Broken: Part 1 of 3: A traumatised girl. Her troubled brother. Their shocking secret.

I decided now was as good a time as any to mention the new love in our lives and the latest addition to our family – a six-month-old pup whom Megan had named Mungo. A mongrel pup with some Spaniel and, I suspected from all the holes he’d dug in the garden, some Terrier as well, he was almost as effusive in his affection as little Megan. Although we all loved animals, I had resisted getting a pet because Jamie suffered from asthma. His symptoms had lessened over the years though, and so a few months ago we decided to take the plunge. ‘We also have a dog who’ll be very pleased to meet you,’ I said, aware that Joan was trying to calm Bobbi, who didn’t seem open to the idea at all. Alternately barking and lapping open-mouthed at the air, it was as if Joan wasn’t even there.

Archie smiled when I told him Mungo’s name, though his eyes kept an expressionless quality, as if they weren’t quite plugged in with the rest of him. ‘Does your son like football?’

‘Yes. He loves cricket and rugby as well. How about you?’

He nodded sombrely. ‘I support Man U.’

Before I could respond, Bobbi bolted off the foot stool and charged at him. Head down, she rammed him in the groin with such ferocity that he staggered backwards and clonked his head on the wall. He yelped, arms flailing as he struggled to regain his balance. Then, in a display of what I considered to be remarkable self-constraint, he gave her a mild push in the chest and then cradled his head, his other hand clamped to his groin.

I winced. Joan marched forwards. ‘What have I told you, Bobbi?’ she said crossly. ‘You mustn’t keep lashing out like that!’

Bobbi looked vacant, as if nobody had said a word. Joan took another step towards her and leaned close. ‘Bobbi! Did you hear me?’ she demanded. From her middle came the tiniest mewing sound. Joan straightened, shifting once again from one foot to the other. ‘Poor Archie, look, you’ve hurt him. Say sorry. NOW please!’

‘S’alright, Joan,’ Archie said, still rubbing the back of his head. ‘She didn’t mean it.’

‘Hmm, I’m not so sure about that.’ Joan puffed out some air. ‘Bobbi, upstairs. Fetch your things.’

After a resentful glance at her brother, Bobbi turned and stalked from the room. Archie rolled his eyes and limped after her. Joan gaped at me, her hand flapping towards the door. ‘Did you see that?! I don’t believe it!’

‘What? The head-butt?’

She snorted. ‘No, I can believe that alright. I can’t believe she actually did what I asked.’

I looked at her. ‘The placing social worker said you’re thinking ADHD.’

‘Yes, wouldn’t surprise me,’ Joan said. Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder is a prevalent condition in fostered children. Latest research suggests that there may be a genetic link and one emerging theory is that undiagnosed sufferers turn to drugs in an unconscious attempt at self-medication. It’s one of the reasons I feel sorry for birth parents who lose their children through substance addiction, although my sympathy never extends to those who have been deliberately cruel or abusive. ‘She’s all over the place from morning till night,’ Joan continued. ‘Can’t keep still for a second. Can’t stop fretting about food either, poor little lamb. She can’t sleep. And when she blows, well, you’ll need to dive for cover. She never stops making a noise. I mean, literally never. She’s a little tea leaf as well.’

‘Oh?’

Joan nodded. ‘Yep. Pinches anything that’s not screwed down. And she bites.’

I nodded slowly, absorbing her words. This placement was certainly going to be lively. ‘And Archie?’

She thought for a moment. ‘I haven’t quite worked him out yet. He’s polite enough, I’ll give you that. And on the whole he’s been quiet.’

‘Yes, you’ve said.’

She nodded, glancing down at the baby.

‘What is it, Joan?’

She frowned. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said, giving me a long steady look. ‘Be careful is what I’m saying, I suppose, with your little one around.’

I stared at her for a moment and then glanced away. My eyes were drawn to a lopsided Christmas tree draped with cracked baubles and balding tinsel. It was leaning cheerlessly against a side table, as if all the socialising of the festive season had literally drained the life out of it. Joan noticed my interest. ‘One of Bobbi’s recent victims,’ she said soberly. I laughed, but she shook her head woefully. ‘I’m not joking, Rosie. Be ready to hit the ground running. You’re in for a bumpy ride.’

If I’m honest her words did worry me a little, but perhaps not as much as they should have.

Chapter Two (#u7d485e7f-553b-5821-aca2-d214881d1147)

‘You got food at your house, miss, have you? Have you got food?’

‘It’s Rosie. And yes, don’t worry, we have plenty of food.’

‘Cos I like bread and chocolate spread and crisps, have you got some? Have you, Rosie? Have you?’

‘Yes, Bobbi, we –’

‘I like jam as well but not peanut butter, I hate that. Have you got jam, Rosie? Have you got any jam?’

