by Casey Watson
The boys gone, Mr Hammond set about pouring me a coffee, from the little refreshments tray that someone had obviously already brought in.
‘What a lovely young boy,’ I said. ‘And such nice manners too.’
Mr Hammond passed me bone china cup and saucer. No mugs around here. My mother’s ‘best’ was the norm, clearly.
‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘If you’d seen him even a year ago, you would never know it was the same lad. He was almost feral when he joined us. And, yes, I do mean that in the most literal sense. He couldn’t sit still for more than a few minutes at a time, spat and lashed out at anyone he felt intimidated by – and that, sadly, was almost everyone – and he spent the first two months doing his school work under a refectory table.’ Mr Hammond laughed then. ‘Something of a challenge in itself, as you can imagine, none of our staff being Lilliputians. There were a number of creaking backs, I can tell you!’
As someone who’d worked for a long time with the most challenging pupils in a comprehensive school, I could readily picture the scene. Sometimes, rather than ‘battle against’, you ‘went with’ – a luxury most mainstream teachers, with their responsibility to teach and nurture upwards of thirty pupils, just didn’t have.
I was lucky. Running my small behaviour unit I had the freedom and the time to ‘go with’, too. But this was ‘going with’ on a whole other level. ‘Unbelievable,’ I said, even though I suspected it really wasn’t – it was just time, care and wisdom; behavioural cause and effect. Oh, if only all of those things could be available to all kids. ‘Are you allowed to tell me what brought him here?’
‘Well, I think I can tell you without breaking any confidences that he was actually found abandoned; he’d been living on the streets for a number of months. Apparently his father, who was a drug dealer, had been sent to prison, and his mother – a heroin addict; night follows day, eh? – chucked him out soon after.
‘He went to a foster family but, as you can imagine, he was a difficult boy to deal with, and as they were new to the game they were struggling to cope. We took him as a boarder from the off – luckily, we had a vacancy – and, well, you’ve had a glimpse at the results.’
I wondered how things might have panned out had the young Miller been transported straight from Neen and Rob’s to here. Very differently, I suspected. And if they’d been given the opportunity to board him somewhere like this so that they could have managed to keep caring from him despite having their twins? Again that sense of life turning on a sixpence was strong.
‘And wow – what results,’ I said. ‘That really is incredible.’
‘Indeed it is,’ he said, ‘though I don’t want you running away with the idea that we are able to perform miracles. It’s just that some boys – we only take boys, as you know – respond particularly well to the clear, unchanging structure we are able to provide. Which is not to say we lack emotion, of course. Just that boundaries are absolute – something else that can be achieved without the usual close-quarters human tendency to fallibility. Though it’s also holistic. Rory returns home to his foster family every weekend and, of course, during the school holidays. It’s working well. It usually does. I imagine you aspire to something similar yourself?’
‘Of course,’ I said. And I said it automatically, because wasn’t that exactly what I did want to see? I gazed out of the window onto the picturesque landscape, and I wondered at the miracles being performed here. Because they did seem like minor miracles to me, whatever Mr Hammond said. Rory had certainly been granted one. Could I picture Miller getting one too? Could it really be that this school, this regime, was going to be the answer? Was I so close to being able to witness everything changing so dramatically for our boy?
And, if that were so, would I feel able to keep him, to commit to caring for him, indefinitely? That was the biggest question. And one to which, as yet, I still had no answer.
***
I’d already been told that two staff members would be joining us to discuss Miller. And, of course, Libby Moran, whose progress across the gravelled entrance area below I was now able to follow.
She looked the part too. Plucked straight out of a historical romance, seeming to float into the building in her green and yellow maxi dress – all that was missing from the tableau was a bonnet. She swept into the room moments later.
‘Oh, isn’t this just wonderful!’ she enthused, as she accepted a glass of water from Mr Hammond. ‘What a lucky little lad he is, to have a chance of getting a place here!’
