Shtum

by Jem Lester

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Sorry, was I not specific enough? What do you mean when you say Maureen Mitchell is autism specific?’

  ‘It’s a school specifically for children with a diagnosis of Autistic Spectrum Disorder.’

  ‘But it’s not, is it?’

  ‘Yes it is, Mr Jewell. It was designated as such in August last year. We have a sensory room and a soft play area.’

  ‘They have a soft play area at Jungle Jim’s.’

  ‘I don’t understand?’

  ‘Clearly.’

  She looks at her watch. ‘Dr Wardle should be free now. Would you like to meet him?’

  ‘Is he the designated headteacher?’

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘Then I’d love to.’

  Dr Wardle has a ponytail. The wall behind his desk is a patchwork of certificates.

  ‘I was head-hunted,’ he says. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He has one of those filter machines with a glass jug on a cabinet next to him. He fills two mugs bearing the legend ‘Keep Calm and Hug it Out’.

  ‘It’s decaff.’

  ‘Fine. Mr Wardle …’

  ‘James.’

  ‘James …’

  ‘Did Di show you the sensory room? We’re super proud of it. It’s pretty psychedelic.’

  ‘Mr Ward … James, can I be candid?’

  ‘Of course, Ben, please, continue.’ He interlocks his fingers and rests his chin on them.

  ‘I don’t want Jonah to come here.’

  ‘But let’s explore for a few mos. Indulge me, if you would?’

  I’m imagining scissors and fists full of hair. ‘Please.’

  ‘Well, Ben, it’s about transition, smoothness. Jonah needs consistency. Let’s not make waves for him, let’s make it seamless. You see? Roysten Glen,’ he draws an imaginary line in the air, ‘Maureen Mitchell.’

  ‘I have some questions.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Speech and language therapy?’

  ‘Once a week from Roysten Glen.’

  ‘Occupational therapy?’

  ‘In the pipeline.’

  ‘Physiotherapy?’

  ‘Ditto.’

  ‘Educational psychologist?’

  ‘You’re looking at him.’

  ‘You’re a qualified edpsych?’ I scan the certificates behind his head.

  ‘Child psychology is my passion, but …’

  ‘So no full-time edpsych?’

  ‘Did I mention I am a reiki master, too?’

  ‘Guinea pigs, I ask you? Not a blade, Maurice, not a single blade.’

  ‘Leave it, Georg,’ Maurice says. ‘Here, try the black pudding.’

  ‘Nothing like keeping an open mind then, Dad,’ I say.

  ‘There’s open minds and then there’s open minds. JJ’s the outdoor type.’

  ‘Georg, Bear Grylls he’s not,’ Maurice adds.

  ‘Who asked you?’ Dad barks.

  ‘I was just saying – maybe his chakras are blocked?’

  ‘What do you know of chakras, Maurice? You’re a Dutch Jew not a Hindu.’

  I finish my bacon sandwich and grab my car keys from the table. ‘Come on, Sunshine Boys, let’s go.’

  The traffic’s nose to tail and they don’t stop bickering. I try to drown them out with a music station, but they insist on Radio 4. ‘The Archers’, for fuck’s sake, they’re both addicted, like their childhoods were spent in some bucolic idyll in the West Country. They have both felt the need for reinvention to some extent, I suppose. I look across and study my father. He has a strong profile, a square jaw, he must have been striking as a young man.

  There is a redness on the right side of his neck, it looks swollen and angry. The more I stare, the larger it gets.

  ‘What’s wrong with your neck?’

  ‘Uch, it is a shaving rash.’

  ‘Since when did you shave your neck, Dad?’

  ‘Stop fussing, it is nothing.’

  ‘How long’s it been there?’

  ‘Since you moved in, I am allergic to you.’

  ‘You need to get the doctor to look at it.’

  ‘It is nothing.’ He’s indignant.

  ‘Maurice, will you tell him to go to the doctor?’

