A discovery
The Boy looked like Death warmed over. About five or six, overlarge clothes, skinny to the point of emaciation, but the thing that struck the old man the most was the haunted emerald eyes and the angry scar on his forehead, partially covered by his hair. The old man was sitting in the park, eating his lunch while he was watching the world go by, enjoying the beautiful summer day. He wasn’t a very noticeable man, appearing about seventy years old, nondescript but well-maintained and neat clothing, closely cropped hair. He could have been anybody’s grandfather, but in fact, he was no one’s. He had that “distinguished” look about him.
The Boy was sitting on the swings, but he didn’t look like he was with any of the young mothers attending their children, in fact, he looked like he was watching carefully to avoid notice by anyone. He was walking around the periphery of the swings, watching the children and their mothers as they were given snacks and fussed over with a hunger to his gaze that reminded the old man of a dog patiently watching his master eat, hoping for a scrap, a leftover, a caress, or a kind word – none of which was forthcoming to the Boy. As the Boy passed the bins by the boundary where the playground sand was divided from the grass, his quick glance into every bin gave the old man a minor shock – the Boy was looking for discarded food.
“Son?”
“…”
“Little boy?”
“…yes sir?”, the hesitant reply.
“I’m done with my lunch, and have some extra cheese and some fruit. I was planning on throwing it away, but if you want it, you can have it.”
“Please sir, that would be very nice of you.”
The old man wasn’t actually done with his meal, but the hungry child was simply too difficult to watch. The Boy politely took the food and ate it, with a careful manner that struck the old man as a timidity instead of well-ingrained good manners. When done, the Boy politely said: “Thank you very much, sir, I was very hungry.”
At that, the pair split up, the old man going to his flat, and the Boy to wherever hungry children go during the summer in Little Whinging. As the old man walked up the two flights of stairs to his flat, he wondered if the letters he had sent would be received, and even better, returned. Not much else occupied his mind that night, but the next day, boredom and a desire for a walk in the light summer rain led him to the park again. There was a small shelter, just a small roof over a small table and benches for people to get in out of the occasional rain. It was one of those peaceful, gentle rains that continued throughout the day, adding an element of peace and solitude to the day. The park was lushly green, the rain added a rich, earthy darkness to the green of the trees and plants, the air fresh and washed clean. The old man loved times like this, the park was empty, no one came out to add to the noise of the day. He could be alone with his thoughts and simply let his consciousness absorb the deep feeling of peace.
Oddly enough, he wasn’t alone. The Boy was there, too, but today, he was sitting on a bench, curled up in on himself. There was no sound other than the whisper of the rain, and an occasional sniffle coming from the Boy.
“Son?”
“…”
“Little boy?”
This time there was no response from the child. He remained curled on the bench, unaware of the world. The old man wondered what to do. The Boy wasn’t dressed for the added cool of the rainy day, his clothes were clearly for a much larger child, he wasn’t wearing a warm jumper like most careful mothers would have insisted on for their beloved children. The old man remained sitting, watching, wondering what could have happened that a small, dark-haired boy could be out, alone, un-cared-for, in obvious distress in what normally passed for a tidy, neat neighborhood, where the biggest scandal was that someone hadn’t kept their garden weeds under control. This wasn’t where a person would expect to find what looked to be a homeless, abandoned child.
Time passed, and eventually, the child’s sniffles ceased, and he slept.
After an hour or so, the child’s stomach rumbled, the Boy awoke, and rubbed his eyes. Emerald eyes met the old man’s grey eyes.
“Are you hungry, son?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you have something to eat?”
“No sir.”
“I have an apple in my pocket, would you like it?”
“Yes, please, sir.”
Handed the apple, the boy ate it, core, seeds and all. The only thing he didn’t eat was the stem.
“Are you still hungry, son?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where are your parents?”
“I don’t have parents, I live with my aunt and uncle and cousin.”
“Can you take me to their house?”
“Please, no sir.”
“Why not, son?”
“If you come to talk to my aunt and uncle, they will get angry, and yell at me.”
“Well, maybe you can come with me to a market, I can get you something to eat, and you can tell me more about this. Would that be alright?”
“I think so.”
