Rosie Lewis - Taken - Part 2 of 3

I laughed, dabbing the dribble from her small round chin. ‘You’re a funny little pickle, yes you are.’

Already I looked upon her as my own child, but the idea of keeping her hadn’t even crossed my mind until Peggy mentioned it. I wanted her to stay with us; there was no doubt about that, but I knew it wasn’t really about what I wanted. What mattered was Megan and, ultimately, what was best for her. And of course, there was Emily and Jamie to think about. They had always enjoyed fostering and, although there had been some difficult times, they had drawn lots of positives from it.

But accepting a child permanently into their family, as their own sister, was something else entirely. I had a feeling they might jump at the chance but it was a big assumption to make and anyway, with Christina’s father still keen to adopt Megan, there wasn’t much point in discussing it with them until we knew more.

The nights shortened and the skies grew lighter, the passing months bringing more changes to our family. Some were thrilling, Megan perfecting the art of crawling and following us around the house at lightning speed, Emily completing her GCSEs, Jamie managing to play the whole first verse of ‘Moon River’ on the guitar without losing patience and snatching up his Xbox controls instead.

But the most shocking event was undoubtedly Zadie going missing. When I first registered with Bright Heights Fostering Agency, my assessing social worker told me that foster carers had to be prepared for anything, and in April, when Zadie didn’t return home from school, her words flew back to me with a vengeance.

Though the little ones were largely unaware of what was going on, Nailah was disorientated by the loss of her mum and I think both she and Megan sensed there was something wrong. Usually smiley and good-natured, their moods changed and they cried easily, staring at me with perplexed, worried frowns. It was a tumultuous time but ended, thankfully, with Zadie’s return a week after she went missing. The family members involved in taking her were arrested and, to our delight, Zadie and her elder sister were reunited with their mother soon afterwards. The teenager left us in July, taking Nailah to start a new life with her birth family.

Megan was almost a year old by then and for a few days afterwards she crawled from room to room with a bleak expression, searching for her missing playmate. I offered her lots of cuddles and tried to explain, but the idea that their lives were continuing away from ours was complicated, way beyond her comprehension.

We spent the quiet days following their departure in the garden, playing with sand and water, arranging Megan’s soft toys in a circle and cutting sandwiches into tiny triangles for a teddy bears’ picnic. I missed Zadie and Nailah, but it was lovely to spend some time alone with Megan.

The whirlwind arrival of Mack, a 14-year-old boy who came to stay as an emergency placement after a fall-out with his stepfather, briefly interrupted the tranquillity, but Megan, at that magical stage on the cusp of taking her first steps, quickly worked her charms on him. She pottered between us with big, dribbling smiles and Mack’s sullen scowl melted instantly whenever she rested her hand on his tracksuit-covered knee. When he left three days later, my heart melted as he swept her up into the air and allowed her to plant wet kisses on his cheek.

Another change to our routine came when Peggy suspended contact after Christina’s repeated non-attendance. All birth parents were regularly warned that the local authority operated a strict ‘three strikes and you’re out’ policy, and most were careful to avoid missing any more than two in a row. Since contact had switched to the family centre I had kept a diary, packing it in the bag that went with Megan to contact alongside her milk, nappies and spare clothes. Inside I wrote regular updates on Megan: her latest weight, vaccinations, any new sounds she made, and Christina’s enthusiastic replies showed her interest. Her sudden absence puzzled me. When I spoke to Peggy about it, she shared her suspicion that Christina had relapsed into drug dependency again. On the bright side, there was less running around and, apart from the weekly contact with Jem, her grandfather, which seemed to be going well, our days were our own.

Without the daily reminder of contact, it was easy to forget that I was fostering Megan and with each passing day it became more and more impossible to imagine our lives without her. Once Peggy had planted the idea of adoption in my mind it was difficult to nudge it away and I longed to talk to Emily and Jamie about the possibility of keeping Megan, but I didn’t want to mention anything, particularly as her grandfather’s assessment seemed to be progressing well.

It was late July and Megan was just over 12 months old when the chance finally arrived. The two of us were in the garden, Megan crouching on her haunches beside me as I pulled up weeds, her little dress ruffling up at the hem. With her own small garden fork in one hand and matching shovel in the other, she dug over the soft earth, fountains of soil spraying the air. Every so often she downed tools and half-staggered, half-crawled over to pick up a plant spray, industriously covering our tomato plants with a fine mist of water. She babbled away as she worked, her faltering words barely comprehensible but adorable all the same. My heart soared whenever I heard a word I vaguely recognised. ‘Dig, dig,’ she said, looking up at me with a proud smile.

‘Yes, you’re digging, clever girl!’

Across the garden, a robin appeared. Megan stilled, captivated by the bird as it fluttered its wings and came to rest on the top of our low stone wall. It skittered along the top, halting every few steps to survey its surroundings. She pointed, one of her latest tricks. Half a second later she was off, her feet carrying her faster than her body was able to go. Losing her footing, she tumbled over, arms flying out in front of her for balance, nappy-covered bottom sticking out from beneath her rumpled dress. ‘Oops-a-daisy,’ I called out, and after a short pause she was on her feet again, smiling.

We pottered for hours, the sounds of summer – an occasional splosh of water from the leaky outside pipe, the companionable chatter of our elderly neighbours, low and soft, from the garden next door, the chink of metal against china as they stirred their tea – conspiring to muddle our sense of time. I only realised we hadn’t eaten lunch when the telephone rang. ‘My goodness, Meggie, it’s nearly half past one,’ I said, patting the soil from my hands and racing to pick up my handset.

‘There’s been a bust-up,’ Peggy said as soon as I pressed the SEND button.

‘A-ha,’ I answered and then waited for the social worker to continue. With Peggy, I had learned to let the conversation flow at her own pace. Asking questions had a tendency to slow up proceedings and make her bad-tempered.

‘The police were called. Jem’s in custody but he’s made a counter-allegation against the partner. It’s all a big mess. No, not that one,’ she added impatiently, her voice suddenly muffled. ‘The white printer, over there. Sorry, Rosie, I wasn’t talking to you.’ There was a tapping sound, an impatient tutting. ‘Where was I?’

Peggy continued with the tale, pausing intermittently to answer a colleague or take a gulp of tea. From what I could make out, there had been a domestic between Christina’s father, Jem, and his partner, Jackie. I sat in my wicker chair and listened, the sun warming my face, Megan doddering busily to and fro. I could hear her twittering to herself. Every so often she stopped, pointing to something of interest. ‘In a nutshell, things aren’t looking too hopeful for them. Well, what I mean is, they’ve effectively ruled themselves out. There’s no way I can take them forward, even if neither of them are charged. So, if you want to be considered, Rosie, now’s the time to put your intentions in writing.’