A Boy Without Hope

by Casey Watson

  I placed my arm round Tyler’s shoulders. I could feel that he was shaking. ‘Calm down, love,’ I said. ‘He’s just trying to push our buttons. And we can pull this back again if we refuse to let him. I know you’re angry – I am too – but if either of us lose control too, we’re playing right into his hands. Because that’s what it’s all about – him trying to control a situation that’s out of his control, and in the only way he knows how. He doesn’t want to go to that school – he doesn’t want to go to any school – and he knows from experience that if he creates a huge drama, then there’s a good chance any plans will go out of the window. Which means he gets to stay put. Which is the last thing he needs. Or really wants, for that matter. Not deep down. So we have to try show him a different way somehow. At least show him that his tantrums – his attempts to manipulate us – won’t work.’

  ‘Mum, I know that,’ Tyler said. ‘I understand what you’re saying. But how the hell do you manage not to throttle him when he speaks to you like that? Honestly, I could swing for the little … God, he’s just so … Grrr!’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘And I feel the same as you do. But I’m not sure I’m allowed to throttle young children in my care. Though I’ll double check the manual if you like, just to be sure. You never know – they might have updated it, mightn’t they?’

  Tyler at least managed a grim smile. ‘I know that as well, Mum. It’s just, God, he’s so desperate to get that reaction. And the nicer you are to him the more he pushes you, every single time. How do you deal with that?’

  Hmm, I thought. As of this moment? Hand on heart? Total truth? Pretty badly.

  ***

  But it seemed my strategy – to leave Miller to stew while I counselled Tyler and tidied the kitchen – was going to bear fruit. When I put my head round the living room door twenty minutes later, and told him it was now time to leave, I didn’t get so much as a peep of protest in response. No, he didn’t exactly leap up in a state of excited anticipation, but he did, thank goodness, follow the pair of us out to the car. Indeed, his only protest was a silent one, in that he wouldn’t properly put on his trainers; just slopped out with them untied and squashed down at the back, under his heels. Okay, I thought. Leave it. Let him score that small point. Because actually getting him into the car – and with the child lock deployed – was by far the biggest, most important one.

  As per our plan, though Tyler would normally sit up front with me, he dutifully climbed into the back with a surprised Miller, all the better to enthuse, one-on-one, about the coming school visit.

  Though, almost from the off, he had a hard time getting a word in. As had happened before, there was something about being in a car that seemed to set Miller off on his endless rambling chain of random questions. Though, today, it was more a monologue, and there was a definite ‘disaster’ theme. Floods, train wrecks, fires, earthquakes, bombs and plane crashes – in fact anything that was likely to produce casualties.

  He was also animated to a point that was extreme, even for him, claiming among other things that if you paused your computer and enlarged the screen you could actually see the different shades of blood on dead or maimed people, and if you looked at mass shootings in war-torn areas you could often spot limbs that had been blown off by bombs. The chatter was endless, one subject rolling straight into another, almost as though he were reading it from a script or report. And with barely a breath in between.

  With a sat nav to follow to an unknown destination, I managed, of necessity as much as anything, to tune out from time to time. Poor Tyler, on the other hand, had no such respite, and, not for the first time since Mike had gone to work that morning, I was all too aware of his concerns – should I really be roping Tyler into all this?

  Not that Miller was much interested in having a two-way conversation. Yes, there was the odd ‘do you see?’, or ‘don’t you think?’, but, for the most part, he preferred to answer his own questions, and when Tyler did try to interject, he simply carried on talking over him. I remembered a snippet I’d seen in his file – that more than one set of foster carers had reported the same thing. That, owing to the danger his constant chattering and seat-yanking presented, several taxi drivers had refused to be his driver. In one case, the council had even paid for an escort, for the driver’s safety. Not to mention his sanity, I suspected.

  It was, therefore, a very long, tiresome journey. So I don’t think I’d ever been so pleased to hear the sat nav lady announce that ‘you have arrived at your destination’. And I’m pretty sure Tyler felt the same. Far from having an opportunity to enthuse to Miller about the school, he’d had a masterclass in the finer points of battlefield trauma, extreme first aid and lower-limb amputation.

