Cathy Glass - The Child Bride

‘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.’

‘I’ll tell the school to expect you then,’ Tara said, making another note.

‘I’ll take and collect you in the car,’ I said.

‘It’s all right. I can use the bus,’ Zeena said. ‘They won’t hurt me in a public place. It would bring shame on them and the community.’

I wasn’t reassured, and neither was Tara.

‘I’d feel happier if you went in Cathy’s car,’ Tara said.

‘If I’m seen in her car they will tell my family the registration number and trace me to here.’

Whatever had happened to make this young girl so wary and fearful, I wondered.

‘Use the bus, then,’ Tara said, doubtfully. ‘But promise me you’ll phone if there’s a problem.’

Zeena nodded. ‘I promise.’

‘I’ll give you my mobile number,’ I said. ‘I’d like you to text me when you reach school.’

‘That’s a good idea,’ Tara said.

There was a small silence as Tara wrote, and I took the opportunity to ask: ‘Zeena, do you have any special dietary needs? What do you like to eat?’

‘I eat most things, but not pork,’ she said.

‘Is the meat I buy from our local butchers all right?’

‘Yes, that’s fine. I don’t eat much meat.’

‘Do you need a prayer mat?’ Tara now asked her.

Zeena gave a small shrug. ‘We didn’t pray much in my family, and I don’t think I have the right to pray now.’ Her eyes filled again.

‘I’m sure you have the right to pray,’ I said. ‘Nothing you’ve done is that bad.’

Zeena didn’t reply.

‘Can you think of anything else you may need here?’ Tara asked her.

‘When you visit my parents could you tell them I’m very sorry, and ask them if I can see my brothers and sisters, please?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Tara said. ‘Is there anything you want me to bring from home?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘If you think of anything, phone me and I’ll try to get it when I visit,’ Tara said.

‘Thank you,’ Zeena said, and wiped her eyes. She appeared so vulnerable and sad, my heart went out to her.

Tara put away her notepad and pen and then gave Zeena a hug. ‘We’ll go and have a look at your room now before I leave.’

We stood and I led the way upstairs and into Zeena’s bedroom. It was usual practice for the social worker to see the child’s bedroom.

‘This is nice,’ Tara said, while Zeena looked around, clearly amazed.

‘Is this room just for me?’ she asked.

‘Yes. You have your own room here,’ I said

‘Do you share a bedroom at home?’ Tara asked her.

‘Yes.’ Her gaze went to the door. ‘Can I lock the door?’ she asked me.

‘We don’t have locks on any of the bedroom doors,’ I said. ‘But no one will come into your room. We always knock on each other’s bedroom doors if we want the person.’ Foster carers are advised not to fit locks on children’s bedroom doors in case they lock themselves in when they are upset. ‘You will be safe, I promise you,’ I added.

Zeena gave a small nod.

Tara was satisfied the room was suitable and we went downstairs and into the living room where Tara collected her bag.

‘Tell Cathy or phone me if you need anything or are worried,’ she said to Zeena. I could see she felt as protective of Zeena as I did.

‘I will,’ Zeena said.

‘Good girl. Take care, and try not to worry.’

Zeena gave a small, unconvincing nod and perched on the sofa while I went with Tara to the front door.

‘Keep a close eye on her,’ she said quietly to me so Zeena couldn’t hear. ‘I’m very worried about her.’

‘I will,’ I said. ‘She’s very frightened and anxious. I’ll phone you when I’ve made the doctor’s appointment.’

‘Thank you. I’ll be in touch.’

I closed the front door and returned to the living room where Zeena was on the sofa, bent slightly forward and staring at the floor. It was nearly five o’clock and Lucy would be home soon, so I thought I should warn Zeena so she wasn’t startled again when the front door opened.

‘You’ve met my daughter Paula,’ I said, sitting next to her. ‘Soon my other daughter, Lucy, will be home from work. Don’t worry if you hear a key in the front door; it will be her. Adrian won’t be home until about eight o’clock; he’s working a late shift today.’

‘Do all your children have front-door keys?’ Zeena asked, turning slightly to look at me.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m not allowed to have a key to my house,’ she said.

I nodded. Different families have different policies on this type of responsibility; however, by Zeena’s age most of the teenagers I knew had their own front-door key, as had my children.