St Edmunds
The first thing Peter noticed when he walked through the wooden door, was the frown that seemed to be permanently etched into the face of a large, stern woman that stood in front of a row of people. While wrinkles adorned her face with great intensity, there wasn't any trace of smile lines.
The other caretakers lined up behind her seemed to be just a miserable, but to be fair a couple of days in this place and Peter didn't know how you wouldn't have a frown.
'Come inside, shoes off, shoes off,' the woman with the frown barked at him. Leaning over him and he pushed on the heels of some black trainers he’s had forever. He was about to shove them into a corner since he couldn't see a show rack when the woman stretched out her hand.
"I can carry my own shoes thanks," Peter snapped, and felt a sudden need to protect the dirty, black trainers that he continually complained about due to various irritating holes.
"I'm afraid that at St Edmunds, very resident must wear a uniform, including a pair of plimsolls."
Peter knew his shoes didn't meet the latest fashion trends and by no means were considered cool. But plimsolls? That would be social suicide.
"I need these for school, I can't wear plimsolls."
His social worker interrupted, "You have been very lucky Peter. The generous workers have allowed you to remain attending Midtown high."
Peter almost rolled his eyes at that sentence. These workers look anything but generous.
"However, you will be expected to comply with all other rules, including the uniform."
The large women that was still holding out her hands for this shoes, cleared her through, " Any backtalk will be considered disrespect - something we do not tolerate at St Edmunds."
Clearly, disrespect would included a wide variety of infractions, including the 'wrong look' or not being appreciative enough. From past experience, Peter knew that the term disrespect was loose enough for punishment without crime.
Peter reluctantly loosened his grip on his black trainer, as the lady quickly snatched them away. He had a sinking feeling that for the last time he would be seeing them for a while. A pile of browny grey clothes if you could call them that were shoved into his hands, along with an ugly pair of black plimsolls propped on top. Clearly this was a one size fits all kind of situation, which did not raise Peter's spirits at all.
Just as Peter was trying to catch the eye of his social worker for an acknowledgement of how hideous these clothes were, the large woman spoke again.
"I am the Matron, you will address me as such. The staff behind me will be addressed as Sir or Ma'am. Any other names will result in a infraction."
Staring at the pile of clothes in his arms, Peter did a subtle nod of his head. However, the Matron took a step forwards and forcibly lifted his chin as Peter was met with a piercing stare.
'I expect verbal answers, resident.'
Peter licked his lips and swallowed a breath. He gritted his teeth and let out a short, "Yes ma'am."
"Matron, my title is Matron," she barked, completely contrasting the quiet whisper Peter had let out.
"Yes Matron."
"Hmm." She turned her attention back to the social worker, "I see what you mean."
Firmly keeping his eyes glued to wooden floorboards, Peter heard a shuffling of papers, and a murmuring of voices. No doubt his file.
"Thank you for taking him in." his social worker said as she shook hands with the Matron. She swiftly turned on her heel and marched away, without even a goodbye. Peter desperately wanted to beg her to stay, but all he could do was watch as the clicking of her heels grew further away until he couldn't see the swish of her blazer anymore.
A click right on his face brought him back to the scene in front of him. A few of the staff had disappeared by then, and there was only Matron and two tall intimidating figures behind her.
"You will come to learn that St Edmunds is a strict institution that prides itself on discipline. There are a few rules that you will be expected to follow.
You will not have any electronic devices in your possession. You will wear your uniform correctly and up to standard. You will respect all staff members and obey their requests. You will make your bed very morning. You will complete all chores up to standard, and you will keep your living area neat and tidy. Any infraction will result in extra chores, and stripping of privileges. Am I understood?"
The sinking feeling intensified, and Peter was swallowed by a sense of defeat.
"I said, am I understood?" she repeated, growing in volume.
"Yes Matron," he whispered again, sensing that this phrase was going become a stable in her vocabulary.
"Right, I will be taking your bag from a routine search and be confiscating any banned items. You will follow these staff manners to get you settled." She left no room for dispute as she wrangled the small duffle that contained all he had and his school bag slung over his shoulder.
