Chapter 5: Volunteer Night
Ginny left for the Burrow on Tuesday morning, traveling by the Floo Network. The Healers had advised against trying to Apparate during pregnancy; the risk of damaging the baby was not high, the Healers, said, but it wasn't worth taking the chance. Harry waited to leave for work until after Ginny had stepped into the green flames, little valise in hand, and had disappeared.
Now I have a week to myself, he thought. Throughout his life he had been able to tolerate solitude well, even to enjoy its powers of renewal, but since his marriage he had become so accustomed to Ginny's presence that now, when she was absent, he felt uncomfortable, at sixes and sevens, "like a dry pea rattling around in a pod," as he had described it to her. He could fill up the odd hours by visiting with Ron and Hermione, except that they were still in Italy. Maybe I could work longer hours at the Ministry, he thought, but that idea seemed singularly unattractive. It occurred to him that he could pop back and forth to the Burrow in the evenings to see Ginny and her parents, and he did not doubt that he would be welcome if he did so, but it might be intrusive to the special bonding time that Ginny seemed to want with her mother and father.
No, he thought, This is my last opportunity to focus on what I need to do, before Ginny comes back and the baby comes and our lives change forever. Suddenly the days ahead seemed precious, critical, and it was crucial that he use them well. Maybe Ginny was ready for parenthood, but he was not. He glanced about him, left and right, as if an agenda for the next seven days might be spotted lying on a tabletop.
Suddenly he remembered the papers that Mrs. Miller had given him. When was that volunteer training class? Maybe he could do that. Hadn't she said a class was coming up soon? He walked rapidly, almost running, into the drawing room where he had a desk on which he customarily deposited stray papers that he didn't know what to do with but wasn't yet ready to discard. He shuffled through the little stack of papers and found the training class schedule. The next class was tomorrow evening.
"I'll do it," he said aloud. He wasn't sure what he might learn. Maybe it would be helpful, maybe not. But attending the class represented a positive step he could take, the only one he could think of right now.
The next evening, after a hasty supper at home, Harry stepped out of his front door and walked the few blocks to the tube station for the trip to Camden Town Station. The car was fairly full of commuters, and Harry stared straight ahead, not meeting eyes with anyone, a rising tide of eagerness in his mind. Upon alighting from the car at Camden Town Station, he looked again at the travel directions printed on the back of the class schedule, located his visual landmarks, and strode off to the designated building, which was down a narrow side street about two minutes walk away.
He had arrived about fifteen minutes early, but the doors were open, and a sign on a stand in the hallway pointed the direction to the meeting room down the hall The room was large and well-lit, with metal chairs with upholstered seats set in rows and tables with colorful stand-up placards along the back edges and stacks of brochures in front of them. At the back of the room was a table with refreshments - urns of what was probably coffee and hot water for tea, and metal trays with biscuits on them. A half dozen people were moving around the room, but they all appeared to be the producers of this affair, and Harry realized to his dismay that he was probably the first attendee to arrive. He stood in the doorway for a moment, scanning the scene, and one of the women separated herself from her fellows, came over to Harry, and greeted him.
"I was hoping to sneak in quietly and sit in the back row," Harry said jokingly, "but it looks like I'm the first person here."
"We're really glad you came. Please help yourself to refreshments," she indicated the table with the urns and biscuits, "and sign in on the sign-in sheet."
Harry poured himself a cup of tea and picked up a biscuit but avoided the sign-in sheet for the moment. As he looked over the selection of brochures, the room began to fill, and by seven p.m. the majority of the chairs were occupied. The panel members introduced themselves, and to Harry's relief the members of the audience were not requested to do likewise.
The program began. The medical doctor spoke about the kinds of abuse that children experience. The solicitor spoke about the legal system for removing children from abusive homes. The social worker spoke about the arrangements made for their further care. People asked questions. Harry squirmed in his seat. The information was interesting, but none of it seemed helpful to him, and no one was asking the questions that he wanted answered. Maybe this evening would be a dud.
The group took a fifteen minute break at eight-fifteen. Harry considered leaving, but he still hoped that he could salvage something from this venture, so he refreshed his supply of tea and biscuits and made light conversation with the other potential volunteers until the class reconvened.
There was a dark-haired middle-aged woman on the panel who had not spoken much up to now. Harry had noticed on the printed biography sheet of the panelists that she was listed by only her first name, Patricia, and he had wondered if her surname had been omitted by oversight. But in the second half of the program Patricia began to describe her work, and Harry realized the reason for the anonymity. Patricia facilitated a self-help group of adults who had been abused as children and were struggling with issues of parenting with their own children.
Harry sat up alertly. This was what he wanted. As Patricia described what her group did, he started raising his hand and asking questions. What was the possibility of breaking the "cycle of abuse" that the other speakers had mentioned? What determined how badly a child was harmed by abuse? How could these children learn to be successful parents when they grew up? Patricia answered his questions from the point of view of her self-help group, and the other experts chimed in with additional information. The social worker mentioned "the resilient child", and another trainee volunteer raised his hand and asked, "Exactly what do you mean by 'resilient child'?"
The social worker answered, "A child who lives through a seriously abusive environment but seems to be relatively lightly affected by it, who emerges emotionally fairly unscathed."
"Can you given us an example?" another trainee asked.
This time the doctor answered. "I knew of a family of two older adults, both women, quite daft, really, who believed that almost all food was poisoned, so they ate very little and were quite malnourished. There were three children in the family, two girls and a boy. The girls bought into the poisoned-food delusion and were also malnourished, but the boy was robust. I asked him, 'Aren't you also afraid that the food is poisoned?', and he said, "No, I tried the food and it seemed okay, so I eat what I want.' "
Harry was hugely relieved that the other trainees were asking questions now also because he had feared that he was making himself obvious.
"Why are some children more resilient than others?" was the next query.
"We don't know for sure," the doctor said. "It may have to do with how serious the abuse is, how long it lasts, how old the chid was when it began. One thing seems influential, and that is the presence in the child's life of a supportive adult, such as an aunt, grandparent, teacher, and so on."
"We need to move on with our agenda because time is running out," reminded the woman who was the representative of the child protection agency. The subject shifted to specific volunteer activity opportunities in the upcoming year. Harry sat back in his chair and streched out his legs. He was finally satisfied that the evening had not been a waste of time. Among all the technical and legal presentations there had been information that pointed in the direction of insight, and Patricia had left an information sheet on the brochure table about her self-help group. When the session broke up at nine twenty-five p.m., Harry quickly signed the sign-in sheet, the final name on the list, and wrote "will contact you later" across the fields that asked for his phone number and e-mail address. Then he took a moment to speak with Patricia and thank her for her contribution.
"I'm so glad you thought it was helpful." she answered happily. "It makes all the effort worthwhile. Are you in a line of work that brings you in contact with cases of child abuse?"
"I, uh, I'm in police work," Harry stammered. He never felt ready to respond to that question. I need to come up with a better answer, he thought.
"Well, then, I can understand your interest," Patricia replied.
"We need to get out of here," Harry said in conclusion. "The ladies of the child protection organization want to close up. Good night. Thanks again." He turned, waving his hand a final goodbye, and strode out into the night.