  Happily, though, the school needed no bigging up. Because it looked not so much a school as a huge stately home. And as we swept up to the enormous gates – ‘swept’ being the only word to choose – we had an eye-popping view of a jaw-dropping place. And though Miller couldn’t bring himself to show any interest, Tyler and I went ‘Woweeee!’ in unison.

  Because it really was a magical-looking place. Beyond the gates, the school itself was at the end of a lengthy drive flanked by emerald grass, but as we drove up it there was so much else to see as well. I spotted huge flower beds, rows of trees, a pond, then another, larger pond. I could see areas that were fenced off and where it looked like they grew fruit and vegetables, and, adjacent to those, even chickens!

  What thrilled me even more, though, was an area I spotted in the distance, where a large stand of trees, like a forest in miniature, was accessorised by ropes, swings and climbing frames – even treehouses. Surely this was every child’s dream?

  Forget our carefully planned programme of Tyler acting all excited – he was genuinely gobsmacked by what he was seeing.

  ‘Oh, my God, Miller, look!’ he was saying, pointing out each new wonder as we passed it. ‘Oh my God, just how lucky are you? God, I’d have given anything to go to a school like this. Seriously.’

  Miller, however, was now, finally, silent. Was he as awed by what he was seeing as we were? As I pulled into the visitors’ parking area, my wheels crunching on the pale gravel, I took the opportunity to check on his reaction. And what I saw there was plain. It was terror.

  I don’t mind admitting that it caught me off balance. And it shouldn’t have. Of course he’d be scared. But it was so at odds with the way he’d been both before and on the journey, that, at least for a moment, it caught me off-guard.

  But it was only for a moment. Of course he was fearful. What, for Tyler and I, was a Hogwarts-style palace of adventures was, for him, the first sighting of a step into the unknown. Potentially, the start of another nightmare. So of course he would be afraid. He’d been shunted around from place to place all his life, never knowing why, never knowing when, never knowing where. Never having the chance to get settled in anywhere, before being moved on again, chucked out, or (I didn’t doubt) shunned by the other kids. And I suspected that his principal thought at that moment was how he could control things to ensure it would soon all be over. That he could get back to his small world, his safe world – the one he controlled. With his computer games, and solitude, and routines, and certainty. With no one telling him what to do, where to go, what to be.

  Because that was surely the most important thing about Miller. That even he didn’t know what that should be.

  But here, right in front of us, was a real shot at helping him do that. A school that, from what I’d heard and read, could offer him the opportunity of becoming the best Miller he could be. Well, only if he’d open up and let them help him. I leaned into the back and squeezed his arm. And, to my astonishment, he let me. ‘Don’t worry, kiddo,’ I said. ‘I’m going to be with you all the way. Everything will be okay, I promise.’

  Because it had to be. There were precious few shots left.

  Chapter 14

  After security had taken us through a small reception area, we emerged into a grand hal
l. It was oak-panelled, and in the centre was an enormous chandelier; it had several rooms leading off it. The man who greeted us (no less imposing – so very obviously the headmaster) introduced himself as Mark Hammond.

  He smiled and shook my hand. Then Tyler’s. Then Miller’s. ‘Welcome to our humble abode,’ he boomed as he led us to a room off to the right. ‘I’ve been head here for just over ten years now,’ he added conversationally, ‘and by the time you’ve seen the whole place I hope you’ll understand just why I’m so proud of this school. And, of course, who wouldn’t want to work in these beautiful surroundings?’

  He swept his arm around the room we were currently entering. ‘This is the library,’ he said as I took it all in; luxurious leather Chesterfields, set on deep patterned rugs and surrounded by walls of towering book cases. ‘The boys here enjoy a minimum of an hour a day in here, reading –’ He grinned at Tyler. ‘Obviously quietly. Though it’s so relaxing and peaceful here that they often stay longer. Which we don’t mind at all,’ he added. ‘Indeed, it’s a matter of some pride that many parents feed back to us that being here has resulted in their boys reading the first entire book of their lives. Do you read, Miller?’ he then asked.