The Matron disappeared as quickly as she spat out her rules, along with everything that Peter possessed.
The two staff member remaining looked just as intimidating as the Matron, as they silently ushered him through a series of door ways. He entered a room with large barred windows stretching across all walls. There were four bunk beds crammed against the walls with a one bed wardrobe nailed against a small wall space. It wasn't the lack of space that struck Peter first, but the immaculacy of the place. The sheets were made military style without a single crease, dust was basically non existent and there wasn't a single piece of personality in this room at all. It was a sad sight.
He barely had time to register anything before he was whisked into the adjoining bathroom - one toilet stall with one sink.
"Change," barked a voice from one of the two men, who exactly Peter could not tell you. They were blending together to be honest.
He paused for just a moment before shuffling into the stall, and slumping on top of the closed toilet lid. God he'd never thought he would miss the Wilsons this much. A sudden exhaustion struck him - all he wanted to do was curl up on the large comfy green sofa Mj had in the corner of her room. She styled it with several comfy cushions and the softest purple blanket, and Peter had spend many hours curled up sleeping or plaiting Mj's hair or arguing with Ned about the correct order of the Star Wars episodes - a long running dispute. That green sofa suddenly seemed miles away.
There was a sharp bang on the door, obviously an extremely impatient fist.
"Hurry up in there," a gruff voice called.
Reluctantly, Peter pulled his hoodie over his head and began replacing his well-worn but very loved clothes with the scratchy grey uniform that reminded him of a mental asylum from an old black and white movie. His new 'uniform' considered of some grey straight trousers, a faded polo shirt and an old, thin wool jumper which multiple holes adorned onto it.
The material was awful against his skin making him shudder with disgust. He scooped up his clothes in an armful and carried them out of the stall. Peter was met with another outstretched hand, waiting to take his own clothes to god knows where.
"It's fine, I'll keep them since I can wear them to school tomorrow," Peter attempted to explain, however he was met with a snort and an unidentified look between the two men.
"Residents wear the uniform," the left one insisted, pulling the clothes front his hand.
"Yeah, but I'm going to school tomorrow, so I need clothes," Peter tried again to explain, but doing little to stop the man gathering up his stuff. One of them was already walking off by the time he had finished his sentence.
"Sorry to tell you kid, but these are only clothes you'll be having for a while."
"What about my other stuff - the stuff she took away?"
"And you're definitely not seeing that for a while," the man responded with a quick snort.
"But, my - "
"Your bunk is here the bottom one. You share with six others. They will be back from rec time in one hour. Settle in and don't leave this room." With that the man retreated out of the room and shut the door firmly behind him.
Around half an hour later, Peter had memorised all the cracks in the wooden panel above him, and run out of things to count. The door was abruptly opened, and Peter shot up, partly due to shock and partly due to a desperate need for stimulation after the horrific boredom of the past half hour. It was the Matron who marched in carrying his much depleted duffle bag and school bag. Soon sorting through it, most of his clothes had been taken as well as his school laptop and his phone, which was a bit of a nightmare but he had been left pictures, some basic underwear, socks and pyjamas as well as his wash bag with all of his toiletries and all of his school books. His wallet still remained in there and despite missing some of the limited cash he carried on him, there was still all of the gift cards from various presents or Mr Delmar's sheer generosity.
"Thank you .... urrrm Matron," Peter muttered, unwilling to get on her bad side. "Is it - err will I be permitted to have some of my clothes to wear to school. I'll get changed back into this straight away I promise," he pleaded desperately.
"I'm afraid that's against the rules. Maybe I will consider it as a reward for good behaviour."
Yeah, unlikely Peter scoffed internally.
"What about my laptop - it's a school one, doesn't have access to anything but apps useful to school."
"Again, it's against house rules."
"I could just take it to school and give it back straight away - just the teachers sometimes they require it and - "
"I said no Peter." Irritation arose in her voice and Peter knew he was pushing it at this point.
"Yeah, sorry ..." he murmured, reverting his eyes back down to the ground.
"Right then, time for a haircut," the Matron forcibly moved on.
