The Child Bride (2 page)

‘Hi, I’m Cathy,’ I said, smiling.

‘I’m Tara, Zeena’s social worker,’ she said. ‘Pleased to meet you. This is Zeena.’

I smiled at Zeena. ‘Come on in, love,’ I said cheerily.

Had I not known she was fourteen I’d have said she was much younger – nearer eleven or twelve. She was petite, with delicate features, olive skin and huge dark eyes. But what immediately struck me was how scared she looked. She held her body tense and kept glancing anxiously towards the road outside until I closed the front door. Then she put her hand on the door to test it was shut.

Tara saw this and asked me, ‘You do keep the door locked? It can’t be opened from the outside?’

‘Not without a key,’ I said.

‘Good. And there’s a security spy-hole,’ Tara said, pointing it out to Zeena. ‘So you or Cathy can check before you open the door.’

Zeena gave a small polite nod but didn’t look reassured. Clearly security was going to be an issue, and I felt slightly unsettled. Zeena slipped off her shoes and then lowered her headscarf, which had been draped loosely over her head. She had lovely long, black, shiny hair, similar to my daughter Lucy’s. It was tied back in a ponytail, which made her look even younger. She was wearing her school uniform, with leggings under her pleated skirt.

‘Leave the case in the hall for now,’ I said to Tara. ‘I’ll take it up to Zeena’s room later. Let’s go and sit down.’

Tara set the case by the coat stand and I led the way into the living room, which was at the rear of the house and looked out over the garden. When I fostered young children I always had toys ready to help take their minds off being separated from their parents, and on fine days the patio doors would be open. But not today – the air was chilly, although we were now in the month of May.

Tara sat on the sofa and Zeena sat next to her.

‘Would you like a drink?’ I asked them both.

‘Could I have a glass of water, please?’ Tara said. Then, turning to Zeena, she added, ‘Would you like one too?’

‘Yes, please,’ Zeena said quietly.

‘Or I have juice?’ I suggested.

‘Water is fine, thank you,’ Zeena said very politely.

I went into the kitchen, poured two glasses of water and, returning, placed them on the coffee table within their reach. I sat in one of the easy chairs. Tara drank some of her water, but Zeena left hers untouched. I could see how tense and anxious she was. It was as though she was on continual alert, ready to flee at a moment’s notice. I’d seen this before in children I’d fostered who’d been badly abused. They were always on their guard, listening out for any unusual sound and continually scanning their surroundings for signs of danger.

‘Thank you for looking after Zeena,’ Tara began, setting her glass on the coffee table. ‘This has all been such a rush I haven’t had a chance to look at your details properly and tell Zeena. You’ve got three adult children, I believe?’

‘Yes, one boy and two girls,’ I said, smiling at Zeena and trying to put her at ease. ‘You’ll meet them later.’

‘And you don’t have any other males in the house, apart from your son?’ Tara asked.

‘No. I’m divorced.’

She glanced at Zeena, who seemed to draw some comfort from this and gave a small nod. Tara had a nice manner about her, gentle and considerate. I guessed she was in her mid-thirties; she had short, wavy brown hair and was dressed in a long jumper over jeans.

‘Zeena is very anxious about her safety,’ Tara said to me. ‘She has a mobile phone, and I’ve put my telephone number in it, also the social services’ emergency out-of-hours number, and the police. It’s a pay-as-you-go phone. She has credit on it now. Can you make sure she keeps the phone in credit, please? It’s important for her safety.’

‘Yes, of course,’ I said, and felt my anxiety heighten.

‘Zeena knows she can phone the police at any time if she’s worried about her safety,’ Tara said. ‘Her family won’t be given this address. No one knows where she is staying, and the school know they mustn’t give out this address. We weren’t followed here, but please be cautious and check before answering the door.’

‘I always check at night,’ I said, uneasily. ‘But what am I checking for?’

Tara looked at Zeena.

‘My family,’ Zeena said very quietly, her hands trembling in her lap.

‘Please try not to worry,’ I said, feeling I should reassure her. ‘You’ll be safe here with me.’

Zeena’s eyes rounded in fear as she finally met my gaze, and I could see she dearly wished she could believe me. ‘I hope so,’ she said almost under her breath. ‘Because if they find me, they’ll kill me.’

