Stephen’s initial reluctance to subscribe to her plans minimised his involvement to a grudged endorsement. Would she be feeling any different now if he had been more supportive, active and involved? His stubbornness to invest any of his time in the planning and organising of the interview process infuriated her and spurred her with the determination to give life to the idea and see it through to completion. Her focus in all of this was her son, not a preoccupation with property development. The opportunity had presented itself at a favourable time and Dylan’s best interests stirred her into an unquestionable conviction, a crusade even, and Stephen’s grudged blessing was incidental.
Was this about Georgia and her relationship with Stephen? Had it permeated their weaknesses as a couple and exposed that Georgia’s sense of identity had deserted her. Georgia once had a rewarding career, she organised and managed, she made decisions that affected lives, that influenced outcomes. Was she trying to show to Stephen, and ultimately prove to herself, that the attributes and skills she once projected, on a day-to-day basis, were still as natural to her as breathing?
What of her motives, did she continue to view them with clarity? They were discernible to her because Dylan was at the centre of every decision she made, yet, as she poured over each detail, she became encouraged by the prospect of escaping another unfulfilled Scottish summer and absorbing herself in her project of giving the house a much-needed makeover. The thought of it and the practicalities stirred a nervous excitement and invigorated a sense of purpose she had not contemplated for years. Her scales of priority were maybe no longer weighed towards the concerns of Dylan’s education. Her move to Corfu was now also a pretext to fulfil what had been missing in her life and by breathing life into the prospect of leaving behind her everyday existence, cracks in her contentedness had emerged from the shadows. She yearned for a new rhythm to her life.
And now it was time to reflect upon those she had interviewed. She had envisaged set criteria, professional and personal, that the successful candidate would need to fulfil, surpass even. However, such perfection did not reveal itself within the personal qualities of those she had seen. Academic qualifications and experience were only part of the jigsaw she had planned. Now she had disentangled Dylan from the education establishment and taken responsibility for his future education, her standards and virtues needed to be reflected in those who sat opposite her. At times, during the process, she felt she was the one having to prove and justify herself, but what had become tangible was the fact that she had started a process that invigorated her.
She had a purpose that served her instincts as a mother and as a woman. To her mind, there existed no conflict there. Such things were the building blocks she identified with, and, for that reason, she would continue what she had started.
Chapter 4
Passengers
Adam enters the block of flats, where the stench of urine clings to the air, like an affliction. He locates the appropriate door and knocks, willing it not to open. The door squeaks on its hinges, revealing a small but portly woman, underdressed in a nightgown, that has seen its natural colour fade to a dull grey, interspersed with islands of encrusted stains.
‘Have those wee bastards been pissing on the walls again? It’ll be the last thing they ever dae if I get ma hands on them,’ she croaks, craning her head out of the door.
‘Eh hello Mrs MacAndrew, I’m Adam. I’ve come about beginning the assessment of your son.’
He lifts his identity badge.
‘Oh Aye, you’re from the autism team. I forgot you were coming the day,’ she says, without looking at the photograph. ‘That wee psycho of a hamster is on the loose again, it’s behind the fridge this time. If it wisnae for Liam being fond of the wee shite, the cat would be shitting hamster the night.’
‘Look if it’s a bad time I could come back when it’s more convenient,’ he says, almost apologising.
‘No, you're fine. In you come. I was only watching the telly before psycho got oot the cage.’
Once in the dim hallway, Adam notices three layers of wallpaper flaking from the walls, like peeling skin. Small mountains of empty cardboard boxes sit against the wall.
Mrs MacAndrew gestures to the boxes. ‘Sorry about the mess, the boxes are Liam’s, he gets them from the Spar shop and makes things out of them. Would you like a tea or a coffee?’ She disappears into the kitchen.
‘Eh no thanks, I’ve been drinking coffee all morning,’ he lies.
‘Ah, the perks oh the job eh… well, you’ll no mind if I have one then.’
‘Go ahead, I’m fine.’
‘Just take a seat in the living room. I’ll no be long.’
He moves into the room. It is small and over crowded with dark furniture. Stale cigarette smoke clings to the air, a stubborn smell, that he imagines infesting the fibres of his clothes. He moves aside a torn copy of The Sun newspaper, to make space, as both sofas are littered with empty crisp packets, discarded chocolate wrappers, empty cartons of juice, various magazines and a chipped plate that still has the remains of what he considers to be toast and beans. The dark thick pile carpet has evidently not seen the suction from a vacuum cleaner in some time and to his astonishment, he seems to be surrounded by dolls of every description.
A shelf runs the length of one wall, where he counts twenty dolls sitting in a row, staring through marble eyes at a 52’ TV screen, their reflections eerily mirrored along with Jeremy Kyle.
Eventually, Mrs MacAndrew shuffles into the room, her slippers scrape the carpet as she carries her coffee. Adam drags his gaze from the dolls.
‘Ah, you’ve seen ma collection then. It’s a hobby o mine,’ she proudly proclaims. ‘There’s more in the bedroom if you’d like to see them. I’ve collected them for years. Everyone has a name ye ken.’