Umbrella out, walking in the rain, the little boy followed the old man like a small shadow. It was the oddest thing – usually a small child of that age would be all over, exploring, wandering around as much as their short attention spans would allow. This was a most unusual child. Clearly there was abuse, and the Boy showed a level of fortitude and maturity far beyond that of children twice his age. Once in the store, the old man picked out a number of healthy items, enough to feed several small, hungry boys. Watching the Boy’s eyes drifting to the warm pies under the heat lamp, the old man picked those up, too. A small bottle of milk, and another of juice added to the purchase, and the old man paid for them from his wallet, the bills counted out carefully.
Outside the store, the old man asked the Boy if he wanted to eat them at his aunt’s house, or at the park.
“The park, please, sir.”
The child was ravenous, he politely ate everything offered to him. When done, the old man asked him:
“Do you have a warm place to sleep?”
“Yes, sir, I sleep in the cupboard under the stairs at my aunt’s house, it’s pretty warm and dry.”
“When do you need to get back to your aunt’s house? She must be worried about you.?”
A storm cloud found itself on the Boy’s scarred forehead, his brow furrowed, and he said:
“My Aunt doesn’t worry about me, I think she doesn’t like me very much.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
Hesitantly, quietly, sadly, a story came out, aided by careful questions of a life of abuse, neglect, and cruelty. A life of hunger, sadness, despair and anger at a small child, clearly too small for his age. The old man had pegged him at four or five, and finding he was to be eight in three months came as a shock. The words came out slowly at first, carefully prompted, but as the child warmed to the old man and his gentle voice, soon came in torrents. Such a small child to have such heartache and grief. To face the irrational anger of relatives with no idea why they literally hated him so, there was no other word to describe their behavior towards such a personable child.
The old man asked the Boy if he had told anyone about his life and if they helped him. The answer was a shock. The Boy said that once a nice teacher had given him a warm coat, and held him after school while she called some people. However, instead of a policeman like she said would come, a man that looked like Santa wearing a long weird dress had come by, waved a stick at the nice teacher, and then she was mean to him, and when he got home, his Aunt had burned his nice warm coat.
Clearly intervention was needed, but the old man was very concerned about the “bearded man in a long dress”. Nothing in what the Boy said indicated he was lying to him, and the description stood out. Carefully, so he wouldn’t spook the Boy, he guided the boy around the subject, carefully watching to see if the story changed, or if there was any better description of a very unusual happening. This wasn’t Dickensian England, most schools, health workers, and others that routinely came into contact with children were required by law to report abuse. It would have been astounding that such a clearly neglected child would never have encountered a situation where his treatment wouldn’t have come to the attention of the authorities. In fact, from the Boy’s description, it had happened twice that he knew of, and both times, the bearded man came by, the helper “forgot” or “became mean”, and the abuse continued.
It isn’t unexpected that a child would have a flight of fancy and make an outlandish description of someone, but this was too consistent to be a coincidence or a fantasy. There was something going on that showed someone’s finger on the scales affecting this child’s dismal life. The old man didn’t normally give a lot of credence to a child’s ramblings, but the state of the child indicated a little caution and learning the facts before jumping into someone else's life was warranted.
“Do you have to be back sometime?”
“I have to be back in my cupboard before dark.”
“Do you feel safe at your aunt’s house?” The old man had a hard time saying that, of course it wasn’t safe, but the Boy knew his life and how to lead it better than he – avoiding a beating while still being neglected, in the eyes of the child that had to live it was “safe”, even though the old man simply wanted to go into that despicable house and tear those abusers limb from limb.
“I’m OK as long as I don’t make any noise.”
“Can you get out of your cupboard to use the loo?”
“No, I have to go before or after, and if I’m in the cupboard, aunt or uncle locks it so I have to hold it. They let me out in the morning to make them breakfast and do my chores. Aunt says I have to do them because they can’t afford to feed a freak like me if I can’t make myself useful.”
“So when I see you in the park, your chores are all done?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re a very good boy.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“When do you usually get done with your chores?”
“After eight, aunt sends me out of the house so she doesn’t have to look at me.”
“If you meet me at the park, I can bring you a bite to eat, and we can talk some more. Would that be OK?”
“Yes, sir.”