‘Well, on the face of it, he certainly seems to fit the criteria,’ Mr Hammond said, looking ever so slightly tickled by the vision before him. ‘Please,’ he added, pointing, ‘do have a seat, Miss Moran. Let me introduce everyone so we can get under way.’
The two other staff were the school admissions and special educational needs co-ordinator, a Mrs Grant, and a teacher called Miss Davies, who would be Miller’s head of year. Might, I mentally corrected myself. Not a done deal as yet. Both seemed lovely, and just as I’d seen with Mr Hammond, a sense pride in their school seemed to emanate from their pores – which, as any educator knows, makes a massive difference.
Mr Hammond first explained how the school operated, day-to-day, plus the aspects of the national curriculum it covered, and the results they’d achieved with students over the years. On the face of it, an excellent record.
He then explained something that was further music to my ears. ‘At this school,’ he said, ‘there are no exclusions. Ever. Once we’ve agreed to take a boy, we take them, warts and all. So you will never get a phone call asking you to collect your child from us, no matter how bad or serious the situation. I’m in the fortunate position of having a highly trained staff’ – a glance and smile at the two staff members present – ‘which gives us the expertise to deal with everything internally.’
This was an even more incredible revelation. I’d been on both sides of that particularly distressing equation, so I knew from experience just how much such a policy meant. I felt like Charlie’s granddad must have felt when he was handed the golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory, and even more so when Mrs Grant passed me a folder to read once home. ‘It tells you all about the school hours, the uniform code and so on, as well as listing all the extra-curricular activities we have on offer, all of which are, obviously, free of charge.’
I couldn’t help take a sneak peek as coffees were refreshed. And the first thing I saw jumped right out at me.
A specialist taxi will collect your child at 7.30 a.m., Monday to Friday, and, depending on location, you should expect them back at around 8.30 p.m.. Your child will have all his meals provided, including breakfast and supper, the cost of which is covered by the local authority.
‘Is this right?’ I asked. ‘That Miller will be at school until the evening?’
Mr Hammond nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘That’s right. For day pupils, we run on an extended days model – it’s our alternative to a boarding place here.’
‘Would Miller be eligible for a boarding place at some point?’ I asked. ‘Assuming he’s offered a place, that is,’ I added hopefully.
‘Well, hypothetically, yes,’ Mr Hammond said. ‘Though they are, of course, limited. Once boys become boarders they tend to stay with us till they’re at least sixteen. But don’t be disheartened.’ Was it that obvious? ‘We find the extended days option, which roughly half our pupils are on currently, works extremely well too. As well as giving parents and carers a well-deserved break, obviously, it gets the children into a strict routine right from the start, and gives them the very best chance of settling into our regime.’
A routine. A regime. Control. Would this work for Miller, or would he rail against such discipline from the outset? This was as much a removal of individual freedom as signing up to join the army in the First World War. In any war. He would lose all control. On the other hand, I thought, it might just turn everything on its head. With no way out – no exclusions, Mr Hammond ha
d said, ever – might he give up the fight and embrace this new reality? Might this ‘bubble’ in the countryside prove to be exactly what he wanted – a safe space, well way from the real world? I had no idea. That would take a psychologist to unravel. But, God, I really hoped the latter might be true.
Libby Moran looked as awed as I felt. ‘Wow!’ she said. ‘Casey, this sounds fabulous, doesn’t it? Of course, there is the small matter of getting the little monkey to actually come here.’ She looked at Mr Hammond. ‘He has a tendency to not get into transport, I’m afraid. It’s been a key issue for all his previous carers.’
Mr Hammond nodded. ‘I hear you. But you don’t need to worry. It’s a problem we’re well used to, and we have a strategy for dealing with it, too.’ He paused. ‘I.e. me. There have been many boys who’ve presented the same challenges as does Miller. And when they do, I simply collect them myself. Believe me, they all get fed up of the battle long before I do.’
Was this guy, as Tyler might say, for real? ‘That’s immensely reassuring,’ I said.
