A Past

Everyone had a lie in on Saturday morning, including me. With Tayo’s football club starting at ten o’clock, I thought I’d better wake him at eight-thirty, which would give him enough time to wash, dress and have his (cooked) breakfast before setting off at nine-thirty.

I knocked on his bedroom door and he called me in. He was already wide awake, staring at the ceiling.

‘Cathy,’ he said, the moment I entered. ‘I can’t go to football. I haven’t got any kit.’ His face showed abject disappointment but resigned acceptance. He clearly believed he was not going.

‘Yes, you can,’ I said. ‘I have—’

Before I could get any further, he said, ‘No. I can’t use my new joggers, they’ll get ruined. And you’re not allowed to wear trainers for football.’

He’d obviously been awake for some time considering the situation and running through all the possible solutions. As usual, he’d taken on the responsibility of the problem and tried desperately to solve it. I thought of Adrian who, at the same age, had never had such worries. Like most boys, he’d assumed his football kit would be washed and ready whenever he needed it.

I went over to open his curtains. ‘How long have you been lying there worrying about this?’

He glanced at the wall clock. ‘An hour, I guess.’

‘Well, don’t,’ I said firmly. His big eyes opened wider, uncertain how he should interpret my insistence. ‘I’ve already thought of all this. I knew we wouldn’t have time to shop for your kit so I’ve found some of Adrian’s that he had when he was your age. It’s washed and ready. That’ll be fine for today, then I’ll get you some of your own.’

He propped himself up on one elbow and grinned as though I was his fairy godmother, waving a magic wand and making all his problems vanish. ‘You’re great, Cathy!’

‘Thank you. I aim to please.’

‘But what about the boots?’

‘I have your size, four, virtually brand new. Adrian grew out of them fast at your age. There’s even a sports bag to put them in. So get dressed and please stop worrying.’

He leapt out of bed and planted a kiss on my cheek. I gave him a hug.

‘Good boy. Now get ready. I take it you’d like a cooked breakfast before you go?’

He grinned sheepishly. ‘Yes, please.’

‘OK, get yourself clean pants from the drawer, and your joggers and top from the wardrobe, then go through to the bathroom. The kit is in there, apart from the boots. Put it on under your clothes then when we get to the field you can slip out of your fleece and joggers and leave them in the car. That’s what the other boys do.’

I came out, adding that he should be quiet as Adrian and Paula didn’t want to be woken at eight-thirty on a Saturday. Lucy had already left for her Saturday job at Boots. Fifteen minutes later, just as I’d finished cooking his breakfast (egg, bacon, sausage and mushrooms), he appeared with the kit on, and his fleece and joggers in his hand. ‘It fits great,’ he said. ‘I thought I would show you.’

‘Excellent. You look terrific, just the part.’

‘But can I still have my own for next week?’

‘Yes, of course.’ I set his breakfast on the table, and Tayo sat down to tuck in. I went back to the kitchen to make his black tea with one sugar.

As I returned a few minutes later with the mug, I suddenly noticed an ugly scar on his left arm. His elbow was sticking out as he used his knife and fork, and the scar, about three inches long, ran along the soft flesh of his underarm from the elbow towards his wrist. It wasn’t the fine pink scar of a neatly mended and healed wound, but a jagged, taut mishmash of white tissue. I stared at it as I set the mug on the table. I had never seen a scar like it – it was a real mess. The two edges of the wound looked as though they hadn’t knitted together properly, and the new skin that had formed over the top had the appearance of stretched gauze. I hadn’t seen it before because Tayo had always been in long sleeves, but someone at the school must have seen it surely, when he’d changed for PE.

‘I bet that hurt,’ I said, lightly touching his arm.

‘It did. And it was bleeding for ages.’

‘Did you go to the hospital?’

‘No. Mum and her friend stuck it together with plasters. But every time they took the plasters off it opened up, and started bleeding again.’

