He raised his eyebrows, nodded. I stirred my coffee. “The terminology’s different now, I think,” I said.
“They call young people in care ‘looked after.’ But every child should be ‘looked after’... it really ought to be the default.”
I heard myself sounding angry and sad. No one likes hearing themselves sound like that.
If someone said, Please could you describe yourself in two words, and you said, “Erm... let me see... Angry and Sad?”
then that really wouldn’t be good. Raymond had reached out then and, very gently, he squeezed my shoulder.
It was superficially ineffectual, but, in fact, felt surprisingly pleasant.
“Do you want me to find out what she did?” he said. “I bet I could, quite easily. The magic of the Interweb, hey?”
“No thank you,” I said curtly. “I’m more than capable of finding out myself, should I ever wish to.
You’re not the only person who knows how to use a computer, you know,” I said.
His face went very pink. “And in any case,” I went on, “as you so thoughtfully pointed out, it must have been something fairly horrendous.
Don’t forget, I still have to talk to her once a week—it’s hard enough as it is.
It will be completely impossible if I know that she’s done... whatever it is that she’s done.”
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