‘She’s very high up’, quipped the legal aid, introducing the judge, in all her grandeur, to the hospital receptionist.
It’s almost as if her unspoken power, written in the sharpness of her dress and otherworldly aurora, weren’t enough without being underscored by a little flattery. A short, but glorious, disclaimer.
We, the audience, are told that it is highly unusual for a judge to swoop down from the dizzying heights of the court to visit a child in the hospital. Even a child in between the equinox of life and death.
Of course, what the judge does is noble (if not laced with a little self-interest), but what I lament is not the act itself, rather, the infrequency of it. I am disappointed by the fact that those in power across the country, ranging from judges, councillors, to head teachers, seldom take the time needed to really connect with the children whose futures depend upon them. It seems absurd that all that is known about these children by those who direct their fate is summarised in an inch of font. How can anyone truly know what is best for ‘Child A’ for the next 18 years with such a porous script? With nothing more than a scaffolding-like-chronology to go from, like a curtailed showreel of life’s worst moments, those in authority make pivotal decisions for vulnerable children. How did it come about that such lofty strangers, so sheltered from the reality of life for neglected or traumatised children, were given the go ahead to guide their social, emotional or financial fates? Consequences of which can span the horizon of their lives for decades.
In an act of defiance, however, our protagonist, Mrs Maye, shatters such trends. In meeting Adam face to face, she seeks out his needs, strengths, and essence for herself. In doing so, she sees beyond his prosaic narrative as detailed in court documents. Documents far too esoteric to be accessed by the layman. Coming back down to earth, Mrs Maye embarks on a quest to understand Adam’s world not only from the bird’s eye view of the court, but from ground zero. She does this by simply noticing what makes the boy tick. Nodding to a generations-old guitar, Mrs Maye gestures for Adam to play, and begins to sing along. In doing so, she seems to soften the discordant melody of his life, if only for a short cadence. Her soprano voice permeates the room with a swelling melody which rises and falls, sort of like Adam’s story. Later, when delivering her verdict to his unrelenting family, she brings Adam’s character to life by highlighting not only his predicament, but his newly found passion for the guitar.
The music is as evocative as Adam’s journey, which I won’t spoil for those of you who are yet to see the film. But this isn’t a sponsored tug for you to go out and buy tickets. It’s a gentle call for all of us to learn from the plot, away from the glaring cinematic screen. I’m reaching out to you – the social care boss, the head of department, the family lawyer. No matter your schedule, make strides to find out more about the child. To interact with them if possible. If a mighty power were to make life-altering decisions about your life, wouldn’t you want them to capture a little of who you are before-hand? Because you never know what insight you might discover. The quotidian reality of the child’s lives, (their favourite song, you-tube star or most cherished possession) might speak volumes over what you read about their plaintive situation. You might find not only that ‘The Children Act’, but that they sing, read poetry, or play guitar – and these interests could guide you, to guide them, for life.
Social Care Scribe 