She laboriously lowers herself into the sofa which creaks in protest under her weight. As she proceeds to light a cigarette, Adam notices an overflowing ashtray on a small side table, its surface dusted in small islands of ash. The only window in the room remains closed, as the oppressive air inhabits the room, like a third person. His stomach sinks and he shudders at the prospect of having to go through the assessment and, in retrospect, he wishes he had offered this woman an appointment in his clinic. However, he is eager to escape the small confines of his office and lecture rooms at least a few times in the week, and this offered the perfect opportunity.
‘Did you need Liam to be here son? He’ll no be home from school until four.’
‘No that’s ok. Today’s just about asking you lots of questions about Liam that you’ve probably been asked a hundred times before, but I’m afraid it's essential for the assessment.’
‘That’s alright then. If he was here, we widnae get a minutes peace.’
The assessment lasts almost an hour, in which time, four more cigarettes are smoked and another coffee drank. Adam has collated a plethora of valuable information about Liam, due to the insatiable talent Mrs MacAndrew has for talking, which only ceases when she sucks on her cigarette, at short interspersed intervals.
Relieved, Adam says his farewell and leaves the flat, walking into a constant drizzle of rain. It’s a relief to be outside and as he heads towards his car, the smell of stale smoke clings to his clothes, like an intrusive layer of damp skin. At least their next meeting will be in the confines of the diagnostic clinic and he wonders how Mrs MacAndrew will cope with not being able to smoke for three hours. He imagines her cumbersome frame heading for the exit at every available opportunity determined to gratify her craving.
***
He arrives late, apologising and blaming his sense of timing.
‘We’ve ordered some starters to share,’ Chloe says, touching his arm.
Two bottles of red and two of white wine sit waiting to be poured. A jug of water is passed around the table’s occupants and only Chloe refuses.
‘I’ve ordered a diet coke,’ she says, smiling at Adam.
He explains that he has be
en browsing in Waterstones and hadn’t realised the time.
The Italian restaurant serves as a favourite haunt for the university teaching staff, an established venue for birthday celebrations and staff leaving meals.
Adam gazes around the table and is met by the familiar faces which have defined his years of teaching at the university; Professor Bill Waters, engrossed in discussion with Charlotte Hays, whose skin, suffused in a pink complexion, seems to stain her face, no matter the weather or temperature of a room. Arthur Waters pours red wine into Jackie Galbraith’s glass, overriding her gesture he has poured enough. Dr Sally Williams, fresh from a conference in London, where she presented a research paper on, ‘Generalising the social skills of children and young people with autism.’ peers over her glasses and acknowledges Adam with a smile as the starters arrive. Two waiters hand out plates of Bruschetta with cherry tomatoes, roasted red peppers and sautéed mushrooms, Apulian sautéed mushrooms and spinach, Antipasto platter, meatballs, ravioli with balsamic brown butter and mixed olives.
‘Just place them in the middle of the table,’ Arthur instructs. ‘We’re all going to share,’ and with a grandiose gesture of his hand, he booms, ‘Tuck in everyone.’
‘How did the interview go?’ Chloe asks Adam, as she places a crisp white napkin on her lap. ‘I must admit, your decision has taken everyone by surprise.’
‘As far as I can tell, it went fine,’ Adam offers.
‘And it took place in a house, that must have been odd,’ she says.
‘No. Not really. It didn’t feel like an interview. The husband wasn’t there, he works in London, involved in property developing, something like that. He’s building houses in Majorca I think but that’s not where I’ll be going. The job advert stated that it involved going abroad, I didn’t know where until the interview. They have a house in Corfu. That’s where I’ll go if I get the job.’
‘Corfu, wow you lucky devil.’ Chloe’s eyes are wide with excitement.
‘It’s not as if I’m going on a holiday,’ he says, almost apologetically.
Chloe sighs. ‘Imagine wakening up to the sun every morning.’
‘Is it too late to apply? I fancy a bit of the sun myself.’ Sally smiles over her wine glass.
‘I still can’t believe that you’re leaving us,’ Chloe says.
‘It’s only for a year. You’ll be surprised how quick that will go. The teaching job’s for three months and anyway, I don’t think I’m in the running.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Chloe leans her head towards him.
‘She made it quite clear her preferred choice would be female.’
‘Then why did she offer you an interview in the first place? That doesn’t seem fair. Rather rude actually, making you go all the way to Edinburgh just to tell you you’re the wrong sex.’
Chloe rants on and he listens half-heartedly, thinking of the day before, in Edinburgh, answering Georgia’s questions, qualifying his interest in Dylan. She told him the absent husband would visit them in Corfu, he doesn’t even know where in Corfu that will be; only the successful candidate would be told. This was all he knew, it was not much to go on, to base three months of living and teaching in another country.
Chloe is still talking. ‘That’s sex discrimination, Adam.’
He shakes his head and smiles. ‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘Then how was it?’ Sally inquires.
‘There was a sense of apology about her. Anyway, I got the distinct impression she was more interested in why I applied.’
‘So she was suspicious of your motives, given your position and background,’ Chloe says, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. ‘And what are your motives Adam?’ she asks.