Yes, I thought, horrified, a three-inch-long gaping wound, stuck together with plasters, would tend to do that! No wonder the scar looked so angry – it was incredible it had healed at all. What on earth had Minty been thinking of?

‘How long ago did it happen?’ I asked.

Tayo was more interested in his breakfast than my questions and shrugged. ‘A year, I guess. Maybe more. It took a month to stop oozing. My mum and her friend were getting worried. There was blood and yellow stuff coming out. It smelt horrid.’ And as if to demonstrate, he squirted tomato ketchup onto the yolk of his egg. I was so pleased I wasn’t eating.

‘It sounds like it went septic – that means it got an infection in it. Who was this friend of Mum’s?’

He shrugged again. ‘Some bloke we lived with for a while.’

‘And you didn’t see a doctor?’

‘No. But I stayed in bed for a few days and I didn’t have to go to work.’ He stopped, suddenly aware he’d just let something slip. ‘I used to help Mum clear up the house, and she’d pay me,’ he explained. ‘Anyway, it’s fine now, and I make sure I don’t knock it.’

It was on his underarm, so not in the most vulnerable place, but he would have to be very careful. The new skin was so thin it wouldn’t take much to make it burst open again. I would mention it to Sandra when we next spoke, and show the doctor when Tayo had his medical, although I doubted much could be done, other than to reopen the wound and sew it properly.

‘How did it happen, Tayo?’ I said lightly, removing his empty plate.

He was silent as he concentrated on sipping his tea, then he set it down and said, ‘Cathy, I promised you yesterday I’d try and tell the truth. But I can’t tell you the truth about this, not yet. So please don’t ask me.’

I was taken aback, both by the maturity and sincerity of his response. For a boy of ten it was unheard of. I looked him in the eye. ‘All right, Tayo. I respect that, but when you can tell me, I think you should. I have a feeling that it’s important and I should know. Agreed?’

He nodded, finished his breakfast and then went upstairs to clean his teeth. I went to the front room, took a log sheet from my desk and quickly noted what Tayo had just said. I would mention it to Sandra the next time we spoke and also ask the school if they knew anything about the scar. Perhaps he’d said something at school, for surely it couldn’t have gone unnoticed.

When we arrived at the field where the football club met, there were already half a dozen boys kicking a ball around in a warm-up. The coach, who was carrying a clipboard, watched them from the side. I left Tayo in the car to take off his fleece and joggers, and change into his football boots, while I went over to the coach, introduced myself and gave him the cheque for the term’s fees as arranged on the phone.

The coach ticked Tayo’s name off the list on his clipboard, and then handed me a medical questionnaire together with a consent form for emergency medical treatment, should it be necessary. As a parent, I completed and signed forms like this all the time without a second thought, but as a foster carer (and therefore not Tayo’s legal guardian) I was not allowed to.

‘Tayo is a looked-after child,’ I said, out of earshot of the other boys. ‘I’ll have to ask his social worker to sign this. Can I bring it with me next week?’

‘No problem,’ the coach said. ‘Let me check your contact details.’ He flipped over a page on his clipboard, and read out my name, address and telephone numbers, which I’d given him over the phone.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ I said. ‘Tayo’s a good boy, and loves his sport. He won’t give you any problems.’

Tayo bounded over, looking the part in the football kit.

‘Right, lad,’ the coach said. ‘Join in for a warm-up while the others arrive. Do you know any of the boys here?’

Tayo looked across the field. ‘Is that Dean?’

‘Dean Emmory. He goes to Meadway School,’ the coach said.

‘He’s in Year Five!’ Tayo exclaimed, happy to see a familiar face. He jogged towards the boys, and I saw Dean look up, recognize Tayo and wave, while another boy kicked the ball in his direction, instantly including him in the game.

‘Thanks,’ I said to the coach. ‘See you at twelve.’

I returned to the car and drove away. None of the other parents had stayed to watch, and Tayo certainly wouldn’t want me to be the only one. I bought a newspaper on the way home, and when I got there, I made coffee and sat down to read it.

