I Am Not Going

Friday, 30 September 1994, 4:30 p.m. – The Dublin Castle

POV: Michael Harris

In more than twenty years as a social worker, Michael Harris had seen more than he cared to remember. Abuse, drugs, alcohol, parents who rejected their own children or simply disappeared. And, of course, accidents like this one, where a child could lose everything from one day to the next.

After all those years, one would think he'd have learned to keep his distance. Yet here he was, sitting in a pub on a Friday afternoon because Oliver's only living relative apparently couldn't find a better time for this conversation.

"We haven't been able to find any other relatives," he said, taking a long drink from his glass of water as though he could swallow his frustration along with it. "Won't you reconsider?"

"No."

Lucy cut him off before he'd even finished the question. She was Oliver's only living relative, his mother's younger sister.

"Sarah wouldn't want it," she continued. "We barely spoke after our parents died."

"And you think Sarah would want Oliver to end up in a children's home?"

Lucy grimaced slightly. "Sarah would want Oliver to grow up somewhere better suited to him." She paused. "As I've already told you, my fiancé's band is close to getting their big break."

Harris bit his tongue. Her four-year-old nephew had just lost his parents, and she was talking about her fiancé's big break as though it were the most important thing in the world right now.

"That doesn't mean—"

"It does," she interrupted him again. "That's exactly what it means. We can't look after a four-year-old boy when we're constantly travelling from one gig to the next."

Harris had known before coming here that Lucy and her fiancé had no intention of taking responsibility for a four-year-old boy. A child that age would turn their entire lives upside down, and he could even understand that.

That wasn't what made him so angry.

"It would only be for a few weeks, until we find somewhere suitable for him," he said.

"Hey, babe!" a man called from the stage. "We need your help over here!"

Lucy picked up her half-empty pint, drained the rest in one go and slowly stood. For the first time since their conversation had begun, she looked Harris properly in the eye.

"I'm sorry."

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

***

Friday, 30 September 1994, 8:30 p.m. – The Harris Family Home

POV: Michael Harris

"DADDY!"

Michael had barely closed the door behind him when his six-year-old daughter came running and threw herself into his arms.

"You're late again!" she complained.

"Sorry, sweetheart." Michael kissed her on the cheek.

"Right, off to bed with you, Lia!" Mrs Harris called from the living room.

Lia clearly wasn't convinced. She only clung tighter to her father. "Mum, just five more minutes! Daddy only just got home."

"Lia, bed. I'll come up in a minute and read you a story," Michael promised before heading into the living room to greet his hopefully not-too-angry wife.

"I know," he said before she even had the chance to tell him off. "That was the last time. I promise."

She gave him a sceptical look. "Two weeks, Michael," she said quietly. "We've barely seen you for the last two weeks."

"I had to try one more time." He sat down beside her on the sofa and put an arm around her shoulders. "Imagine if it were Lia."

His wife let out a long breath and leaned against him. "And?"

Michael shook his head.

"I tried everything. We couldn't find a suitable foster family, and his only living relative made it pretty clear she wants nothing to do with him."

She lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at him. "Michael, you've done everything you could."

"I know. I'm just frustrated. A few weeks could have made a real difference." He paused and took a deep breath. "Once he's got somewhere to stay, he's no longer the most urgent case. And by the time the next suitable foster family becomes available, there might already be another child who doesn't have anywhere to go at all."

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

"He's going to Margaret," Michael said at last.

His wife's eyes widened. "Margaret?"

Then she started laughing.

***

Outside Great Ormond Street Hospital (GOSH), London

POV: Sister Margaret

Sister Margaret had told Michael no.

She was seventy-one years old. She had spent most of her life at Mill Grove, back when it had still been a children's home in the traditional sense, and had helped raise more children than she cared to count.

Things were different now. Mill Grove had changed. Only a handful of children still lived there permanently, and most of them were already ten or older. They went to school, had their own carers and were at least old enough that someone didn't have to follow them around for every little thing. The younger children who came to Mill Grove during the day for the preschool and other programmes went home again in the afternoon.

Margaret had changed too.

She still helped whenever they were short-handed, but an afternoon with the younger children was usually enough to remind her why she no longer did it every day. She loved children dearly. She simply loved them slightly more now that somebody else was responsible for feeding them, washing them and getting them into bed.

She had intended to spend her remaining years a little more peacefully. Church, her garden, parish work, a good book and perhaps enough uninterrupted cups of tea to make up for the previous fifty years.

Then Michael had asked her to take in a four-year-old boy. Of course it had to be a four-year-old. Not a twelve-year-old who could dress himself and get himself off to school. No, Michael had found her a boy whose teeth still needed checking and who might very well leave the house wearing two different shoes if nobody was paying attention.

And so she found herself standing outside Great Ormond Street Hospital waiting for him. Margaret sighed and adjusted her grip on her handbag. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. The poor boy had been through enough already, and with any luck he would be quiet, polite and obedient. Perhaps even a little God-fearing.

POV: Oliver

"No."

Dr Whitmore looked at him.

Oliver folded his arms.

"Absolutely not."

"Oliver—"

"I am not going to a Christian children's home."