of our other trips.
By the time Jamie and I had caught up with her she turned to me with a pleading expression. ‘Could I please buy that, Rosie? With my pocket money?’
That was a pirate’s outfit displayed on a small mannequin in the window. ‘Well, I’m not sure,’ I said, knowing that if we bought second-hand I couldn’t be sure that it was made with fire-retardant material. ‘It’s not new so …’ I went on, but her crestfallen expression stopped me mid-sentence. If Phoebe was my own child I wouldn’t have hesitated but I knew how meticulously the rules had to be followed when caring for Looked After Children.
‘Oh, please, Rosie.’ She looked at me so earnestly that I thought, sod it – we were always being told to treat foster children as we would our own so I wasn’t going to turn her down. How funny, I mused, as we went into the shop and the assistant retrieved the pirate dress from display – Phoebe had four bags of unopened presents in her room and yet fixated on an item that cost £2.50. As it turned out, the dress hadn’t even been worn. All the labels were still attached, confirming that it was originally purchased at Marks & Spencer, which allayed my fears that it might be a rogue item from a dubious source.
Before we reached the gate Phoebe was removing her jumper in her excitement to try the dress on. Minutes later she emerged from the bathroom and performed a twirl, a huge grin plastered on her face.
‘Hmm,’ I said, ‘looking good, but not quite the genuine article yet.’
Her face dropped. ‘Why not?’
‘A-ha, come with me,’ I said, putting on the accent of a pirate. Energised by the improvement in her symptoms, I was pleased to find my playful side was emerging. I loved playing with children, whipping up their capacity for imaginary games. The last few weeks with Phoebe had been so draining that I’d almost forgotten she was still a child who needed to be stimulated.
So excited was Phoebe when we returned to the living room a few minutes later, adorned with one of my sequined scarves around her neck and a purple sash at her waist, that she couldn’t keep still, although it was a general wriggle rather than the peculiar arm flapping/eye rolling routine. Jamie completed her delight by offering her one of his swords. When he suggested they build a camp in the garden I thought she might burst with the excitement of it all.
Although it was a joy to watch the pair as they erected blankets and duvets between the trellis and the horse chestnut tree, charging loudly in and out of their makeshift camp with swords aloft, I couldn’t help but puzzle over yet another swift change in Phoebe’s behaviour. Until now it had been impossible to interest her in any form of imaginative play and yet there she was, playing as if she’d never been any different.
As I poured myself a glass of lemonade and sat on the swing at the bottom of the garden, I was beginning to regret that the placement might soon end. The rest of the day passed quickly and without any tantrums or trying behaviour. At tea time Phoebe was thrilled when my mother made a special visit to wish her ‘Many Happy Returns’ and even ventured to try a few mouthfuls of her own birthday cake. She sat calmly by my side that evening when I read her a bedtime story and as I wished her goodnight the trial of the last few weeks was all but forgotten.
How naive it was, I realised all too soon, to let my guard down so easily.
It was with a renewed sense of enthusiasm that I woke the next morning, surprised to find that Phoebe was still quiet in her room, despite the time. She was usually the first awake and yet it was 6.45am and there was still no sign of her. I was halfway across the kitchen with a full kettle in my hand when a lurching sensation in my stomach stopped me in my tracks.
Instinct drew me back up the stairs. A memory of the recent bloody scene following her self-harming incident advanced my rising panic and I charged into the room without bothering to knock. My breathing gradually returned within safe limits as I scanned the room. There was no horrific smell or bloody sights and Phoebe lay serenely beneath her duvet, although she didn’t look too well. Pale and sickly I can cope with, I thought, before an uncomfortable twist in my stomach nudged another possibility to the forefront of my mind.
‘Phoebe, have you eaten something you shouldn’t, honey?’
Her eyes were wide with hesitancy as she stared back at me, shaking her head.
‘You won’t be in trouble,’ I said, crouching beside her bed in an unconscious gesture of supplication. If she were to trust me enough to tell me what she’d done, she had to understand that I wasn’t going to be angry with her. ‘But I need to know, now. You really don’t look too well.’
She began to cry. ‘I’ve got a tummy ache,’ she croaked in a sickly voice.
Manoeuvring my way through the piles of half-opened presents still spread across the floor, I threw open the curtains and knelt back beside her bed, crouching to get a better look at her. ‘You must tell me what you’ve eaten,’ I said calmly, sunlight highlighting the paleness of her skin.
With effort she propped herself up on one elbow, wincing and clamping a hand to her stomach. She looked about ready to throw up but I didn’t want to encourage that until I found out what it was that lay in her stomach. If it was a harsh substance it might burn her throat on the way back up. ‘Phoebe, tell me,’ I demanded, furious that she’d tried to hurt herself again.
She opened her mouth to speak but closed it again. There was a long hesitation before she finally lifted her free hand and pointed under the bed. Down on all fours, I lowered my head to the carpet and gasped. The space between the floor and the slats of her bed was littered with all sorts of containers. Craning my neck, I stuck my arm in as far as it would go and in a long fanning motion I swept them out so they were spread out on the floor in front of me.
Colour burned my cheeks as I took in the sight. There must have been almost 20 bottles of various shapes and sizes there, some full, others almost empty. ‘Which one was it?’ I asked, no longer able to disguise the urgency in my tone. ‘Tell me!’
Leaning over, she pointed to a half-empty bottle of shampoo.
I snatched it up. ‘This one?’
She nodded as tears rolled down her cheeks.
‘How much did you drink?’
Her eyes widened but she didn’t answer, instead throwing back the duvet and rushing to the toilet. She threw up almost constantly for 10 minutes solid, while I perched on the edge of the bath, rubbing her back and offering her sips of water. Every now and then she rested her head on the toilet seat in exhaustion and the anger I had felt towards her transferred to myself.
How could I have let the peace of the last day or so lull me into a false sense of security? And how on earth did she get hold of such a stash of products when I’d locked everything away from her? Then, with a fresh wave of anger at myself, I realised that she must have searched through the bags of presents from her parents and taken them from there. How stupid of me not to check through the contents before leaving them in her room.
Guilt and anxiety rivalled for my attention as I plucked a few sheets of tissue from the roll and offered them to a trembling Phoebe.
The staff at our GP surgery had always wholeheartedly supported me in my role as a foster carer and that day was no different. As soon as I explained what had happened they told me to bring Phoebe straightaway to the surgery, promising to squeeze her into their already-full schedule of patients.
After dropping Emily and Jamie at school I wrapped Phoebe in a warm coat and walked her around the corner to the surgery, supporting her as she shuffled along the pavement. It occurred to me that anyone behind us might have mistaken me for the carer of a frail old lady, the way her feet were dragging so lethargically. Inside the surgery I thanked the receptionist, who smiled kindly, before dropping her jaw in astonishment. ‘No, don’t do that, dear,’ she said, alarmed. Whipping around,