Ten minutes later, I realized I was reading without taking in a word. My thoughts were firmly on Tayo and the mysterious comment he had made about work. It was very unlikely that Minty had paid him for helping her – she barely had the money for a pint of milk from the sound of it and if she had, I very much doubted she would have given it to Tayo. Had he done some casual cash-in-hand work to bring some money into the house? At nine he would have been well under the legal age – even to have a paper round a child must be thirteen, but he looked older than his age. I knew some of the traders in the food market used lads to pick up fruit and vegetables that had fallen from the stall, and generally help clear up. While, strictly speaking, it was illegal, it was unlikely to do any great harm, and if that’s what Tayo had been doing, then the money would probably have been a vital part of his and Minty’s income. It was all conjecture, and I hoped that in time Tayo would feel he could tell me.

I arrived to collect Tayo from football ten minutes before the end. Other parents had done the same, and we stood on the sideline and cheered on the boys in the final minutes of their five-a- side. The coach blew his whistle, signalling the end of the match, then called everyone together. The boys sat on the ground in a circle at his feet, while the parents grouped around the edge. It was clearly the way he ended every session as the other lads had gathered round him without prompting. The coach talked about the game they’d played, highlighting any areas that needed improving, and congratulating the boys on their individual skills and achievements. Everyone got a mention.

‘Tayo Mezer,’ he said, glancing at his clipboard. ‘You’re a very good shooter; just make sure you don’t hog the ball. Teamwork is the key.’

Tayo glowed and nodded, then glanced proudly at me. ‘Well done,’ I mouthed. I felt proud too. When the coach had mentioned everyone, the parents clapped. Then we were dismissed. Tayo bounded to my side.

‘I did so well, Cathy. It was great. Can I come next week?’

‘Yes. You said you wanted to, so I’ve enrolled you until Easter.’

‘Terrific! Thanks!’

He continued to talk about the game non-stop as we walked to the car, while he changed out of his muddy boots and into his trainers, then on the drive home. He whistled in the shower, then when he came out, still glowing from having had such a good time, he told Adrian all about the match, then Paula, then Lucy. Then he bolted down a huge lunch, ravenous from running around all morning.

Perhaps it was his euphoria from enjoying the football so much, or perhaps because he felt he owed me something for arranging and paying for it, but after lunch, he came to me while I was still sitting at the table and said, ‘Cathy. I can tell you about the scar now.’

‘Yes?’ I said. I thought that I already knew what the answer would be. I was sure he was going to say that he’d had an accident at home and that he’d been sworn to secrecy by his mother; he hadn’t told anyone before, I thought, because he knew that it would look bad for his mum if Social Services found out that she’d let something like that happen to him and then not taken him to hospital.

But it was absolutely nothing like that.

‘I got it at work,’ he said.

‘Work? You mean when you were helping Mum?’

He shook his head. ‘No, when I went out to work. At the factory – only we weren’t allowed to call it that.’

I was puzzled. ‘Factory? What sort of factory?’

‘It was a place where we made clothes and bags. It was a big old building in a really rough area. The windows didn’t open and it was hot and dusty inside. It made me cough. That’s when my asthma started. I was collected at six in the morning by a man in a van and brought back after dark so no one saw me.’

I had stopped what I was doing and was now staring at Tayo. ‘Which country was this in? Nigeria?’

‘No. England.’

He must be mistaken. ‘Are you sure?’

He nodded. ‘There were other kids there too, about six usually, and lots of women, and teenage girls about Paula’s age. Lots of them were Asian. We had to stitch the clothes and bags with big machines. I was working on a bag when it happened. The machine for the bags had bigger needles than the one for clothes. It was my fault, I wasn’t concentrating, I was so tired. I fell asleep and the needles ran over my arm.’

I cringed and held back a gasp.

‘The man in charge was so angry. He said I was a liability and couldn’t work there again. Mum was furious because the money had stopped.’

