She was chattering when the door opened. One look at a stranger and she stopped — watching, measuring, Bun held close against her chest. She held him out after a moment. Showing him, not offering him.
'That's Bun,' Sandra said. 'Don't let her hear you call him anything else. He goes everywhere — shop, car, bed. He's in a right state, I keep offering to wash him and she's having none of it.'
He came with her on the first day. Already loved to bits, already worn thin in the places she holds him. Someone gave him to her before. We don't know who.
Rosie looked at him, then back across the room. Then she turned and walked towards the coffee table. Done with the introductions. Moving on.
She decides things like that. What belongs to her, who's worth watching, when a moment is finished. She's been moved about. She's learned to read a room fast — what's safe, what isn't, what she needs to hold onto so it doesn't go away.
'That's not a two year old being difficult,' Sandra said. 'That's a two year old who knows something.'
On the coffee table sat a few plastic cups — red, yellow, blue. Rosie picked one up, then another, and stacked them carefully. She studied them with the same serious expression she brings to most things. Working something out.
'She loves those,' Sandra said. 'Takes them to the bath and plays a game there.'
The game has rules. Sandra sits on the bathroom floor. Rosie fills the big cup, holds it over the side, and looks at her. Sandra has to say 'don't you dare.' Rosie tips it. Every time.
'I'm soaked three times a week,' Sandra said. 'But you can't say no to that laugh. You just can't.'
Mike bought her a plastic watering can for the bath. He admits this was a mistake.
'We keep moving it slowly away,' Sandra said. 'She seems to have forgotten it.'
She paused.
'But Rosie has a knack for surprising you.'
Mike came into the room and wandered over to the coffee table. He picked up the orange cup and placed it first, then the red one.
Rosie watched. Then she took them back and rearranged them.
'It's the red one first,' Sandra laughed. 'Every time.'
Mike went and sat in the armchair. Rosie stopped playing. She walked over and stood beside it.
'The mornings have to be a certain way,' Mike said.
He placed a hand over his face. Sandra laughed.
'I cut her toast into squares once.' He shook his head. 'You should have seen her face. Like I'd short-changed her. If they're not triangles they're not going to be eaten.'
'And the butter,' Sandra added. 'Right up to the edges. She checks before she picks them up. Every time. It's like we're on the Bake Off being judged.'
Sandra picked up the orange cup from the table.
'Anything orange she will not touch. She'll line it up on the side of the plate —' she set the cup down carefully — 'like she was filing a complaint.'
Sandra handed the visitor a biscuit.
'Bissy,' Mike said. 'That's Rosie's name for biscuit.'
A pair of eyes appeared from behind the settee. Rosie looked at the biscuit.
'Bissy,' she said. Big smile.
You can't say no to that. Sandra gave her one.
'Ta-tu,' Rosie said, and was gone again.
'I'm Sanna,' Sandra said. 'And Mike is My-my.' She glanced at him. 'Luckily he's not called Mick — because that's her word for milk.'
'What's the other one?' Mike mused.
'Banky.'
'That's it.' He nodded. 'Blanket.'
The visitor looked puzzled.
'Blanket,' Sandra helped. 'And outside is ow-sigh. She loves going out.'
Brian next door has an old labrador called Derek. The first time he barked Rosie went completely still. She wasn't frightened — she was listening. Then she wanted to go to him.
Derek is old. You rarely see him anything but asleep. But he perked up when he saw Rosie. She held his ear very gently. The same way she holds Bun.
Then she skipped away, desperate to get to the park.
'Her swing,' Mike laughed.
It's always the last one. If someone else is on it and every other swing is free, she stands beside it and waits. Once she's on, she laughs and can't wait to be pushed — but once she's moving she goes very quiet. Looks out over the fields.
Like she's thinking about something.
When she's had enough she waits for Mike. He runs at her holding the seat, pretending he's going to push her hard. Every time she lets out a real belly laugh.
Every time like it's the first time.
The other place you hear that laugh is behind the curtain.
It's always the same curtain. She tries to be quiet but the moment Sandra and Mike look confused — 'where's Rosie, where has she gone?' — the sniggering starts. That's her cue. She can't help it. And when they find her they have to really react — arms out, genuine shock — or she goes straight back behind. She's like a film director. She knows exactly what she wants.
'We've done that game so many times,' Sandra said. 'She never tires of it.'
She paused.
'I think she needed to know we'd always look for her. Every time. That we'd always notice she was gone.'
Mike nodded. And then — almost to himself —
'I remember the day she arrived. November. Grey. Half two in the afternoon.'
She had on a little red coat. Too big for her. White tights with a hole in the knee. The social worker had her things in a carrier bag. Four items inside.
She didn't look at anyone. She walked straight past them, found the kitchen, and opened the cupboard under the sink.
'We never knew what she was looking for,' Sandra said. 'All the cleaning stuff was in there. I emptied it all, moved everything. It was none of that. We still don't know.'
'I remember the first night so vividly,' Sandra said. 'We both expected her to cry.'
She didn't. She just lay there. You could hear her on the monitor — just awake. Not upset. Like she was listening to the house.
Mike looked up towards the stairs.
'I went in about two in the morning.' His voice was quiet. 'She was just lying there with Bun, looking at the ceiling. I sat on the floor next to the cot. Didn't do anything. Just sat there.'
She was asleep by half three. Mike stayed on the floor until she went off.
He did that for about two weeks.
They both looked at Rosie, who was playing with a toy doll.
'We know her birth mum's name is Claire,' Sandra said. 'That's all we've been told — and that's all we've said. If Rosie asks anything we just say Claire loves you very much but couldn't look after you.'
She paused.
'It's important she knows that Claire loved her. Tried all she could. She gave her as much love as she could — and it was the best parting gift. Because when you hear that laugh, and you see that smile — that's from Claire.'
The room was quiet for a moment.
The visitor asked — when she is eighteen, what would you like her to know?
Mike spoke first.
That we were ready for her. That the room was ready. That we wanted her here.
That My-my sat on the floor in the dark for two weeks so she didn't wake up alone.
That the curtain game never got old. Not once. We always looked for her.
That Bun came with her and we kept him safe. Even though he's disgusting.
That she walked into our house like she owned it. Straight to the cupboard under the sink — we never did find out why — and we thought, right, she'll do. She'll more than do.
And that the swing on the end — the one she always waited for — it's still there. If she ever wants to go back and look out over that field and think about something.