Page 12 of The Lucky Winners

Sixteen Years Earlier

Beth and I sat on our respective beds in the dingy bedroom and stared at each other in disbelief. After months of uncertainty and what I thought were fleeting, empty promises, the care manager had just told us that the impossible had happened.

‘I have good news. You’re both going to live with Mr and Mrs Webb. The nice couple who’ve visited you a few times. A fresh start for you both. How about that?’

We’d been living at Clay Bank for over a year, ever since our mother had died unexpectedly from liver failure.

Our dad had died when Beth was one, and there was no one else – no grandparents, no aunts or uncles stepping in to keep us together.

Just me and Beth, and a terrifying unknown that gaped in front of us where our future should have been.

I hadn’t let myself think about what would happen if Mum didn’t make it, but when the moment came, it hit like a landslide.

One day, we were in our flat, our lives chaotic but familiar.

A few days later, strangers were sorting through our things, asking questions I couldn’t answer.

I kept waiting for someone to step in, to take charge, to say, It’s all right, you’re both coming with me.

But no one did. At just fifteen years old, I felt I should be responsible and have all the answers.

Being taken into care wasn’t like the horror stories I’d imagined, but it didn’t feel like home either.

Clay Bank was clean, ordered and full of people who were paid to look after us.

But none of it felt real. Social workers talked to each other in hushed tones, decisions were sometimes made about us as if we weren’t in the room.

I clung to Beth, not sure if we’d be split up, never sure of anything except that whatever happened next, it was completely out of my hands.

After a few weeks, our care manager had quietly taken us aside and explained the fostering procedure.

‘We find that prospective foster parents are often looking for only one child and, in our experience, they tend to prefer babies and young children, usually under five years old,’ she said regretfully.

‘Of course, that’s not to say it won’t happen for you two and that you won’t find a placement together.

I’m just giving you the facts because that’s what I’d want to have in your situation. ’

Our little chat had gone straight over eleven-year-old Beth’s head, but at just sixteen, I was old enough to read between the lines.

Miss Rachel was basically saying we were too old to be fostered – especially me – and, in the unlikely event someone did come along, they’d probably want only my little sister.

But now, to our shock, Miss Rachel’s news had Beth’s pretty blue eyes shining. ‘Hooray! We got picked, Janey!’

To be fair, after their last visit a few days ago, we’d both agreed Mr and Mrs Webb had seemed kind people.

I’d heard horror stories from other kids who’d gone to a family only to return with tales of being physically abused or simply returned to Clay Bank, like a sofa that didn’t quite match the décor once they got it home.

Beth was too young to understand that we’d already ranked somewhere below the alcohol and numerous boyfriends in Mum’s priority list over the last few years.

We’d be better off at Clay Bank than go through all that again with the Webbs, although they didn’t seem like that kind of people.

I hadn’t mentioned to Beth that I felt a bit awkward in their company.

The way Mrs Webb fidgeted, chewed her nails.

Never took her eyes off us, as if she constantly worried whether she was doing the right thing in taking us home.

But Mr Webb seemed nice enough and maybe I was just being too picky.

I nodded and smiled and didn’t say anything about any of this to the care manager.

Soon as we were alone again, Beth sprang on to her bed, bouncing high enough that the mattress springs protested.

‘Will we have our own rooms?’ she asked between jumps, her golden curls flying.

Her eyes looked huge and full of hope, as if this was the exact moment when everything in our lives would finally be perfect.

I forced a smile. ‘Maybe not our own rooms, but it’ll be nice to leave here, won’t it?’

Beth flopped on to her stomach, kicking her feet up behind her. ‘As long as they don’t make me eat mushrooms.’ She grinned before her face turned serious. ‘And as long as we stay together.’

That part, at least, I could promise her. But as much as I knew how badly she wanted this – a real home, a proper family – I wasn’t sure she understood what it would mean.

We both wanted a fresh start, but another new house? New rules and new people? I couldn’t help but wonder if Beth was ready for that. Or if I was.

A few days later, our drive to Mr and Mrs Webb’s house was quiet, filled with small-talk from Mr Webb and the occasional grunt of acknowledgement from his wife, who had barely glanced at me since we’d left Clay Bank.

Although she’d kept turning around to smile at Beth.

I hadn’t allowed myself to dwell on the bad bits.

Instead, I tried to focus on the future – on the possibility that this would be a fresh start for us both as part of a new family unit.

One that would be more stable for Beth without Mum’s heavy drinking and the men she brought home from the pub.

The house looked neat and respectable. There was a traditional bay window at the front with small panes of coloured glass at the top, a tidy garden and, best of all, a warm kitchen filled with the smells of freshly made sandwiches and cake.

The table was laid as if we were about to have an indoor picnic, and Mrs Webb had put some flowers in a white vase featuring what she said were country roses.

‘This is genuine Royal Albert and belonged to my mother,’ she said, as she placed it carefully on the table.

‘Only the very best for our two esteemed guests.’ Her smile stretched her mouth wide, but it didn’t touch her eyes.

They showed us up to our bedroom before tea.

It was big compared to the drab, cramped room at Clay Bank, and it overlooked a pretty garden.

Sunlight streamed through a wide window, casting a warm glow on the soft, floral quilts covering our two single beds.

The walls were painted a pale pink, with a delicate rosebud border running along the top.

It was the kind of room I imagined belonging to girls who felt safe, who had never had to pack their lives into a small bag with little or no warning. It felt cosy and welcoming, and for the first time in a long while, I allowed myself to hope it might work out.

Beth rushed inside, spinning in a circle with her arms out as she took everything in.

I watched her fingers dance over the polished wooden dresser, the books neatly stacked on a little shelf, the fluffy pink rug between our beds.

Her eyes shone with wonder as she traced the edges of the rosebud wallpaper, a smile spreading across her face.

It was nothing like our room back home with Mum.

That had been small and cramped, hardly big enough for our bunk beds, with walls where the paint peeled in long, curling strips.

Damp crept in at the corners, leaving patches that no amount of scrubbing could shift.

Our furniture had been mismatched – hand-me-downs that were chipped and wobbly with drawers that stuck no matter how hard you pulled.

But standing there, in a room that wasn’t ours, in a house that wasn’t home, all I could feel was the ache of what we’d lost.

‘It’s so big in here.’ Beth breathed, pressing her palms against the soft quilt. ‘And look, Janey! Our own drawers and a lamp each !’ Beth turned to me, her voice full of hope. ‘Do you think we can really stay here? Like, for good?’

I wanted to tell her yes, that we wouldn’t have to leave like we did our home. But I couldn’t bring myself to promise something I wasn’t sure of.

Doubt writhed in my stomach, making me feel queasy.

What if it didn’t work out? What if we did something wrong, or Mr and Mrs Webb changed their minds?

What if we had to pack up again and leave yet another place behind?

Beth saw only possibilities in this new home, but all I could see was how it might slip like sand through our fingers.

‘It’s going to be OK,’ I told my sister, although the words were more for me than for her.

Looking back now, I should have paid more attention to how I felt because, as it turned out, it was far from OK.

It was about as far from OK as it could possibly be.