Chapter fourteen
Lammerton Home for Boys
January 1997
Harrison
“This will be your room, Harry,” says the woman who looks terrifyingly like the teacher from the storybook Matilda.
She’s a large lady with scraped-back black hair in a bun.
Her features are strong, her nose slightly too large for her face.
She’s wearing a dark gray jacket that is so tight the buttons have popped open three times since I arrived.
The white shirt underneath is pristine, the collar standing tall at her neck.
She places a heavily booted foot into the tiny bedroom in front of us and signals for me to follow her.
“Come on, don’t be shy. This is your bedroom. Your own space.”
I walk forward as she stands at the door, holding it open.
As I peer around the corner, I expect someone to jump out and surprise me.
That was a common occurrence at the last boy’s home I was in.
Inside, there is a single bed with a light blue blanket, a chest of drawers, and a table with a lamp.
I notice the gray shade sits canted, obviously broken.
All the walls are white—there are no pictures or designs.
One small window looks out into the English garden below filled with rosebushes and trees.
Over the past twelve months since being found in the ditch, I’ve stayed in two foster homes and one boy’s home. None of them were a suitable fit for me; seemingly, I need extra support. That’s what the grown-ups say. I wish other children would stop yanking my chain.
The last straw with the Reynolds Family was when I threw their son, James, in the garden pond.
He stole the biscuit I was eating from between my fingers as I sat on the swing, enjoying the spring sunshine.
Ever since I’d arrived at the house, he had been hassling me, teasing me about being the boy who was found in a ditch.
After three weeks of torment, I snapped.
As he’d walked away munching on my snack, I ran up behind him and pushed him straight into their custom-made pond with exotic fish.
Social services collected me that evening.
“Now, Harry,” the woman says, snapping me from my memory.
I raise my eyes to hers. She did tell me her name, but I can’t remember.
Possibly I don’t even want to. No doubt this will be a short-lived placement too.
Each day that passes, my anger grows. My mum has left me on my own in a scary world.
No one wants me. No one loves me. Hating everyone and everything is easier than trying.
“Harry,” she says again firmly. I looked away without realizing it.
“Do you understand where you are? And why you’re here?”
“Suppose,” I say with a shrug. “My mum’s dead, and I have nowhere to live. So, you’re stuck with me.”
She studies my face, her bland expression never faltering.
“I’m a bad boy who threw someone in a pond?”
I suggest when she doesn’t say anything.
She stares at me for another minute before offering an explanation.
“You’re here in Lammerton because your other placements have not been successful.” I know this—the social worker explained it. “But you have to understand, there is nowhere else after Lammerton. This is it. So, whether you’re happy or sad, good or naughty, you will remain here at this home with us.”
“What if someone wants to adopt me?” I ask and she smirks.
“Little boys are always bottom of the pile. Especially little boys with bad tempers. You need to start behaving or this will be your home until you’re an adult.”
I blink at her, stunned. All the other adults I’ve met since losing my mother have been overly nice, offering me treats and taking my hands in theirs.
They all want to console me, help me “come to terms” with my loss.
It makes my skin crawl. This woman is offering nothing of the sort.
She’s warning me to behave or I’ll be stuck here, forever. A bad boy discarded in the landfill.
“What’s your name again?” I mutter petulantly.
“Matron Deliah. Now, you get settled in. Dinner will be in an hour. I’ll send one of the boys to collect you.”
She places my black trash bag with the few belongings I’ve collected on the bed.
None are mine—all have been gifted to me by the families I stayed with.
The only item I still have is my little blue bear; he’s kept safe in my jacket pocket all the time.
“See you at dinner,” she says as she turns, leaving and closing the door behind her. Once again, I’m on my own.
***
Four weeks after moving to Lammerton, I’ve started to adapt to the strict routine we live under.
Every morning we are woken at six o’clock.
Breakfast is at seven, then lessons start at eight.
Weekends are spent carrying out chores around the grounds or helping in the local community, if they trust you.
I’m not trusted. But Matron Deliah has told me she is happy with my progress since I arrived.
My temper is more in control, especially when one of the other boys annoys me.
On my second day here, an older boy tried to steal my lunch.
I responded by tipping his soup in his lap, then jumping onto the bench next to him and punching his nose.
The blood had spurted out across the table, ruining his friend’s meal too.
Now, no one approaches me. I’ve not made any friends, but it’s better that way—you can’t lose them.
It's a warm afternoon in June when Matron tells me I have a visitor. “Harry, there is someone here to see you,” she says.
“Who? I don’t have anyone to come and see me.”
“Patience, wait and see. Now, go and wash your hands then come to the visiting room.”
