of a poem I learned at school when I was around your age.’ He’d go to his yellow book shelf with the talking bookends, and run his finger along until one of the bookends squealed, ‘That’s right! That’s the right book!’ He’d prise it out, flick through the pages and read us a line or two. And he would always make it sound as if it mattered .
So even if I was just reading something simple like, ‘“Yes, Toad,” said Frog,’ I put my heart in it. And soon I found that Linda was pointing at the page for me to read not just a few odd words, but a whole sentence. It would be something like, ‘I won’t go there!’ or, ‘He is a fool!’ or, ‘You go home right now!’ And after that, I just took off.(Well, that’s what Linda said.) And almost all of it was suddenly easy-peasy.
I could read.
And then, I don’t know why, I wanted to tell Mum. I knew that Linda would be very surprised. She had kept asking and I’d kept shrugging my shoulders and saying nothing. So after I changed my mind, there was a bit of a silence. Then Linda asked me, ‘Do you really want to go? Or is this Eleanor’s idea?’
‘I want to go.’
She squeezed my hand and said, ‘All right. I’ll talk to Rob. He’ll probably be the one to take you.’
I overheard the phone call. I made sure I did. I played the usual trick of thumping around my bedroom, then crept out onto the landing.
‘Rob, is this such a good idea? He’s been so settled . . . Yes, I know. But does it have to be now, when he is doing so well? . . . No, you’re wrong there. I don’t believe he thinks that any more . . . Oh, God! You social workers and your bloody guidelines . What about Eddie ?’
Eleanor Holdenbach, Child Psychologist
I’d seen the headlines, of course. WILD CHILD. OUR TINIEST SHUT-IN. BLUEBEARD BRUTALITY. MONSTER !!! The usual mix of noisy hysteria and sentimental wallowing.Every front page featured that grainy photo of the boy blinking so fiercely as he shuffled into the light. And, just like everyone else, I’d seen the television footage of Bryce Harris’s hand slipping out under the blanket covering his head to flip the bird at the baying crowd.
I never for a moment thought the child would come to me. I naturally assumed that this would be the sort of court case – kidnapping, false imprisonment, grievous bodily harm – that meant that Eddie would have to give evidence. Don’t ask me the ins and outs of how Harris wriggled out of facing such obvious charges. I know it was something to do with the fact that young children are seen as unreliable witnesses. And it did certainly seem odd that this man should have had the self-control to keep his hands off the boy while he was beating up the mother.
Which led to the next problem for the police, for Eddie’s mother was deemed to be incapable of giving evidence. The bruises on Eddie’s legs turned out to be self-inflicted. He’d gripped himself so hard that he’d left marks. So who was to say it wasn’t Lucy Taylor herself who’d stumbled hard into the furniture, pulled out her own hair in chunks and, in her seriously addled brain, decided for herself her son was better off kept hidden in the flat? Admittedly the rules have changed so, if a child’s mistreated, anyone who’s been present can be held responsible. But Harris had been smart, and Eddie Taylor came out of that flat well-enough fed, with nothing onhis body that you could photograph to show a jury. And though the child was weirdly innocent of life outside, and sometimes very shy, he did appear surprisingly normal. Everyone said so. One keen, persuasive barrister for the defence, a nice new suit, and Harris could have been acquitted.
Nobody wanted that.
So they went at him sideways, since it was obvious the drug dealing and extortion, added to one or two counts of blackmail and intimidation that they rooted out, could clock up much the same sentence. In the end, on the principle of safety first, they went for that,
So even if I was just reading something simple like, ‘“Yes, Toad,” said Frog,’ I put my heart in it. And soon I found that Linda was pointing at the page for me to read not just a few odd words, but a whole sentence. It would be something like, ‘I won’t go there!’ or, ‘He is a fool!’ or, ‘You go home right now!’ And after that, I just took off.(Well, that’s what Linda said.) And almost all of it was suddenly easy-peasy.
I could read.
And then, I don’t know why, I wanted to tell Mum. I knew that Linda would be very surprised. She had kept asking and I’d kept shrugging my shoulders and saying nothing. So after I changed my mind, there was a bit of a silence. Then Linda asked me, ‘Do you really want to go? Or is this Eleanor’s idea?’
‘I want to go.’
She squeezed my hand and said, ‘All right. I’ll talk to Rob. He’ll probably be the one to take you.’
I overheard the phone call. I made sure I did. I played the usual trick of thumping around my bedroom, then crept out onto the landing.
‘Rob, is this such a good idea? He’s been so settled . . . Yes, I know. But does it have to be now, when he is doing so well? . . . No, you’re wrong there. I don’t believe he thinks that any more . . . Oh, God! You social workers and your bloody guidelines . What about Eddie ?’
Eleanor Holdenbach, Child Psychologist
I’d seen the headlines, of course. WILD CHILD. OUR TINIEST SHUT-IN. BLUEBEARD BRUTALITY. MONSTER !!! The usual mix of noisy hysteria and sentimental wallowing.Every front page featured that grainy photo of the boy blinking so fiercely as he shuffled into the light. And, just like everyone else, I’d seen the television footage of Bryce Harris’s hand slipping out under the blanket covering his head to flip the bird at the baying crowd.
I never for a moment thought the child would come to me. I naturally assumed that this would be the sort of court case – kidnapping, false imprisonment, grievous bodily harm – that meant that Eddie would have to give evidence. Don’t ask me the ins and outs of how Harris wriggled out of facing such obvious charges. I know it was something to do with the fact that young children are seen as unreliable witnesses. And it did certainly seem odd that this man should have had the self-control to keep his hands off the boy while he was beating up the mother.
Which led to the next problem for the police, for Eddie’s mother was deemed to be incapable of giving evidence. The bruises on Eddie’s legs turned out to be self-inflicted. He’d gripped himself so hard that he’d left marks. So who was to say it wasn’t Lucy Taylor herself who’d stumbled hard into the furniture, pulled out her own hair in chunks and, in her seriously addled brain, decided for herself her son was better off kept hidden in the flat? Admittedly the rules have changed so, if a child’s mistreated, anyone who’s been present can be held responsible. But Harris had been smart, and Eddie Taylor came out of that flat well-enough fed, with nothing onhis body that you could photograph to show a jury. And though the child was weirdly innocent of life outside, and sometimes very shy, he did appear surprisingly normal. Everyone said so. One keen, persuasive barrister for the defence, a nice new suit, and Harris could have been acquitted.
Nobody wanted that.
So they went at him sideways, since it was obvious the drug dealing and extortion, added to one or two counts of blackmail and intimidation that they rooted out, could clock up much the same sentence. In the end, on the principle of safety first, they went for that,
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