‘I don’t know, call it a midlife crisis.’ He laughs.
‘At thirty-three!’ A cynical smile bares Chloe’s brilliant white teeth.
‘A few weeks ago, after a lecture, I noticed a job advert on one of the information boards to tutor a thirteen-year-old boy with Asperger’s syndrome. It stipulated that, if interested, you needed to live abroad for three months. I phoned and was e-mailed the job application that evening.’
‘She was keen,’ Chloe says.
‘That must have been weird, I mean, applying for a job like that out of the blue,’ Jackie Galbraith says, attempting to defuse Arthur Waters’ unwanted attention.
‘I felt excitement and a sense of quietude all at the same time.’ He contemplates that it has been some time since he has experienced similar feelings whilst lecturing.
The main courses arrive along with instantaneous sounds of approval.
‘How did the visit go at the MacAndrews? Did you feel you were being watched?’ Sally inquires, with a teasing smile.
‘Ah, the dolls.’ Adam shrugs and then smiles. ‘It went well. The diagnostic assessment is next week.’
‘This will be your last clinic. How does it feel?’
‘Oh I don’t know ask me when it’s over. I suppose I’ll have mixed feelings. You know my work’s important to me as is everyone around this table.’
‘I should think so too,’ Claire injects, draining her glass.
Sally looks at him suspiciously. ‘So, why are you leaving us?’
‘It’s not just about teaching anymore, is it?’ he says petulantly. ‘That part of the job seems devalued now. I hate the politics, the budget constraints, policies, legislation and recommendations that offer the earth, but few are worth the paper they're written on. I used to be an idealist but you can only be kicked so many times. I’ve lost that passion, you know, when you wake in the morning and it drives you forward. That has slowly drained from me.’ He thought what that meant. ‘I need another challenge.’
Adam was never one to lambast Monday mornings and the start of the working week. It was never just a job, it was a vocation, and it was all he had ever done. He felt privileged; he worked in an environment that inspired achievement and motivation. Adam was never one of those who felt they had wasted years in a job they hated. He did not get ‘that Friday feeling’ on the last working day of the week, work was not a shackle over his wakening hours. Adam cannot pinpoint with any accuracy when that changed.
‘Do you think you’ll find it teaching this young boy?’ Sally scrutinises him, looking over her glass.
‘I honestly don’t know.’ Adam shrugs. ‘Look, we all know what needs to be achieved to gain real meaningful change and improve autism services. We need to empower families by consulting them on their views, they need to be an integral part of developing and planning services. We need to make access to resources easier, improve the quality of services and make families equal partners in creating services. I’m sick of the amount of reports and papers that are churned out by government, advocating this action plan and that recommendation, spat out like a production line and yes, when implemented, some have had a real lasting impact on the lives of families, but too much of it is just a paper exercise. Well, I have been to that gym, bought the membership, but I won’t be renewing it. You can have all the action plans and recommendations in the world, but in a climate where local authorities have to deal with the reality of reduced budgets, then that shifts their priorities.’
‘But surely that’s the challenge,’ Sally says, trailing a finger over the rim of her glass. ‘We all acknowledge the lack of money, and going by current trends, it will get worse, but I believe that we have an unprecedented opportunity to design services and support these families from a starting point that will need cooperation and effective partnership between the services and agencies involved with a child. It will provide the impetus, if it’s grasped, to implement approaches that place the choice of control and funding at the centre of the families we work with. It should offer the prospect of early prevention and intervention for these families, ensuring that service delivery is well designed and cost effective relative to the need of families and,’ she leans forward as if to give more weight to her point. ‘It should police that resources are being used mo
re efficiently.’
‘That’s my point,’ says Adam, waving his fork. ‘There’s enough evidence in journals and research papers that promote the effectiveness of early intervention but due to the already limited and draining resources of current service provision it’s not provided in a proactive way. Then when families find themselves in crisis, the shit hits the fan, commissioners and managers climb down from their ivory towers and demand answers to why was it not prevented in the first place, who is supposed to be supporting the family? Who is responsible?’
‘I understand that, but the challenge is to work with families with the limited resources we have and collect the evidence that identifies and strengthens our arguments and highlights the failings and the common themes. Services need to be responding to these families needs in a way that is flexible and coordinated.’
He nods in agreement, a simple gesture that acknowledges defeat, or his lack of enthusiasm for an argument.
‘I can see I’m not going to win this one.’
‘Then you will stay with us?’ Sally tilts her head.
Adam laughs. ‘It wasn’t that convincing.’
‘Well if you get the job, you must visit Professor Tzakis Konstantinos, at Ionian University in Corfu? He’s a wonderful man and eminent academic. He studied here in Glasgow, we went to university together. It was his first time abroad and a few of us took him under our wings. We’ve been good friends ever since.’
The restaurant pulses to the dance of conversation and laughter. Another two bottles of wine arrive; a smiling waiter asks if everything is ok with their meals. The lights dim and a second waiter brings a cake, crowned with candles. A chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ punctuates the air, an unmelodic crescendo that makes Jackie Galbraith flush with embarrassment as she becomes the centre of attention.
The Boy Who Hugs Trees Page 3