‘Did she work there as well?’

‘Not often on the machines. She came in sometimes but Mr Azzi, the man in charge, said he had other work for her. She used to go with him. I don’t know where. Sometimes for an hour. Sometimes longer. Then she would go home and I’d stay. I didn’t go to school.’

I gaped at him. If all this was true, it sounded like a scene from Dickensian England. But I had no grounds for doubting him, and his now sombre manner and sudden dejection at what he was remembering, suggested I had every reason to believe him. ‘Are you sure the factory was in England?’ I asked.

‘Yes. London. I don’t know the address. We stayed at a man’s flat while we were working there. I know the flat was near Spitalfields and Shoreditch and Whitechapel because I sometimes caught a bus with Mum and it went to those places.’

The East End of London, I thought. That seemed to ring a bell and I started to remember hearing something about East End sweatshops on the radio. They were places where people were paid a pittance for long hours and hard work, but I’d always thought they were proper factories even if they did employ cheap labour – not like the sweatshops of the Third World that set children to work for the equivalent of a few pence a day in appalling conditions. Surely that kind of place did not exist in London, in the twenty-first century?

I didn’t want Tayo to see how appalled I was by what he was telling me in case he clammed up again, so I reined in my shock and asked, ‘Did they pay you?’

‘Mr Azzi gave money to Mum. I don’t know how much.’

‘And what happened after the machine ran over your arm?’

‘I don’t know. Mum said I passed out, I don’t remember anything. I woke up in the flat where we were staying, and Mum and the man who owned it were standing over me. I was on the settee. It was also my bed. The man was angry, and he said we had to get out as soon as I was able to walk. Mum and he argued and he hit her. I couldn’t walk because each time I moved, the towel round my arm got soaked with blood. The man gave me a tablet to make me sleep but it made me have weird dreams where things were moving, so I didn’t take them anymore. I hid them under the cushion on the settee. I couldn’t even go to the toilet, I had to pee in a pot, because if I tried to stand the blood started oozing again, and I felt dizzy. After a week or so, Mum found another friend for us to live with, another man. He and Mum put lots of bandages on my arm and got me in his car. I had a bed at his place, and we stayed there until it had stopped bleeding.’

‘Who was the friend?’ I asked. ‘Do you know? Your mum seems to have a lot of friends.’

‘Dave. He was Irish. He and Mum drank a lot, but he was OK to me.’

‘And this happened when you were nine?’

‘Yes. I was eight when I started in the factory. I remember because I’d just had my birthday and I didn’t get any presents.’

‘So you worked there for a year?’

‘Yes, until the accident. I would probably still be there if the machine hadn’t stitched my arm, so maybe it was good that it happened.’

I didn’t comment. ‘And you can’t remember the name of the road the factory was in?’

‘I never knew it. The van that took us and brought us back didn’t have any windows in the back. It was one of those white vans builders use. It was horrible. It made me feel sick, bumping around in the dark.’

I looked at him carefully. We were still in the breakfast room adjoining the kitchen. ‘Tayo,’ I said slowly, ‘you are telling me the truth, aren’t you? You wouldn’t make it up to protect your mum, would you?’

‘No! Honestly. Cut my throat and hope to die.’

‘So why tell me now? Have you told anyone else before?’

‘No. I haven’t.’ He looked down. ‘I’m telling you, Cathy, because you’re the first person I could tell, and you might be able to help. I made a friend when I was working in the factory. A proper friend, I mean, not one of Mum’s men. Her name was Angie and she and her sisters worked there. I promised her I would help her and that if I ever found an adult I could trust I would try and get her out.’

Although I had only known Tayo for a short while I didn’t think he was a fantasist and what he’d said with its childish detail did make sickening sense. If I didn’t believe Tayo when he was telling me the truth, he’d never trust another adult again. ‘Do you know Angie’s surname?’

‘It sounded like Tenjaby but I don’t know how to spell it.’