He smiled. ‘All part of the service,’ he said. ‘And, having read Miller’s file, and assuming everyone here is of like mind’ – he scanned the room – ‘then I’m happy to tell you there is a place for him here. Only an extended days place for now,’ he said, ‘as we are completely full up with boarders. Though, actually it might be that days will be all he needs. We shall see, won’t we?’
A place for him here. I could have kissed him.
And could have hugged him as well, just for the look on Miller’s face, when he returned minutes later, with Rory.
He was beaming. I’d never seen such an expression on his face. The smirk I knew well. The scowl even better. The contorted-with-anger mask all too well. This was new. This was almost as if a window had opened, and another little boy – the one he might have become, might still become – was peeking excitedly out.
And clearly liking what he was seeing. ‘Casey, they have an actual swimming pool!’ he gushed. ‘And a motorbike track. And they go diving, and surfing –’
‘And a hundred other activities, too,’ Mr Hammond told him. ‘Though, as I’m sure Rory here will have explained to you, they don’t come for free. First you have to earn them. You earn the points, you get the prizes. It’s really that simple.’
He turned back to me and Libby, then. ‘And those prizes are on offer every day, every single day, from 2.30 p.m. onwards.’
Behaviour modification again, then. At its simplest. And also – with the small detail of massive financial investment in young minds and spirits – at it best. Rory nodded his head solemnly, arms held behind his back like a little soldier, ‘I did, sir. I explained it all, dead clear.’
Mr Hammond patted the boy gently on his shoulder. ‘Good lad. I knew I could count on you. Now back to class, and no messing around in Chemistry today, okay?’
‘You got it, sir,’ Rory said. Then he turned to us all and actually performed a little bow. ‘A pleasure to meet you,’ he said, then turned to Miller. ‘And you. Might see you in my class in a few days.’
He then turned and left, leaving me almost open-mouthed. Yes, it seemed a bit Dickensian, but perhaps that was the key to it. If Rory was illustrative of the way things panned out here, it was clearly having the desired effect.
Mr Hammond watched him go. ‘So,’ he said, all his attention on Miller, ‘I gather you like what you’ve seen today?’
Again, that small straightening of the back. That slight standing to attention. It was almost as if Miller was under some sort of spell. He nodded. ‘Yes, I do,’ he said.
‘Excellent,’ Mr Hammond said. ‘So, in that case, transport permitting, I shall expect to be seeing you next Monday, Miller. Mrs Watson can take you to the stores before you leave, have you measured up and collect a uniform for you.’
‘Monday?’ Libby asked. ‘Isn’t that a little close to the summer holidays? Wouldn’t it be more practical for him to begin here at the start of the autumn term? I’m thinking it’s a lot for him to cope with, what with already having moved carers. And I’ve already made some plans for Miller over the next couple of weeks, so … ’
What was she saying? I could have happily slapped her, but luckily Mr Hammond was the firm voice of reason.
‘No,’ he said immediately. ‘If Miller’s keen, which he seems to be, we’d prefer him to start immediately. Round here, we’re great believers in momentum. It will also give Miller a chance to get to know his peers, and when he returns in September, he’ll already know his way around. Be on the same start-line as everyone else.’
‘Oh,’ Libby said. What was wrong with the woman? Ah, perhaps the fact that she didn’t have to live with Miller, day in, day out … ‘Well, yes, that’s fine, then. Well, as long as you’re okay with that, Miller?’
Miller rolled his eyes. ‘I just said I was, didn’t I?’
Some things didn’t change then. At least not immediately. But as Libby was irritating me too at that point, I just raised a discreet warning eyebrow. Then caught Mr Hammond’s eye. There was a half-smile on his lips. We were obviously already singing from the same hymn sheet.
And long may that state of affairs continue, I thought, as we said our goodbyes and trooped off to fetch an over-excited Tyler, and collect the various components of Miller’s new uniform. Because it wasn’t only Miller who was currently in a bubble.
I was, too. And, however grand and big and rainbow-hued this one was, I also knew how easily bubbles could burst.