  ‘A bit,’ Miller mumbled.

  Mr Hammond placed a hand on his shoulder, as if knighting him. ‘Well, then, I’ll consider it my personal mission to change that to “a lot”. Anyway, come along, everyone. Let’s get on with the tour.’

  And tour it was. Mr Hammond marched us along a dizzying array of corridors, up staircases, down stairwells, along various landings. You could get lost here, I thought. And not be found for days. I hoped that wouldn’t end up being the case with Miller.

  But I knew I mustn’t get ahead of myself – he didn’t even have a place yet. For all Mr Hammond’s bonhomie, and regular use of the term ‘when you’, rather than ‘if you’, I knew this wasn’t a done deal quite yet.

  Oh, but, if he did get a place, what a place for him to be. Every wall was adorned with huge framed historical pictures, each of which (we were told, via the ongoing commentary) had been crafted by both alumni and local artists, many of them going back generations. And it did feel as if we’d stepped back in time; reliving a golden age in this magnificent building, which seemed more like a grand museum than a school. In fact, the only thing that gave the game away that this was a place of education were the many, many photographs of smartly dressed boys, singly and in groups, receiving various awards. For sporting achievements, or for work in the community, or for making outstanding contributions to this subject or that subject. The very quantity of them was incredible in itself. My old inner-city comp this was definitely not.

  I kept glancing at Miller, to make sure he wasn’t too overwhelmed, and was pleased to see Tyler, who was walking alongside him, pointing out various noticeboards, and photographs, and art works, and rolls of honour, and once again appearing to be genuinely awed by the majesty and history of the place.

  Even the day’s menu for the school canteen was a curlicued poster set in a golden frame.

  ‘Breakfast, lunch, dinner and supper!’ Tyler declared. ‘As if! Have you read it, Mum? It’s like a menu in a fancy restaurant.’

  Mr Hammond, just ahead of us, turned and nodded towards it. ‘Ah, you’ve seen the menu, have you? Yes, the boys all eat well here. Tell you what, perhaps we’ll take a detour through the dining room, so I can show Master Green where he’ll be taking his meals.’

  Master Green? I think we all gaped at that.

  The dining area was, of course, just as impressive as the rest of the school. Forget the usual school stereotype of rows and rows of Formica tables and chairs. No sir-ee, this was like stepping into a Georgian tea room. Here were half a dozen circular tables, all of them covered by snowy table cloths – tablecloths! – and each was encircled by eight high-backed, burgundy velvet-covered chairs. They were already set for lunch – fancy glassware, polished cutlery – and would have looked just as at home at a wedding reception. Now it was me who was gobsmacked. This was a school for boys. Boys with behavioural problems. Who dined here daily, as if undergraduates at Oxbridge. How on earth did that work? I was floored, and on all sorts of levels.

  And on we went – from the dining room, via two sets of stairs and another thickly carpeted corridor, to arrive eventually at a sizeable panelled wooden door.

  Mr Hammond opened it. ‘Do come in,’ he said, ‘and, ah, good, you’re already here, Tom.’ At which, a lad of around sixteen or seventeen, who’d been sitting by an enormous desk (not behind it), stood up – almost to attention – and smoothed down his hair.

  ‘All ready to go, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Good,’ said Mr Hammond. ‘So, Tyler, I’m going to leave you in Tom’s capable hands now, if that’s okay?’

  The boy grinned. ‘And you drew the short straw, I’m afraid. You get to help me go out and feed the horses.’

  Tyler obviously wasn’t allowed to sit in on our meeting – nor, indeed, was Miller, not for this bit – and I’d envisaged both boys being shepherded off somewhere quiet to wait – perhaps the cavernous library we’d started off in. But, once again, this school had surprised me. As short straws went, this was possibly even contravening the trade descriptions act. Was there anything not to love about this place?

  ‘Cool,’ Tyler said. ‘I love horses.’

  Tom stuck a thumb up. ‘And how d’you feel about chickens?’ he asked. ‘Because we’re feeding them as well.’ I heard Tyler chuckle, and I smiled – I don’t think either of us would have been surprised if they were going to feed the school unicorns as well.