I looked at Tara. My mouth had gone dry and my heart was drumming loudly. I could see that Zeena’s comment had shaken Tara as much as it had me. Zeena had her head slightly lowered and was staring at the floor, wringing the headscarf she held in her lap. Suddenly the silence was broken by the sound of the front door opening. Zeena shot up from the sofa.

‘Who’s that?’ she cried.

‘It’s all right,’ I said, also standing. ‘That’ll be my daughter, Paula, back from sixth form.’

Zeena didn’t immediately relax and return to the sofa but remained standing, anxiously watching the living-room door.

‘We’re in here, love,’ I called to Paula, who was taking off her shoes and jacket in the hall.

Paula came into the living room, and I saw Zeena relax. ‘This is Zeena and her social worker, Tara,’ I said, introducing them.

‘Hi,’ Paula said, glancing at them both.

‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ Zeena said quietly. ‘Thank you for letting me stay in your home.’

I could see Paula was as touched as I was by Zeena’s politeness.

‘Do you think Paula could wait here with Zeena while we go and have a chat?’ Tara now asked me.

‘Sure,’ Paula said easily.

‘Thanks, love,’ I said. ‘We’ll be in the front room if we’re needed.’

Tara stood and Zeena returned to the sofa. Paula sat next to her. Both girls looked a little uncomfortable and self-conscious, but then teenagers often do when meeting someone new.

In the front room Tara closed the door so we couldn’t be overheard, and we sat opposite each other. Now she no longer needed to put on a brave and professional face for Zeena’s sake, she looked very worried indeed.

‘I don’t know what’s been going on at home,’ she began, with a small sigh. ‘But I’m very concerned. Zeena’s father and another man went to her school today. They were shouting and demanding to see Zeena. They only left when the headmistress threatened to call the police. Zeena was so scared she hid in a cupboard in the stockroom. It took a lot of persuading to get her to come out after they’d gone.’

‘What did they want?’ I asked, equally concerned.

‘I don’t know,’ Tara said. ‘But they’d come for Zeena. There was no sign of them when I arrived at the school, but Zeena begged me to take her out the back entrance in case they were still waiting at the front. As soon as we were in my car she insisted I put all the locks down and drive away fast. She phoned her mother from the car. It was a very heated discussion with raised voices, although I don’t know what was said as Zeena spoke in Bengali. She was distressed after the call but wouldn’t tell me what her mother had said. I’m going to have to take an interpreter with me when I visit Zeena’s parents.’

‘And Zeena won’t tell you why she’s so scared?’ I asked. ‘Or why she thinks her family want to kill her?’

‘No. I’m hoping the child protection police officer will have more success. She’s very good.’

‘The poor child,’ I said again. ‘She looks petrified. It’s making me nervous too.’

‘I know. I’m sorry to have to put you and your family through this. It seems to be escalating. But don’t hesitate to call the police if you need to.’ Which only heightened my unease.

‘Perhaps her parents will calm down once they accept Zeena is in care,’ I suggested, which often happened when a child was fostered.

‘Hopefully,’ Tara said. ‘Zeena told me in the car that she needed to see a doctor.’

‘Why? Is she hurt?’ I asked, concerned.

‘No. I asked her if it was an emergency – I would have taken her straight to the hospital, but she said she could wait for an appointment. Can you arrange for her to see a doctor as soon as possible, please?’

‘Yes, of course. Will she want to see her own doctor, or shall I register her with mine?’

‘We’ll ask her. When we stopped off to get her clothes her mother had the suitcase ready in the hall. She wouldn’t let Zeena into the house and was angry, although again I couldn’t understand what she was saying to Zeena. Eventually she dumped the case on the pavement and slammed the door in our faces. Zeena pressed the bell a few times, but her mother wouldn’t open the door again. When we got in the car Zeena told me she had asked her mother if she could say goodbye to her younger brothers and sisters, but her mother had refused and called her a slut and a whore.’

I flinched. ‘What a dreadful thing for a mother to say to her daughter.’

‘I know,’ Tara said, her brow furrowing. ‘And it raises concerns about the other children at home. I shall be checking on them.’

‘Will Zeena be going to school tomorrow?’ I thought to ask.

‘We’ll see how she feels and ask her in a moment.’ Tara glanced at her watch. ‘I think I’ve told you everything I know. Let’s go into the living room and talk to Zeena. Then I need to get back to the office and make some phone calls. At least Zeena has some clothes with her.’