“Where is it? I’ve never needed to go before.”
“Next to the front door. Run along, don’t keep him waiting,” she prompts, waving a hand at me.
“He?” I question.
“Yes, he. Go.” My mind races as I run across the garden toward the bathrooms inside. He. Who could it be? I don’t know any grown-up men that would want to visit me. No one who would even know I was here.
The thought I don’t want to recognize jumps forward, waving its arms. Perhaps it’s your dad? I try to bat it away, but I can’t help but hope. Not that I know who he is, but if anyone comes to visit, I wish it would be him.
After washing up and changing my t-shirt, I head off in the direction of the front door.
The visiting room is clearly marked by a black sign with white letters spelling VISITORS ROOM.
The door to the room is ajar, and I hear voices inside talking excitedly.
When I walk in, there are already three tables of boys who live here with whom I assume are their family members.
Many boys only stay here for a short time before going home after whatever issue is sorted.
Matron is sitting at a table in the corner talking to a man wearing a black suit with a white shirt.
She looks up and upon seeing me, she signals for me to join them.
I walk over, nervous about what is about to happen.
The man turns to face me and gives me a kind smile.
He extends a hand; I take it, and we shake.
I’ve seen people shake hands on television; it feels strange to do it in the real world.
His hair is dark but graying around the edges.
He has sharp brown eyes the color of chestnuts.
I notice his shoes are polished to a high shine.
“Hello, Harrison,” he says. “It is lovely to see you again. And this time under better circumstances.” I gawk at him, both stunned and confused.
“You know me?” I ask.
“Yes, we’ve met once before. Back in January last year. It was my sons who found you that night. I was the person who took you to the hospital. My name is Mr. Chase.”
“Harry,” Matron interrupts, “sit down. Mr. Chase wanted to come and visit you. He has been keeping up with how you’ve been doing since he found you. When he heard you moved here and were now settled, he wanted to visit you.”
On autopilot, I move to sit opposite the man who most likely saved my life. His eyes run over my face, but he doesn’t speak straight away. I stare right back at him. I’ve learned never to drop my gaze if I can. It’s a sign of weakness, and bullies love that, so I don’t ever look away.
“I’ll leave you both to it,” Matron says. She walks over to another table and engages in conversation with them. Mr. Chase and I watch her leave then our focus returns to one another.
“So, Harrison,” he says firmly.
“My friends call me Harry.”
“Well, you don’t know me, so we’re not friends. For now, I’ll call you Harrison, and you call me Mr. Chase.” I scowl at him. “Don’t contort your face like that. If the wind changes it will stick.”
“What?”
“Do you not know that, Harrison? If you make a horrible face and the wind changes direction, you risk keeping that face forever.”
“That’s not true,” I argue, and he smiles.
“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t, but are you willing to take the risk?” He raises an eyebrow in challenge. “Shall we start again? I’m Mr. Chase, it’s lovely to see you again under better circumstances.”
“Hello, Mr. Chase,” I mumble. “It’s nice to see you again.”
“So, tell me, what has been happening this past year? I hear you’ve had a few different places to stay.”
“No one wants me.”
“Is that true? Or have you been misbehaving?” he asks. I slap my hands on the table between us and open my mouth to argue. He raises a hand. “Don’t lie to me, Harrison. I’ve heard everything about your vigilante escapades. You like to dish out your own punishments, I hear.”
“He stole my biscuit.”
“That one event. What about the other times? The broken window. The cut-up clothes. The boy with the broken nose. Are you telling me they all stole a biscuit? And that their punishments were deserved?” I shrug, unable to justify my actions. “Answer me.”
“I get angry,” I say as an attempt at an explanation.
“That’s no excuse. You are not the judge and the jury. It is not your responsibility to distribute a sentence to offenders. Do you understand?” I nod, completely lost as to why this man is sitting across from me, giving me a lecture. “Answer me.”
“Yes, Mr. Chase.”
“If you want to work in law enforcement,” he says, “you need to become someone who is allowed to serve the punishments. That means becoming a policeman or a lawyer or even a judge. Do you know what those people do?”
“Yes, Mr. Chase.”
“Do you want to work when you grow up, Harrison, or do you want to be in jail?”
The question sits between us for a moment as I process what he is saying.
When I don’t answer, he continues. “What I’m saying is, if you don’t stop this bad behavior now, it will follow you into adulthood. Now is when you decide whether you’re putting people in jail or going to be in jail yourself.”
“Okay, Mr. Chase.”
“This is your life. It is your responsibility to live it the best way you can. It is unfair that at such a young age I’m having to say this to you, but this is where you are. Now, tell me, can you read?”