It was obvious that the Boy was insecure for food, and that the old man definitely knew how to deal with. The next day, at the park, he brought a couple small steak and kidney pies, an apple, and a small child-sized backpack. The Boy quickly ate the food, and eyeing the backpack, didn’t say anything, sitting on the park bench. The old man said:
“I brought you something for you to keep in your cupboard for if you get hungry at night. There’s a loaf of bread, some peanut butter, some jelly, some fruit, and some juice, as well as a water bottle. You can fill the water bottle and have something to drink when you get thirsty. There's another bottle you can use to pee in, so you don't have to hold everything in. That's not healthy.”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
“You don’t have to call me sir all the time, my name is Alfred Thornton, you can call me Mr. Thornton. What’s your name?”
“Aunt and uncle call me freak, but my teacher calls me Harry.”
“Well, Harry it is. It is not nice to call people cruel names like freak.”
“Okay, sir – Mr. Thornton.”
“What would you like to do today, Harry?”
“I usually stay in the park, it’s nice here, and my cousin Dudley never comes here because it is a long walk.”
“Is your cousin Dudley nice?”
“No, he likes to chase me and hit me when he catches me.”
“Does your aunt or uncle stop or punish him when he does that?”
“No, they say it is funny.”
“It is not funny, it is not nice for people to hurt each other, and grownups shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Did you go to school last year?”
“Yes, I liked it very much for a while. Then I got good grades, and when aunt and uncle learned about it, they hit me. Then the next day, when the teacher saw I was hurt, she called the police, and then the bearded man came, and my teacher stopped being nice.”
“Do you know how to read?”
“Yes, I really like to read. The teacher said I could read chapter books, which was really good.”
“Is there a light in your cupboard?”
“There is, but if I turn it on, aunt and uncle get mad. I put my blanket under the door, so the light doesn’t come out, and then I can have light.”
“What’s your aunt and uncle’s names?”
“Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon Dursley.”
“What do they do for a living?”
“Aunt Petunia watches the neighbors and yells, and Uncle Vernon goes in his car to a place called Grunnings.”
“Do you know what your uncle does at Grunnings?”
“Not really.”
“What does he wear when he goes to work?”
“He wears a suit and tie.”
“What time does he usually go to work?”
“He leaves the house after I make him breakfast.”
Over the summer day, the boy and the old man got to know each other. The boy was a charming little fellow, sharp as a tack. In the afternoon, the old man took him to the public library. Harry didn’t have a library card, but the old man told the librarian that this was his grandson, Harry Thornton, and got him his very own library card. Watching Harry carefully put the precious card in his backpack, Mr. Thornton told Harry:
“Reading books is very helpful. You need to make sure that the books you read help you. Some books are fun, and that’s okay. Other books are not very helpful, but most of the books you will find in the children’s section of the library are pretty good for a boy your age. When you get a little older, there are other books that can help you grow and become a good person. Go ahead and check out some books to read this evening, and tomorrow we will talk about them.”
“Thank you.”
“Is it okay for you to bring these books home with you?”
“I won’t let my aunt or uncle or Dudley see them. When I bring them home, I first hide them under the front step, and when I know they aren't watching, I can put them in my cupboard. Then it is okay.”
This was a relief to the old man – he didn’t want to tell a child to keep secrets from the adults in their life, but it was obvious that Harry’s situation called for a lot more circumspection that the average seven year-old was capable of, and he didn’t want to cause the boy any more grief through a ham-handed attempt at making things better. The two step way of getting contraband into his cupboard was very clever. He still was unsure about the bearded man. It sounded outlandish, and yet Harry was both convinced and consistent in the description of the man and what happened after. Possibly the man was a hypnotist, an extortionist, or just someone that could place a credible threat on multiple people to ignore child abuse. Whatever it was, it was far beyond what a normal child rearing situation would call for.
The whole situation called for more close observation, and he had nothing but time to occupy himself. When Harry was done for the day, Alfred watched Harry as he headed to his house, noting that he lived at No. 4 Privet Drive. The house looked fairly normal, pretty much identical to all the other houses up and down the street. The only thing of note was a dishwater blonde woman watching out the window that had what appeared to be the longest neck he’d ever seen on a woman, and the effect was made ever so much worse due to a truly unfortunate hairstyle. As he was watching, a fairly nice car pulled up in the drive, and an extremely fat man in a suit got out and went into the house.