‘That’s right. And this is their second long-term foster family. And a new, very different part of the county for them. I can’t share any details, but they’ve suffered significant loss. And now they’re having to rebuild their lives for a second time. New family, new school.’
‘I agree that’s very sad, but it doesn’t give them carte blanche to …’
‘I understand that Lucy is your priority, Ms Salter,’ she cuts in. ‘But I thought you’d have a bit more sympathy for their circumstances.’
‘Because I’m a social worker?’ I spit out.
‘I suppose I imagined that you’d be more aware of how scarred children like Jessica and Amber can be. And that disruptive behaviour is really a cry for help.’
I wish I could scream the truth.
Of course I’m aware, you cold-hearted jobsworth. And yes, it’s true that I feel like I’m betraying my profession every time this rage builds up. But understanding why those girls are bullying Lucy doesn’t make their actions any less vile. Any less damaging to my child.
‘They terrorise Lucy,’ I say, breaking eye contact. ‘And now this, today. Utter humiliation. Whatever has happened to them, this is not acceptable.’
‘Of course it’s not,’ Ms Munroe snaps. Then she sighs. ‘And whether they’re responsible for today’s incident or not, I agree that we need to address the issue, for everyone’s sake. So I’m going to contact their social worker, talk to her about the bullying. That will be a strong message to the girls that they need to leave Lucy alone.’
I sit back in my chair and wonder who their social worker is. The foster team are part of Children’s Services too, and based in the same building as me, two floors above. But we rarely interact, and I’m not sure I know any of their names. It’s strange, I suppose, that we keep such distance from each other. But perhaps not. If we need to involve their team, it means we’ve failed at keeping a family together.
‘And do you really think that will stop them?’ I ask.
‘The girls are happy at Lord Frederick’s – they both told me that – so they won’t want to risk things not working out. I’m sure escalating this to their social worker will bring an end to it for good.’
‘I hope so,’ I murmur. ‘Because this really needs to stop.’
THE NIGHT SHE DIES
Friday 3rd May
Rachel
The only person who uses the front door of our house is the postman, so I walk down the narrow driveway to the side door. As I step through the small flagstone porch into the open-plan living area, there’s a sense of stillness. I’m pretty sure both girls are here, but they’ll be holed up in their rooms, and I feel a momentary pang for the chaos that used to engulf me when I got home from work – tight hugs from Lucy, Milla talking me through her day at breakneck speed, our au pair Anya interjecting whenever Milla’s account veered too far into fantasy. That period came with its problems too – exhaustion, compromise, moving seamlessly from professional social worker to domestic slave – but I did feel in control of my daughters’ lives back then. Able to make a tangible difference.
Unlike now. Now I just get to sit on the side-lines and hope my pep talks and silent prayers are enough.
Although I can’t use that as an excuse for my delay in helping Lucy. That was entirely down to my own distorted beliefs.
It was the last night of the Christmas holidays when Lucy first confided in us about the bullying. We were all in a grump – Milla facing her A-level mock exams, Matt militant in his mission to remove every last fragment of tinsel – so I didn’t think much about Lucy seeming even quieter than usual. But when I suggested she get an early night before school, she burst into tears, and pleaded for us not to make her go back. It was so out of character – the outpouring of emotion as much as the request itself – that it was a shock. When the tears dried up, she told Matt and me what had been going on. That from a few weeks into the autumn term, the new girl in her year – Jess Scott – and her younger sister Amber had been picking on Lucy.
We should have told the school straight away, but Lucy mentioned that the girls were in foster care, and my social worker instincts took over. I told her to remember they were new to the school and that they deserved some time to settle in. To my shame, I even asked Lucy to remember how lucky she was compared to them, having a family to confide in. She listened too, went back after Christmas with an instinct to forgive, but it didn’t work. The bullying continued. When Lucy started claiming sickness to avoid going to school, I realised how much I’d let her down.
So I contacted her form tutor. Then her head of year. They said all the right things – that they would deal with it, investigate, punish the girls, stop the bullying. But nothing changed. And now this. Lucy having to disentangle her knickers and bra from a tree in front of half the school. I can’t bear to think how traumatising that must have been for her.
I open the fridge door and reach for a can of Coke. I’m due out tonight with some girlfriends but I half think I should cancel, hang out with Lucy instead. Milla has her best friend’s eighteenth birthday party tonight, so she won’t be around. Matt is due back in the next couple of hours, and normally that would work perfectly – while we love the girls equally, our natural fault line has always been Matt and Lucy, Milla and me. But after a long flight back from Thailand – international travel being one of the perks of his new job – Matt will probably need to crash. And I hate the thought of Lucy being alone tonight.