Chapter 15
I was right to be anxious about that bubble of mine. Because it didn’t take long – not even twenty-four hours, in fact – for its fragile walls to start quivering under the strain of it all.
We’d returned in high spirits, even if mine were necessarily tempered by my determination not to count too many chickens, Tyler-fed or otherwise. There was even a little normal family conversation over dinner, when Mike had enquired about how the visit went and Miller had answered his questions with what looked like genuine enthusiasm.
‘Glimmer of hope?’ he’d asked at bedtime. I’d really hoped so.
But here we were, the next morning, which was a wonderful summer morning, and Miller had yet to emerge from his room.
Tyler had been up early again, because he had a college open morning – he was off to enrol on a course for September. And it had obviously gone well, because when he returned home just before noon, he was full of it.
‘So I chose the sports management course in the end. You know, the same one that Kieron did? It looks ace. And there’s even a work placement you go on as part of the course. Like, at an actual proper football club. How cool is that?’
I agreed that it was very cool. And also his assertion that, once he’d finished, he might even have a realistic hope of a career as a professional football coach. ‘Or even a football manager,’ he said, with predictable reverence. Just like his dad, he was football obsessed. And, seeing his face, and his enthusiasm, and his motivation to succeed, it was the kind of obsession I very much approved of.
‘So where’s Miller?’ he asked. ‘I thought he might like a kick-about.’
‘Three guesses,’ I answered.
‘God, what’s he like?’ he said, pinching a cherry tomato from the salad bowl I was busy assembling.
‘Like a boy who very much needs to be in school again,’ I told him. ‘As in “now wouldn’t be soon enough”,’ I added wryly.
‘You know, I was wondering,’ Tyler said. ‘You know, if he was telling the truth yesterday.’
‘About what?’
‘About the bath thing.’
I was lost now. ‘What bath thing?’
‘You know, the bath thing he was talking about.’
‘When?’
‘Mum, in the car yesterday? You know. When we were on our way to the school. Remember?’ I confessed I didn’t. ‘Yeah, you do,’ Tyler said. ‘When he was talking about the best ways to commit suicide and make it look like it w
as murder.’
I scooped up slices of cucumber and threw them into the salad bowl. ‘You have completely lost me, love,’ I said. ‘In the car? I don’t remember.’
‘Weren’t you listening?’
‘I must have zoned out, sorry. What was he saying?’
‘It was when he was saying how you might want to kill yourself and blame someone else for it. You know that thing where he breaks off and starts talking about something else entirely?’ All too well, I thought. We all did. And, as well … And, as well … ‘It was when he was talking about how if you’re right handed you should use your left hand to slash yourself, so the coroner would think someone else kills you. He was suddenly, like, “and, as well …” You know that way he always says that? And he started saying about how – this was back when he was a baby – his dad held him under the bathwater till he passed out. He said he did it lots of times. D’you reckon he really did? I mean people don’t remember things that happened to them as babies, do they?’
How did I miss something that might be so significant? ‘Not generally,’ I agreed, feeling guilty now. ‘Did you ask him?’
‘Yeah, course. He said he knew because he heard his dad and granny laughing about having done it. D’you think he might be telling the truth?’
Granny. I’d not heard about a granny before. I was sure of it. ‘He might well be,’ I said. ‘Did he say anything else?
Tyler pinched another tomato. ‘No. That was it. He was off then about Kim Jong-un again, and what a clever bloke he is. I just wondered, because I was talking to Denver about it this morning. And we were wondering if that might have made him brain damaged, or something.’
There was a long list of potential things that might have damaged Miller’s brain. If not physically, at least psychologically. But this was new. New and horrible. And though Miller’s flights of conversational fancy were often exactly that – flights – this definitely held a kernel of authenticity. ‘Might be something, I guess,’ I said. ‘The notes are all a bit vague about his very early life, but I’ll try talking to him about it next time he appears to be in an opening-up mood. Thanks, love. Speaking of which, lunch will be ready soon, so why don’t you see if you can winkle him out for me?’