And so it continued all the way home. She was a nervous passenger, startling every time I applied the brake, craning her head and strumming the window as we stopped at each red light. When we went over a sleeping policeman she clutched at the headrest in front of her and held on for dear life. My heart went out to her. She really was an anxious little girl. I glanced at her brother in the rear-view mirror. He sat gazing out of the window, quietly self-contained. I should have been grateful for his calm, but there was something unsettling about the glazed look in his eyes. I felt relieved when he finally spoke. ‘Shut it, Bobbi,’ he said, but mildly. I don’t think she heard him. She certainly didn’t react, or listen when I tried to get a response in.

I suspected that her constant chatter was another sign that her reptilian brain stem was in control of her thinking, trying to ensure her survival by reminding me that she needed attention. I felt sad to think that a little girl had been so poorly treated that she feared for her life. That said, I also wondered how my three were going to react to her constant chatter.

The roads narrowed as we neared home; a typical Edwardian semi-detached house of red brick in the north of England, with a windswept garden and a river beyond. Our surrounding towns are lively enough to keep the youngsters interested once they hit their teens, but small enough to retain some of their old-world charm.

‘Here we are,’ I said cheerfully over the top of Bobbi’s monologue. I pulled up outside our house and peered through the windscreen. Emily was holding Megan up at the living-room window. I waved as I got out of the car and Megan jumped up and down in Emily’s arms. ‘Looks like we have a welcoming committee,’ I said as I opened one of the rear doors and helped Bobbi release her seatbelt. Archie climbed out the other side, threw his rucksack over his shoulder and came to stand beside me.

‘I can do it,’ Bobbi said, refusing my proffered hand and slinking out of the seat herself. As soon as her feet touched the driveway, Megan appeared in front of her, a big beaming smile on her face. Mungo skidded over as well and, just over Bobbi’s hip-height, sniffed excitedly at her armpits and then at her feet.

Bobbi grinned and screamed excitedly. Mungo turned tail and shot off back to the house. A bit taken aback, Megan stared at her for a second, but then reached for her hand. ‘Come and play!’ she chirped, her breath misting the cold air. Bobbi, who was over a year older but only about two inches taller, scowled and shrank away. Megan gave me a bewildered look and my heart lurched. She had been so excited yesterday when I told her that two new children were coming to stay.

Archie leaned over and rested his hands on his knees. ‘Hello, what’s your name?’ he asked engagingly, his whole demeanour softening.

‘Meggie,’ she said with a smile, noticing him properly for the first time.

‘Nice to meet you, Meggie. I’m Archie.’

‘Arty,’ Megan repeated as best she could, a big grin on her face.

‘Hi, Archie,’ Emily said with casual friendliness. She had been welcoming little strangers into our home since she was around eight years old and seemed to have a natural ability for making them feel at ease. Archie flushed and leaned down to stroke Mungo’s floppy brown ears.

Megan made another attempt at grabbing Bobbi’s hand. With her effusive spirit and tactile nature, it was hard for her to comprehend anyone turning down the offer of instant friendship.

‘I know!’ Emily said, eyeing me over the top of the girls’ heads. ‘Let’s go back inside and find some toys for Bobbi.’ She swept Megan up and headed back towards the door.

‘Yay!’ Megan shouted over her shoulder. I felt a swell of gratitude for Emily’s quick thinking. Since Megan’s adoption I had been more careful when considering referrals, only accepting those I was confident would allow me to give her plenty of individual attention. Being born with a cleft palate had left her hard of hearing so she needed more support than other children her age, though she managed well with the use of a hearing aid. Besides struggling with transitions, her exposure to drugs and alcohol in utero had left its mark developmentally. She struggled to learn at nursery, partly because of her hearing difficulties but also because she was easily distracted – a common legacy of exposure to dangerous substances in the womb.

She was a confident girl though, with an awe-inspiring zest for life. She loved the company of other children and was used to fostering – she had grown up with it – but still, she was a vulnerable child with her own set of challenges. I had to bear that in mind.

‘I want fooooood!’ Bobbi whined as I carried their suitcases into the hall. Still wearing her hat, coat and gloves, she charged off up the hall. ‘Where’s the fridge, Rosie? Is it in here? Rosie, is it here?’

‘Come in, love,’ I said to Archie, who was hovering at the open door. I smiled at him. ‘I’ll just see to your sister and then I’ll give you a tour.’

‘Thank you,’ he said politely as I stowed their belongings in front of the stairs. ‘You have a nice house,’ he added as I straightened. I did a double take. Compliments from a child of his age were unexpected, and even more so from someone with a background of domestic abuse. Whenever I accepted a placement I braced myself for verbal insults and even physical abuse. Charming behaviour wasn’t something I’d prepared myself for.

I smiled at him then draped my coat over the banister and went through to the kitchen, where Bobbi had already opened several cupboard doors. ‘Here you are, Bobbi, you can have this for now,’ I said, planting a banana in her hand. I shepherded her out of the kitchen and pulled out one of our dining chairs. She threw herself onto it and immediately began kicking the legs. I bent down and slipped off her shoes. The kicking stopped but almost instantly she began banging her free hand on the table and shouting at the top of her voice.

Her brother appeared at the doorway. ‘Would you like some fruit, Archie? Or do you want to wait for lunch? It won’t be long.’