She pulled out a chair that was sitting unnoticeable in the corner, and started rummaging through a bag to brandish a park of clippers.
“Haircut?” Peter whispered unsteadily.
Matron did not reply, just patted the seat in front of her. Nervously, Peter tittered forward towards the chair.
“I like my hair,” he whispered uneasily, but was ignored once more as a hand forced him to lean back into the seat.
A harsh scratch to his head with some defeating clippers signified the last loss of his autonomy.
He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, holding back tears. From what he could feel, she was merciless with those fucking clippers. His much loved curls that were a constant battle every day to try to tame them, curls that he had inherited from his mum, curls that he’d had since he was very little, curls that he used demand May to be very careful with when they create their home, make-shift barbers, those curls were now gone. Nothing but pieces on the floor now.
Peter was too scared run a hand over his head, but he knew that if he didn’t look like a criminal before, he did now. A fucking buzz cut - just what he needed.
“Looks much better now - much more presentable,” she declared smugly, “The other residents will return in ten minutes, and dinner will take place in fifteen minutes. I expect your belongings to be unpacked neatly in this time.”
“Why am I here?” his quiet voice piped up, choosing not to comment on the disastrous situation of his hair.
“No one owes you a happy life,” she spit out harshly. With that she swiftly turned and marched away, leaving him alone once more.
Shakily, he stood up and shuffled towards the bathroom, where a dirty mirror was drilled into the wall above the sink. He gripped onto the sink heavily, his legs feeling like jelly. He snuck a glance at the reflection and fell into a heap on the floor sobbing. Overwhelmed, tired and confused, Peter felt utterly defeated. Who knew that after everything, it wouldn’t be the hits or abuse that would break him but a stupid fucking haircut.
All he wanted to do was curl up on the uncomfortable bottom bunk, and hide under the ugly, itchy grey blanket. He though if he say another grey thing, he might just go insane. However, he started reluctantly complying with her request, and adding his measly belongings to an empty draw. Upon inspection, he realised he wasn’t unique with these ‘confiscations’ as the other drawers were rather pathetic as well.
The other boys retuned exactly ten minutes later - St Edmunds apparently possessed an extremely strict schedule. Peter had been conjuring up all sorts of ideas about their reaction to him, ranging from outright beating him up to recruiting him to some kind of crime ring, however he was barely met with a glance.
The four boys trailed in silently, all sporting the same ugly uniform and the hideous buzzcut. They collapsed into their respective bunks, some even closing their eyes. Peter wanted to ask one of the million question bouncing around in his head, be couldn’t bring himself to speak up amidst the silence. He learnt back into his bed, copying the other kids and waited. A bell rang and he copied everyone else as they filed out of the door.
At dinner, he was met with a regimented routine overseen by multiply adults in the blue material he had associated with the Matron. The food was disgraceful and he could barely stomachs a mouthful but others seemed to be scoffing it down, so he tried as much as he could. A few people were talking quietly, and giving him not so subtle looks but the mood was very somber.
They were roughly 20 teenage boys sitting side by side along a wooden table - a parallel to Oliver Twist sprung to mind.
The Matron marched into the rooms, flinging open the double wooden doors for dramatic affect. All heads seemed to turn in her direction. She barked out the surnames of two kids who rode form the benches and followed her out.
Peter leant over the the boy next to him, about the whisper a question when he was met with a firm shake of the head.
Eventually, they all returned to their room for lights out. After the door was shut, all four boys turned to face Peter.
“Been in group homes before?” one asked.
“Yeah, a couple. None like this though.”
“You’ll be fine new kid. Just keep your head down,” a boy dismissed, turning his body away.
“Why are they treating us like this? I didn’t do anything.. I - ” Peter tried before he was cut off.
“Don’t you know new kid, all teenage foster boys are criminals,” he spat out sarcastically. That shut Peter up - he didn’t know how to respond. All he could do was thank the heavens that he’d be going back to Midtown and leaving this godforsaken place for most of the day. He could endure a few dinners and some weekends - he just felt bad for the poor sods that stayed her all the time.
Lying back against the lumpy, thin mattress, he dreamt of May and a life beyond this one.