I take a long sip and head up the stairs. I knock on Lucy’s bedroom door, wait a few seconds, then push it open. She’s lying on her bed, headphones on, staring at the ceiling.
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ There are two pink spots shining on Lucy’s pale cheeks, and I hope it’s not shame.
I hesitate for a moment, then drop down at the end of her bed. I’m careful not to touch her – the days when Lucy demanded tight hugs are long gone – but I’m not giving up that easily. ‘Why didn’t you call me?’ I ask gently, trying not to think about my hour at the Grays’, and how I would have ignored my phone until the meeting had finished.
‘I can fight my own battles.’ Silence hangs in the air; both of us trying to push aside the mounting evidence that she can’t.
‘How are you feeling now?’ I say instead.
Her eyes dart towards me. ‘How do you think? My knickers were hanging off a fucking tree.’
I’m not prudish about swearing – living with Milla would make that difficult – but it’s rare to hear it coming from Lucy, and the harsh word jolts me. ‘It might help to talk about it,’ I say tentatively. The line between supportive and prying is always thin with teenagers but right now it feels like gossamer.
She stares at me for a moment, as though weighing up whether to let go of her emotions, and I silently plead for her to remember who I am – her strongest advocate. But it doesn’t work.
‘No.’ Her mouth strains with the effort of not crying. I reach for her hand, but she yanks it away from my outstretched fingers and whips her body over to face the wall. As I stare at her back, her shoulders hunched with tension, a wave of fury towards those two girls washes over me again. I want to tell Lucy how much I hate them. How I dream of ripping every layer of skin off their smug faces. But of course I can’t do that.
‘Munroe said your shirt ripped on a branch,’ I choose. ‘Shall I see if I can fix it?’
‘I threw it away.’
I frown. Not because I care about the shirt, but it feels out of character. ‘Why did you do that? It would be easy to sew up.’
‘Just drop it, okay, Mum?’
My heart kicks up a gear. ‘Is there a reason you didn’t want me to see it? Did it definitely rip on a tree? You know, if one of them has a knife, you need to tell Munroe.’
‘What, for her to not believe me again? To take their side, like always?’
‘She didn’t today, at least not totally,’ I say. ‘I think she’s starting to get it. She told me that she’s going to speak to their social worker, and that’s actually a big deal.’ Lucy rolls onto her back and a look of mild interest appears on her face. It spurs me on. ‘With children in foster care, the social worker takes on a lot of the traditional parents’ responsibilities. Including discipline.’
Lucy’s interest vanishes. ‘Discipline? Like being grounded for a few days?’ She shakes her head in disgust. ‘The only way I’ll be free of them is if they’re expelled, and Munroe’s too under their spell for that.’
I bite my lip. I’ve been a social worker for twenty-five years and a belief in rehabilitation, in second and third and fourth chances, is inbuilt. But vulnerable children have never been my enemy before. ‘I could ask around at work. Find out who their social worker is, explain how bad it is.’
Fear sprouts on Lucy’s face. ‘No, you can’t do that. If Amber found out, she’d tell everyone that I was using my mum to get her in trouble. Then she’d get you fired. Like that boy did with Dad.’
‘What? This is completely different. Why would you say that?’ It’s been over two years since that hand grenade was launched at our family, a male student at the school Matt used to teach at accusing him of assault. Things are back on an even keel now, but it was a difficult time, and I don’t need reminding of it today.
Lucy turns to look at me, her expression darkening. ‘Dad’s life was almost destroyed because some boy decided he didn’t like him, and then caused him shitloads of trouble. That sound familiar?’
Guilt flares inside me. Because she’s got a point. But when Matt faced the accusation, followed by suspension from the job he loved, I was only outraged. I didn’t ask him to show compassion for the boy, even though there were probably challenges in his life too. Is it because Amber and Jess are in the social care system so their disadvantage is more obvious? Or because I expect more empathy from Lucy than her father?
‘I know it must feel like things can’t get any worse at the moment,’ I say, trying to lift my mood as much as hers. ‘But we’ve got a bank holiday weekend ahead of us, all together, and things might not seem so bad by Tuesday.’
‘I’m not 6 anymore, Mum. You can’t make everything better with an ice-cream.’
‘Hey, guys. Is this a private argument, or can anyone join in?’
I twist my head towards the door. ‘Hey, Milla.’ While Lucy looks like me – pale-skinned, blue-eyed, ash-blonde hair – Milla is all Matt. Taller, broader, with hazel eyes and thick auburn hair. And with her stronger colouring comes a fiercer temperament too. Milla turned 18 in March, and one of the first things she did was get a tattoo on her wrist. An infinity symbol to represent the number of barriers she’s going to break down in her lifetime.
‘I heard what went down at school today,’ Milla says. ‘Honestly, Luce, you just say the word, and I will hunt those bitches down.’
