I always thought that organisations like Social Services moved slowly. That they crept along precariously like a mobile home being moved on a motorway. That isn’t always the case. Duerdale Social Services could lumber forward as fast as an angry rhinoceros when it wanted to. Mr McGrath and Ms Green turned up with a signed order from the Family Court saying they had a right to inspect the premises. And they brought a policeman. Just in case either grandparent miraculously rose from their chair, grew strength and power into their thinning, shrinking bones and wrestled the social workers to the floor.
Jon was at school when they arrived. The first he knew about it was when he turned the corner in the lane and saw his grandma being wheeled into an ambulance with a look of astonishment on her face. His granddad was next and he gave more resistance but there was no power in the swats he aimed at the ambulance men. It was as futile as a man falling off a cliff trying to air-grab his way back to safety. Jon ran forward down the lane as fast as he could towards the ambulance, police car and social workers when he should have really turned and run the other way. He was put in the police car and all three vehicles travelled in a convoy to Duerdale Hospital. The policeman told him not to worry, that he wasn’t being arrested, but Jon said he did do that ‘pushing your head down thing’, so it can’t be bumped on the car roof and you can’t sue for assault later.
I only learnt all this when the phone rang that night. That was unusual in itself and I was already half expecting some kind of trouble before Dad called me down from my room to the chilly hallway. He passed me the phone and mouthed, ‘Jon.’ He sensed that something wasn’t right too; he lingered by the open kitchen door, his shadow falling out into the hall as he pretended to dry the dishes.
I sat on the stairs, and said, ‘Hello?’ There was no reply, just the hum of the phone line. Then I heard the sound of footsteps squeaking on hard floor. I was trying to work out where he could be when he spoke.
‘I’m at the hospital.’
‘Hospital?’
He told me about turning the corner in the lane, about Mr McGrath and Ms Green, his grandma’s bewilderment, and his granddad’s resistance. He told me about the policeman’s hand on his head and the convoy to the hospital. He told me that he was being kept in, that they were doing tests to see if he was malnourished or vitamin deficient or something. They said they wanted to establish his ‘general level of health’. They’d checked his height, checked his weight, checked his body mass index, he said. They’d shone lights in his eyes, lights in his ears, lights in his mouth, lights up his nose. They’d listened to his chest from front and back. They’d rooted through his hair and peered at his scalp. They’d smiled fixed smiles at him and spoken in singsong voices. They were too kind, too gentle with him, he said. Like he might be made of breadcrumbs. Like part of him might just fall off. Then they found the bruises on his arms. It was like they’d got home and found a smashed window and their faces turned hard and their note-taking increased. Jon saw what was going on and told them that his grandparents hadn’t done that. They had never done anything like that. A nurse told him not to worry; they weren’t suggesting that they had. He should just try and rest. He needed to rest and worrying wasn’t resting, was it? He said that they wouldn’t or couldn’t answer the question he kept asking, ‘When can we go home?’
He’d fallen silent now and I wasn’t sure what to say. I tried to cheer him up and told him that after living in that house for so long, he would be immune to anything, immune to death even. He didn’t say anything. I looked at the time on my watch and saw that it was still early. I would give it a go. I asked him what ward he was on and told him not to worry, I would try and see him soon. I hung up and shouted for Dad.