‘Yes. That will help,’ I said. Often the children I looked after arrived in what they stood up in, which meant they had to make do from my supply of spares until I had the chance to go to the shops and buy them new clothes.

Paula and Zeena were sitting on the sofa, still looking self-conscious, but at least talking a little.

‘Thanks, love,’ I said to Paula, who now stood.

‘Is it OK if I go to my room?’ she asked. ‘Or do you still need me?’

‘No, do as you like,’ I said. ‘Thanks for your help.’

‘Thank you for sitting with me,’ Zeena said politely.

‘You’re welcome,’ Paula said, smiling at Zeena. ‘Catch up with you later.’ She left the room.

Tara returned to sit on the sofa and I took the easy chair.

‘I’ve explained to Cathy what happened at school this morning,’ Tara said to Zeena. ‘Also that you need to see a doctor.’

Zeena gave a small nod and looked down.

‘Would you like to see your own family doctor?’ Tara now asked her.

‘No!’ Zeena said, sitting bolt upright and staring at Tara. ‘No. You mustn’t take me there. Please don’t make me see him. I won’t go.’

‘All right,’ Tara said, placing a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘I won’t force you to see him, of course not. You can see Cathy’s doctor. I just wanted to hear your views. You may have preferred to see the doctor you knew.’

‘No!’ Zeena cried again, shaking her head.

‘I’ll arrange for you to see my doctor then,’ I said quickly, for clearly this was causing Zeena a lot of distress. ‘There are two doctors in the practice I use, a man and a woman. They are both lovely people and good doctors.’

Zeena looked at me. ‘Are they white?’ she asked.

‘Yes. But I can arrange for you to see an Asian doctor if you prefer. There is another practice not far from here.’

‘No!’ Zeena cried again. ‘I can’t see an Asian doctor.’

‘All right, love,’ I said. ‘Don’t upset yourself. But can I ask you why you want a white doctor? Tara told me you asked for a white foster carer. Is there a reason?’ I was starting to wonder if this was a form of racism, in which case I would find Zeena’s views wholly unacceptable.

She was looking down and chewing her bottom lip as she struggled to find the right words. Tara was waiting for her reply too.

‘It’s difficult for you to understand,’ she began, glancing at me. ‘But the Asian network is huge. Families, friends and even distant cousins all know each other and they talk. They gossip and tell each other everything, even what they are not supposed to. There is little confidentiality in the Asian community. If I had an Asian social worker or carer my family would know where I was within an hour. I have brought shame on my family and my community. They hate me.’

Zeena’s eyes had filled and a tear now escaped and ran down her cheek. Tara passed her the box of tissues I kept on the coffee table, while I looked at her, stunned. The obvious question was: what had she done to bring so much shame on her family and community? I couldn’t imagine this polite, self-effacing child perpetrating any crime, let alone one so heinous that she’d brought shame on a whole community. But now wasn’t the time to ask. Zeena was upset and needed comforting. Tara was lightly rubbing her arm.

‘Don’t upset yourself,’ I said. ‘I’ll make an appointment for you to see my doctor.’

She nodded and wiped her eyes. ‘Thank you. I’m sorry to cause you so much trouble when you are being so kind to me, but can I ask you something?’

‘Yes, of course, love,’ I said.

‘Do you have any Asian friends from Bangladesh?’

‘I have some Asian friends,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think any of them are from Bangladesh.’

‘Please don’t tell your Asian friends I’m here,’ she said.

‘I won’t,’ I said, as Tara reached into her bag and took out a notepad and pen. However, it occurred to me that Zeena could still be seen with me or spotted entering or leaving my house, and I thought it might have been safer to place her with a foster carer right out of the area, unless she was overreacting, as teenagers can sometimes.

Tara was taking her concerns seriously. ‘Remember to keep your phone with you and charged up,’ she said to Zeena as she wrote. ‘Do you have your phone charger with you?’

‘Yes, it’s in my school bag in the hall,’ Zeena said.

‘Will you feel like going to school tomorrow?’ I now asked – given what had happened at school today I thought it was highly unlikely.

To my surprise Zeena said, ‘Yes. The only friends I have are at school. They’ll be worried about me.’

Tara looked at her anxiously ‘Are you sure you want to go back there?’ We can find you a new school.’

‘I want to see my friends.’