  With Tyler gone, though, Miller’s angst seemed to notch up a level. He’d been quietly taking everything in as we’d wandered round the building, but I could now see the same unfocussed agitation on his face that had been evident when he very first came to us; as if he was retreating into a fug of anxiety, presumably wondering what was now in store for him too. He was looking so agitated, in fact, that I began to worry that he might go the whole hog and unleash his dinosaur impression.

  I sensed Mr Hammond had seen his agitation too. ‘And you, sir,’ he told Miller, ‘are having your own personal tour now. And with your own personal tour guide, as well. So you can explore the place properly while we go through all the boring stuff. Then you can rejoin us to tie everything up. Does that sound okay to you?’

  Miller’s expression while being addressed had been one of darting-eyed discomfort. But there must have been something special in the headmaster’s tone, because Miller looked him in the eye now – and did I imagine it, or did he also straighten a little? – and said, ‘Yes. Sounds okay,’ and then, even, ‘Thank you.’

  Yes, I thought. There is definitely something good happening here.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Mr Hammond. ‘Good man. Ah,’ he added, glancing behind Miller, ‘Rory, are you out there? Come along in and meet Miller.’

  There was a knock at the door then, which was already ajar, and a small boy, another pupil, came in. He was impeccably dressed; smart grey suit, black and red tie, polished shoes. He was also tiny – tinier than Miller – looking around ten or eleven, so I was surprised when Mr Hammond told us that he had just turned thirteen and had been at the school for a year and a half. ‘And making excellent progress, too. Isn’t that right, Rory?’ The boy nodded. ‘Which is why Rory’s been selected to show you round today, Miller. He’ll be taking you around all the classrooms so you can meet some of the teachers, as well as giving you the proper lowdown on all the things pupils get to do here when not in class. Which I’m sure will be the thing you’re most keen to find out, eh? Right, young man,’ he said, turning once again to Miller’s diminutive escort, ‘off you both go, and no calling into cook’s room to beg a biscuit, okay?’

  The little boy smiled. And I suspected that the exchange I’d just heard was code for do go into cook’s room, and do blag a biscuit. Things couldn’t get any better than this, surely? It was as if our hour’s drive hadn�
�t so much taken us into the country – it was as if we’d landed in another country altogether. No, more than that. In a parallel universe.

  Because it seemed incredible, at least to me, that such a place even existed. Yes, I’d had dealings with special schools before. Had had a couple of the children we’d fostered attending them as well – in one case, a child who fitted into one so well that he was the first to suggest he move in and live out his childhood there, lock, stock and barrel. But I’d never seen anywhere like this. I knew that it had been originally been founded by a very wealthy individual; a traditional philanthropist. Someone who’d either inherited or made a fortune and wanted to do something worthwhile with it. Which was amazing in itself, but even more amazing to my mind was that it was now being funded partly by the public purse. And at thousands of pounds per week, per child, it needed to be an extremely big one.

  I generally tried to avoid getting involved in politics, particularly where the allocation of public money was concerned – partly because I didn’t feel qualified to discuss such complicated matters and partly because dabbling in amateur philosophy wasn’t a hobby of mine anyway. I preferred to stick to my own little sphere of influence. To deal in the here and now of the individual children in Mike’s and my care and leave the ‘bigger picture’ stuff to those whose job it was to debate it.

  But it didn’t take a maths degree to look past the cost of this kind of facility to the cost – financial and social – of another profoundly damaged child ending up as an equally damaged adult. Because damaged adults not only had the capacity to damage themselves further, in terms of poor relationship choices, drug and alcohol abuse, pretty crime and so on – they also had the power to damage those around them. Not least the next generation. How many of the children we had fostered been born to and parented by people who’d come from similar disadvantaged circumstances? In one way or another, almost all of them. The ripples in such situations spread widely. So, actually, the potential benefits of such interventions far outweighed the immediate costs. And given the way Miller was going, after years ‘in the system’, it had never seemed truer.