have to call first. If you don’t call, I have the right to turn you away. These kids don’t like surprises.’
‘I’m not here to see any of the children, Miss Lawson. I’m here to see you.’
A crash from deep in the house forced Julia to step back and Jack followed her into the kitchen. The floor was covered in cake mix and two young boys stared up at Julia like butter wouldn’t melt. She handed the older one a five-pound note.
‘Tidy up. Go and buy a cake.’
Then she headed into the conservatory.
Numerous kids played in the back gardens, which, just like the houses, were all knocked into one. The ages ranged from about 6 to 16 and they spanned numerous ethnicities. The conservatory was like half a goldfish bowl and, from here, Julia could see every inch of the garden. Nothing was getting past her. The low windowsill that ran around the edge, only stopping to accommodate two sets of double doors, was filled with picture frames of various kids. Some photos were sun-bleached with age, other were newer – but all were displayed proudly. One wall in the lounge they passed through was also floor-to-ceiling pictures. Julia had pointed to them.
‘Some of the kids can’t be photographed, but those who can are in a frame somewhere in the house. It’s important for the new kids to see that they’re not the only ones. It can feel lonely, thinking everyone else’s life is better than yours.’
The older kids in the garden eventually noticed Jack and instinctively moved closer to the conservatory in case Julia needed them.
‘I’m DC Jack Warr from the Met.’
Julia stood silent, waiting for him to explain further. But he didn’t.
‘How many kids do you look after here?’
‘I thought you weren’t here for the children.’
Julia clearly didn’t trust the police and nor did the kids in the garden.
‘I’m not. I . . .’
Jack looked through the window at the happy children and finishing this sentence suddenly became very hard. Julia recognised a lost child when she saw one and guessed that he had started life in a place like this. No one said anything for a moment.
Jack smiled as he started again. ‘I hear you work wonders with the kids. I spoke to a colleague in Manchester and she was certainly impressed.’
Another silence. Julia waited.
‘I could have been in that system,’ said Jack. ‘But I was lucky enough to be placed relatively quickly. I was 5.’
And with that one sentence the atmosphere changed completely. Ten minutes later, he was drinking tea and listening to Julia talk about how, to date, she’d helped more than 370 troubled or unwanted children.
‘We go to West Kirby near the Wirral every month and, once a year, we head a bit further north to Formby beach and nature reserve. The kids love it ‒ some pretend not to, of course, but that’s just to save face. Tough men can’t enjoy donkey rides.’
Jack spotted one photo on the windowsill of a young girl, maybe 9 or 10, jumping a small fence on horseback. He made a comment about that child progressing far beyond donkeys on the beach.
‘That’s me.’ Julia spoke with a long-forgotten pride. ‘I hardly recognise her now. Horses are such trusting beasts – they teach children respect and kindness.’
Jack used this casual memory to segue into the reason for his visit.
‘The Grange would have been a wonderful place for a kids’ home, then.’
Julia looked directly at Jack. ‘Is that why you’re here . . .? Good God! That was a lifetime ago.’ She didn’t seem unsettled by the change of topic. ‘The problem you’ve got, DC Warr, is that I was using back then. I may not be able to help you, not because I don’t want to but because it’s all a bit of a blur.’
As Julia began talking, she repeated much of what Jack had already heard. That they were a group of women brought together by Ester Freeman to welcome Dolly Rawlins back into the real world. Then the children’s home idea raised its head and they all decided to stay on and help Dolly with that. They were ex-cons with nowhere else to be, so they jumped on the back of her ambition and went along for the ride.
‘It doesn’t take long at all to get into your blood. Dolly disappeared from my life in the blink of an eye, but the kids’ home idea . . . that refused to leave. I would like to have seen The Grange come to fruition, horses