everything would work out fine.
There was often a mixture of emotions at the beginning of a new placement; anxiety of course and trepidation, usually overridden by plenty of excitement. But as I heaved the dining table onto its side and began unscrewing the legs, I was tingling with the feeling, a presentiment almost, that things were going to get a whole lot worse.
What I didn’t realise, at the time, was that by accepting the placement I was putting my own family directly in harm’s way.