The Looked After Child

phil and fran

I felt like I was always trying to please Phil and fran, which was a useless idea but I tried none the less. Phil was okay, he was firm but he didn't shout he just quietly told you how disappointed he was, that everything was a slap in the face or a kick in the teeth. Fran on the other hand was bat shit crazy. When she got angry her voice would go all shrilly and she would shake her hair, the yellow blonde fizzing. Me and Annie always joked she looked like the scarecrow from the wizard of oz. I don't think she ever liked me that much I was too old, nearly fourteen when I arrived. Too old to mould. She attacked Annie like a leech moulding her to her vision of a perfect child determined to have a real life doll. Fran only really ever bothered me when it came to school work. My education was serious . I had to get good grades. Otherwise I'd waste my life cleaning toilets and claiming benefits like a scrounger. I think she said that because my mum is a cleaner. Phil often had to tell fran to calm down when her hair was pointing out at the ends like she had been electrocuted. Fran he would say in that tone that had her shaking her head and aggressively stroking her dogs head till its eye lids pulled away from its sockets. They voiced their disappointment at everything I did. Me and my sister were to clean our rooms every Friday top to bottom dusting and polishing included. Phil would then come in and run on singular finger across the tv or the top of the door. Sometimes he would voice his mild disgust and tell me to do better others he would make a strangled sort of noise in the back of his throat and leave the room, his feet stomping down the stairs.
Disappointing them was always an exhausting endeavor. We usually argued about being late home myy curfew was nine o clock sometimes I didn't get back till nine thirty. Phil would use phrases like it's not on and remem er you are a guest in our house. Sometime I thought they might actually care, like when I'd come home from college and they'd ask how my day was and who I was going out with. They only asked to add notes to their files, a diary they had to write in everyday for their job responsibilities. It was always there hovering above me when I stepped out of their line. I was their guest here. Their job. A case. Their care was conditional on terms that benefitted them. Holidays were the worst they would gather around and their children and grandchildren would be smiling and laughing I'd find myself tucked in the back of the room in a corner with people backs to see as laughter filtered over to me. They'd pass inside jokes and looks only they could read. I could dissappear in those moments and no one would notice it even care. Ironic if you ask me since we are called care kids. They couldn't care less. Social workers spinning around on a revolving door. I can't even remember all of their names now. When they visited to ask how school was and if I was happy, any thoughts of hurting myself it was all ticking boxes as they scribbled down on paper and nodded sympathetically.