I nodded. ‘You realize I’m going to have to tell Sandra all of this so she can help?’

‘Yes. I want you to.’

‘And you’re not worried about what your mum will say when she finds out you’ve told me this?’

He shook his head. ‘No. She never helped me and I’m safe now.’

I felt a great wave of pity and respect for Tayo. He was so strong and mature in many ways, yet still only a child, vulnerable in his request for help and keen to assert that he wasn’t worried. I believed what he had told me.

I stood up and went to him, putting my arms round him to give him a big hug. ‘You’ve done well telling me this, and I’ll do all I can to help. But once Sandra has told the police it will be up to them. We might have to make a statement to the police, I don’t know. But it’s nothing to be scared of. You’re not the one who’s done anything wrong.’

If I’d had any remaining doubt about the validity of what he was saying, it vanished now as he said emphatically, ‘Good. Will they arrest the owner?’

The mention of the police would have made him back down if he was inventing it, I was sure, but he only looked satisfied that the man who had forced him and the other children to work those long hard hours might be punished.

‘I hope so. If they can find him. What he’s been doing is certainly illegal, and immoral. He should be stopped.’

‘I hated him. He used to make Angie cry. He seemed to enjoy seeing her cry.’

I looked him in the eye. ‘There are some horrible adults around, Tayo, as you’ve no doubt discovered, but fortunately there are even more nice ones. Now, I think you should get going on your homework while I make some notes about what you’ve said.’ I paused. Once again, I felt the niggle of the unexplained. Perhaps, with all the honesty in the air, now was the time to ask Tayo about what had been puzzling me. ‘Tayo, you haven’t been to school much, have you?’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Not much.’

‘Why are you so clever then?’ I smiled. ‘You can read and write well, and have a good general knowledge, and you speak beautifully. Where did you learn all that?’

‘I went to school before I came here when I was four and five.’

‘In Nigeria?’

‘Yes. It was a very good school and they taught me to read and write. Then since I’ve been here, I’ve used the libraries because they’re free. And when I stayed with families, I read the books and magazines they left lying around. And newspapers. I learned from the television as well. I like the documentaries. My dad said it was important to learn and have a good education. So I try to do it.’

I thought of all the children in this country who wasted their excellent and free education while Tayo had surpassed many of them on discarded magazines, the library and television. He was quite a boy, there was no mistake about that.

‘Your dad was right,’ I said. ‘He sounds like a very wise man. Where is he now?’

Tayo shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I thought he would come and find me but he hasn’t. I don’t think he cares.’

‘Tayo, do you know anything else about your father that might help Sandra to trace him? Is his surname Mezer?’

He looked blank. ‘I don’t know.’

‘And where does he live?’

He travels a lot for work, or he used to. His home is in Nigeria, near Lagos. I don’t know the address.’

‘And did you and your mum live with him as a family?’

‘Only when I was a baby and I don’t remember that.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell me about him? Do you know how old he is? When his birthday is? Anything he could recall might help us trace this mysterious father.’

Tayo frowned with the effort of trying to remember. ‘I’m sure his birthday is in June. I guess he’s about thirty-five. It’s a long time since I’ve seen him, Cathy. I remember he was tall with big muscles. And he’s black.’ He cocked his head to one side. ‘Is it OK to use that word?’

‘Yes, in this context. It’s correct.’

Tayo’s big brown eyes filled with hope. ‘Do you think he can be found, Cathy? I’d really like to see him.’

‘Oh, love, I don’t know,’ I said honestly. I wished so much that I could promise him that we would find his father, but Tayo’s description of a tall, black, muscular man living in Nigeria was hardly going to refine the search. ‘But we can try. I’ll speak to Sandra on Monday, and tell her how much you would like to see him again.’

‘Thanks, Cathy.’

I smiled at him. ‘Now, homework. Off you go.’

When he’d gone, I sank into my seat at the table again, stunned by everything he had told me, trying to take it all in.