‘Would you two like to do some colouring while I rustle up some lunch?’ I said as Emily and Jamie left.
The suggestion was not to Bobbi’s liking. ‘No, I want food now!’ she shouted, underlining the sentiment by flinging one of the placemats across the room.
It isn’t unusual for fostered children to have issues with food. The digestive discomfort caused by a surge in stress hormones can be difficult to distinguish from hunger pangs, and lots of children seek to cure their ‘funny tummy’ by feeding it. Megan’s exposure to drugs and alcohol had left her with her own digestive difficulties and she suffered with frequent tummy aches, as well as bouts of unexplained sickness. ‘It’s coming very soon, Bobbi. You don’t need to worry; they’ll always be enough food for you here.’ I quickly set out some paper and colouring pens on the table and Megan climbed up onto the chair next to Bobbi.
Thanks to a knock-through by the previous owner our house is open-plan downstairs, so I could see the girls from the kitchen as I prepared some sandwiches. Bobbi chattered continuously as she drew, the noise rising as she washed her hands at the kitchen sink. ‘Rosie, it is ready now? Is it? Is it ready?’
‘Yes, my sweet, it’s here.’ There was still no sign of Archie so as the girls sat next to each other at the table I called up to him.
‘Coming!’ he called back. ‘This looks nice,’ he said when he eventually came down. I smiled at him as he sat next to me but he kept his gaze averted. I noticed a few dark blotches that looked suspiciously like chocolate sticking to his chin and, poking out through the zipped opening of the rucksack at his feet, a shred of clear cellophane wrapping.
‘Rosie, have you got more food in the kitchen?’ Bobbi asked, her faint eyebrows furrowed with anxiety.
I laughed. ‘I have, but we have enough here for now.’ I had placed a platter of nibbles at the centre of the table and sandwiches with a variety of fillings, giving everyone a plate so that they could help themselves. Bobbi already had eight triangles piled high on her plate, as well as some crisps and about ten cherry tomatoes.
She glugged down a cupful of water and picked up two more triangles, squashing them together and ramming them into her mouth. ‘Slow down, sweetie, there’s no rush!’ I said. I preferred not to worry too much about table manners early on in a placement – I usually had plenty of other fish to fry – but Bobbi was almost gagging on her food. I was worried that she might actually choke.
‘We have plenty of food for everyone here,’ I repeated. Her eyes flicked in my direction. She slowed her chewing, but within a few seconds later she had renewed her mission with gusto. Archie ate with less abandon, but had probably already partaken of a starter in the loo.
I remembered reading something about babies and young children who have experienced real hunger internalising the idea that no one will keep them safe. Once hardwired into their brain, it can take years to overwrite such a deeply ingrained belief. A pat on my arm from Megan interrupted my thoughts. ‘Did you see my cloptiker, Mummy?’ she said, pointing to the picture at the top of a pile of drawings at the side of the table.
‘Wow, that’s great, Meggie!’ Already showing a flair for art, she would sit for hours drawing and colouring. She looked at me, her eyes shining with pride.
‘It’s horse shite,’ Bobbi piped up, her voice thick with food. I gave her a sharp glance and looked back at Megan, who, thankfully, seemed not to have heard. Though her hearing difficulties were only mild and her hearing aid helped, she still struggled to make out words when they were muffled.
‘I think it’s cool, Megan,’ Archie chipped in kindly. She beamed.
I gave him a grateful smile then looked at Bobbi. ‘We don’t use rude words like that, Bobbi.’
‘Huh?’ She folded another triangle of bread in half and rammed it into her mouth.
‘I said, you mustn’t use rude words. Say “fiddlesticks” if you can’t think of anything nice to say.’
She swallowed hard and then giggled. Megan laughed too. The pair of them grinned at each other and shouted ‘Fiddlesticks!’ at the tops of their voices. It was the first positive interaction between them and I couldn’t help but smile.
Ten minutes later as I piled the plates together, Bobbi asked for more sandwiches. ‘You’ve had enough for now, sweetie,’ I said gently. ‘But next time you feel hungry, I promise there will be food for you. There’s always fruit, whenever you want it. And we’ll be having dinner in a few hours, okay?’
She scowled at me and went red in the face. I thought she might protest further but, with every last crumb consumed, she agreed to join us for a tour of the house.
Megan led the way upstairs. Mungo waited obediently at the bottom, head cocked with interest. ‘This is my room,’ Megan announced proudly at her open door. ‘None of you are definitely not allowed in here.’
‘Alright, Meggie,’ I said, dropping a hand to her shoulder. Every foster carer is obliged to draw up a Safer Caring policy detailing a set of house rules that every house member must comply with. Designed to keep everyone safe, one of the universal rules is that everyone must stay covered up at all times, whether in pyjamas and dressing gown or fully clothed. Every member of the house must also stay out of every bedroom but their own. Even as the children’s foster carer, I was supposed to knock before entering their room, and should never, under any circumstances, sit on their beds.
Strictly speaking, only the under-fives or same-sex siblings should share bedrooms, but with foster placements in short supply there’s sometimes no alternative but to stretch the rules. I knew that if a vacancy became available with a foster carer who could provide the children with a room of their own, it was likely that Bobbi and Archie would be moved on.
‘But it’s a rule,’ Megan said with feeling. She yawned and leaned against my leg, looking crestfallen.
I smiled. ‘You’re right, sweetie, it is.’ We’d spent most of yesterday evening at my mother’s house and, being New Year’s Eve, she hadn’t gone to bed until late. I could tell she was flagging so I quickly showed Bobbi the bathroom, pointed out where I’d be sleeping, and then opened the door to the room opposite my own.
‘Wow!’ Bobbi shouted, running in and diving face down on the sheepskin rug in the middle of the floor. We had spent yesterday afternoon filling the room with Lego and Bratz dolls, Transformers and Brio; anything we thought might appeal to children of Archie and Bobbi’s age. There was a large purple beanbag beside the bunk bed and a giant teddy next to the bookshelf in one of the alcoves. Of all the accessories, it was the furry rug that always seemed to appeal most to the children I looked after.
Archie walked slowly around the room, stopping to examine the framed pictures on the wall that I’d put up when he was referred. I wasn’t a fan of stereotyping but sports tended to be more or less a safe bet when it came to boys of Archie’s age, and several of the pictures around the top bunk were football related. ‘It’s such a cool room,’ he said, straightening one of the slightly lopsided frames. ‘Thanks, Rosie.’
I smiled at him and he made an attempt at smiling back, though his eyes once again refused to join in. My stomach contracted with pity. I was beginning to get the sense that his compliments were driven by panic, as if his survival depended on them.
‘I thought you could have the top bunk, Archie. Happy with that?’
He nodded. ‘We have bunk beds at home.’
I had dotted a few soft toys around the bottom bunk and one of them, a pink rabbit, seemed to take Bobbi’s fancy. She dived onto the mattress, grabbed it in her mouth and then rolled back onto the rug with it dangling from her jaws. ‘This is the best bedroom in the whole world!’ she declared, rolling around. I smiled, wondering what her bedroom at home was like. I looked at