She gave a small shrug, unwilling to express the self-doubt or the self-knowledge that had given rise to her question, and said instead, obliquely, ‘I’m still my parents’ child.’
There was a moment’s pause, and then Blake asked her softly, ‘Are you? Somehow I don’t think so. I would have said that now you’re very much your own woman.’
His compliment, so unexpected and so unlooked for, caught Philippa off guard; she could feel her skin starting to heat and she was probably gaping at him like a raw adolescent, she told herself fiercely as she willed her body heat to subside and turned her head away from him.
Very much her own woman; they were words to be treasured and savoured, bright stars lighting the darkness of her own voyage of self-discovery, and would have been no matter who had given them to her; but to have received them from Blake of all people.
Be careful, she warned herself… Be very, very careful.
* * *
The outskirts of Leeds were similar to those of any other large industrial city, the block of flats where Anya was staying depressingly familiar.
How could any child thrive, living in such surroundings? Philippa wondered sadly. It was like planting flowers where they would be deprived of sunlight.
The flat where Anya was staying was halfway up one of the larger blocks; the lifts were out of order so Philippa and Blake had to walk.
She would have felt very uneasy about using these stairs on her own, Philippa acknowledged as she carefully avoided any eye-contact with the silent group of youths gathered together on one of the landings, and she was a healthy, relatively young woman. How must it feel to be old and alone, living in one of these places?
It was Anya herself who opened the door to them. Her skin, which Philippa suspected would have gleamed warm honey-gold in a warmer climate, looked sallow, clinging to the thin bones of her face and body, and her huge brown eyes watched them in silence as they entered the small flat.
The clothes she was wearing were too small and shabby.
It wasn’t so much that she looked undernourished, Philippa recognised, rather than that she looked underloved.
A huge rush of emotion seized her, a need to take hold of Anya’s thin body and hold her protectively in her arms, but Philippa sensibly resisted it. To overwhelm Anya with unfamiliar and probably unwanted physical affection would be the worst possible thing she could do. Her needs were not the ones that were paramount—Anya’s were.
There were two other people in the small cramped sitting-room—an older grey-haired woman, who Philippa guessed was the foster mother the council had had looking after Anya since her parents’ death, and a younger woman who quickly introduced herself as Anya’s social worker.
It was obvious from the slight stiffness in her manner towards Blake that she did not totally approve of the situation. Her manner towards her was slightly warmer, Philippa recognised, and she mentally applauded the girl’s professionalism in putting her responsibility towards Anya before her own personal reactions.
While she listened to her and responded to her questions, Philippa watched Anya, aware that despite her physical withdrawal from the adults discussing her future she was fully aware of what was going on.
Philippa’s heart went out to her. She knew all too well how it felt to have other people in control of your life, to feel powerless to have any say
in the decisions they were making.
‘Has anyone asked Anya what she would prefer to do?’ she asked quietly when the social worker had finished speaking.
Immediately the younger woman bridled resentfully, ‘Of course,’ she told Philippa crisply. ‘Naturally. It is always the child’s needs that are of paramount importance…’
When it was time to leave, Anya did so in an apathetic silence which caught at Philippa’s heart. The social worker walked with them to the car. She was so plainly determined not to be impressed by Blake that Philippa had to hide her amusement.
‘It’s all right for you,’ Blake muttered to her as the other woman left them. ‘You’re not a potential child molester.’
‘It’s their job to be concerned…’ Philippa pointed out quietly,
‘Yes, I know,’ Blake agreed as he placed Anya’s suitcase in the back of the estate car. ‘But it still isn’t…’ He shook his head and added feelingly, ‘God, I’d hate to be a parent, a father caught up in an alleged abuse case…’
‘Yes,’ Philippa agreed with a small shiver. There were worse things than being an emotionally absent father as Andrew had been; far, far worse.
Anya looked surprised when Philippa got in the back of the car with her, but she didn’t, as Philippa had half expected her to do, retreat into the far corner, putting as much physical distance between them as she could.
‘We’ll have to stop somewhere for lunch,’ Philippa warned Blake as he started the car.
‘What kind of things do you like to eat, Anya?’ he asked as he drove off.
Silence. A small, anxious frown pleated the sallow forehead.