Hart - Terrified: the heartbreaking true story of a girl nobody loved and the woman who saved her

Shall we have a Chinese tonight? I said to my husband, Jonathan.

Definitely, he replied. I think weve earned it

It was 5.20 p.m. on a balmy Friday evening in July 1989 and we were shutting up our florist shop. As usual it had been an exhausting week and it wasnt over yet; Saturday was always our busiest day.

Perhaps we could rent a video? I said as I swept the floor and pulled down the shutters. What would we all like, do you think?

As Jonathan listed a few of the recent releases, like A Fish Called Wanda and My Stepmother Is An Alien, the phone rang. It was Tricia, the social worker wed dealt with ever since we started fostering two years earlier.

Hi Angela, sorry to call you on a Friday evening, but I wondered if youd be interested in taking in a girl of thirteen?

When were you thinking?

Tonight, actually. Just a short-term placement. Shes been living with her sister, but the sister needs a break, because shes heavily pregnant. I thought of you because youre doing so well with Michelle.

Michelle had recently turned fourteen and had been with us for two years. She was a quiet, sweet-natured girl who was always very welcoming to other children who came to us for short stays. It was nice of Tricia to acknowledge our success with Michelle, and I felt my energy levels lift as I asked the social worker to hold the line for a moment while I swiftly relayed the request to Jonathan. He smiled instantly, and I knew he felt the same way as I did, and was more than happy to help.

Jonathan and I had been together for sixteen years, since meeting in our teens in the early seventies, and for as long as I can remember we have had an almost telepathic understanding of one another. We swapped animated glances, and I told Tricia wed be delighted to accept the placement.

Fantastic! Thanks, Angela. Well be with you within the hour, if thats all right. Shes with me at the office now. Her names Vicky.

I had a spring in my step as I finished lifting the flowers into the cold storage room at the back of the shop. In the relatively short time wed been fostering Id come to know this feeling quite well. Waiting to meet a new foster child is always very exciting and nerve-racking.

We lived in a large town house attached to the shop, with three bedrooms and a bathroom on the top floor, the lounge and our bedroom and bathroom on the middle floor, and the kitchen and dining room sharing the extended lower floor with the shop. This meant I had enough time to quickly nip up to my bedroom to get changed, tell Michelle about Vickys imminent arrival and then open the windows in the bigger of our two spare bedrooms at the top of the house. As the room aired, Michelle offered to help me put fresh covers on the bed, choosing a pink and white duvet set with candy canes on that had just been washed. It was Michelles favourite bedding; she loved anything pretty and pink.

I think Vicky will like her room, Michelle said, looking round approvingly. Sunlight was beaming through the window, reflecting dancing squares of light off the shiny lampshade and onto the freshly painted white walls. Do you think shell be into Whitney Houston?

I dont think shell have any choice, will she? I smiled.

Michelle blushed. She seemed younger than her years and was a naturally shy girl, but she loved music and wed had one or two run-ins about the volume dial on her stereo, particularly when she blasted out her all-time favourite, Whitneys So Emotional!

We had no set house rules in those days; now, with nearly thirty years of fostering experience under our belts, we have a list of rules designed to work in everybodys favour, but back then it was a case of using our common sense and tackling issues as best we could, as and when they came along. With Michelles music, wed mutually agreed that she had to keep the volume at number six or below on the dial. It was easy to reason with her, and in many ways wed struck lucky having Michelle as our first placement.

Lulled into a false sense of security, more like! Jonathan used to joke, and thats not far from the truth. Michelle was incredibly willing to please and hardly ever challenged us.

Can I help? was typically the first thing she said to me when I came through to the kitchen from the shop after work to set about preparing the dinner Well yes, that would be great. Now let me see...

Michelle would invariably pick up the potato peeler or begin to put dishes away off the draining board before Id even finished my sentence.

Are you doing anything later, Michelle? Id often ask, though the answer was usually the same each night.

Not really, shed shrug. Ive already done my homework. Do you want to watch telly later?

Id love to, sweetheart, I nearly always replied.

Michelle had a small but close circle of school pals who were all as polite and unassuming as she was, though she rarely went out. The two of us enjoyed watching the soaps together, and we had been glued recently to a Coronation Street storyline involving Rita Faircloughs foster daughter Jenny Bradley, whose father, Alan, had been killed by a tram in Blackpool.

It must be terrible for poor Jenny, losing her dad like that, Michelle had commented.

The plot had struck a chord with both of us. The teenage characters father had let her down in so many ways and had even tried to kill Rita but, just as Michelle behaved with her own dad, Jenny was very loyal to Alan and supported him unconditionally. Michelles father didnt live very far away and she saw him two or three times a week. He had behaved very irresponsibly in the past and now refused to have his daughter living with him, but Michelle was very forgiving and never critical.

I wonder if Vicky is into the soaps? she said cheerfully as we finished making the bed. I hope so!

Before I had chance to reply we were interrupted by Jonathan calling up from the kitchen.

Theyre here! he yelled, his voice sounding surprisingly urgent.

That was quick! I said.

Yes it was! I think Ill wait up here for a bit, Michelle replied.

With that she scampered off to her bedroom along the landing, while I ran down the two flights of stairs to the ground floor as quickly as possible. I found Jonathan rooted to the spot and staring out of the kitchen window, with a horrified expression on his face.

Oh my God! he said. Look out there!

I followed his gaze and saw two figures in the distance, walking down the public passageway that ran adjacent to the left hand side of our house. One was clearly Tricia; you couldnt mistake her mass of dark, permed hair and curvaceous figure. The other had to be Vicky.

Oh my God! I said, eyes darting back to Jonathan. What have we done?

Vicky was dressed in a dark purple tracksuit that looked three sizes too big, but what was really alarming was the way she walked. You could barely describe it as a walk, to tell the truth. She swaggered like a willowy, blonde version of Mr T in The A Team.

I guess I had imagined Vicky would be just like the five other foster children whod come to us on short-term placements over the past couple of years. Without exception they arrived for their few days or week or two of short-term care, or respite care as its known, looking rather timid, dressed inconspicuously in a pair of jeans or jogging bottoms, and nervously clutching a small bag.

Vicky did have a bag in her hand a supermarket carrier bag but she wasnt clinging to her possessions for dear life like most kids did. No, Vickys carrier bag was swinging wildly from side to side, keeping time with her exaggerated swagger.