  ‘Go to the doctor, Georg.’

  ‘All right, if you stop the nagging I’ll go.’

  ‘I’ll phone,’ Maurice says, flashing his iPhone. ‘Ben, how do you turn this thing on?’

  It’s only 3.20 and I need some time to contemplate, and the best place to contemplate is a pub. So I hole up in The Ship for a session of beer and self-pity – my only current hobbies. I used to play five-a-side football every week and go out for a curry every Tuesday with three mates. I used to read books, visit the cinema, go on holiday, sleep, eat out, take more than ten minutes to eat at home, shower and shave every day, have sex and never drink in the mornings.

  I cannot blame all this solely on Jonah; any new parent makes sacrifices – most, gladly – swapping perceived freedom for real or imagined parental pride, because that’s the expectation. And however hard it is to begin with, there is also the certain knowledge that it will get easier. The full night’s sleep will return, the smiles and interaction will arrive, being called ‘Dada’ is inevitable. The comparison between ages – at first crawling, first steps, first dry night. These are all immutable facts to new parents, as certain as the sun will rise and set each day.

  Birthdays are celebrated, toys are bought and played with, teams are supported, educations are planned, careers plotted, holidays with family and friends attended in Spain, Portugal, America – anywhere with a kids’ club that provides hours of poolside relaxation and escape. Mothers and fathers smile at their children – as tanned as toast – splashing around in the swimming pool; they smile at each other, hire babysitters while they dine at night in peace, or let their kids roam in packs with a pre-agreed meeting place at a certain time that they stick to obediently.

  Many, if not most, of these parents try hard for a second child and repeat the process, forewarned of the pitfalls, which they laugh at when they lose their footing again – oh well.

  When they get back they email photos to one another, visit each other’s homes, have made new friends – sometimes for life – their kids play together and grow up together, go out with each other, text each other, socialise.

  However, every so often, the scribe of procreation decides to write in a new genre – something akin to sci-fi, with a touch of dystopia and plenty of foreshadowing.

  And the children in these stories do not make friends, would drown in a swimming pool if left alone, have no sense of danger, no sense of time, can’t read or write, let alone text, many never talk, or learn to use the toilet.

  And their parents are never invited on holiday, to parties, out for lunch – and on the odd occasion they are, they say no, because while adults just patronise, other children are cruel and your child may unknowingly destroy a treasured possession without intent and will definitely make a mess which Mum or Dad feel duty bound to clear up. But the major reason, in such situations, is that when you exhibit affection, the room’s eyes just project pity and disbelief.

  By the time I get back, dying for a piss and a little worse for wear, there’s a poker game in full flow – Dad’s old football cronies from his days in the Maccabi League, where he was Jewish football’s least elegant but most effective centre half.

  I nod at Maurice, whose chewed-up cigar is lighter in colour than the teeth that grip it.

  ‘You remember Harvey, and this cheat here with the pile of chips is Sammy.’

  Sammy raises a liver-spotted hand. ‘So this is little Benjamin? No. It must have been …?’

  ‘Two years,’ I a
nswer for him.

  Harvey looks me up and down. ‘Georg, you sure he’s yours?’

  Maurice and Sammy are roaring, my father sits blank-faced.

  ‘No,’ he says. More laughter.

  ‘Nice boy you have in there. Doesn’t say much, mind you.’

  ‘He’s choosy,’ I say, knowing this is good-natured, but feeling like I may end this game with one well-chosen word.

  ‘They’re just kidding with you, here.’ Maurice pulls out the chair next to him.

  ‘You want to sit in? We’re playing seven-card stud,’ Dad asks.

  ‘No, Dad, thanks. Where’s Jonah?’

  ‘He’s inside watching a video, his programme finished at seven.’

  Jonah looks like a teenager lying on the sofa with his hands behind his head. I sit next to him, half expecting him to get up and leave, but he’s engrossed in Casablanca.

  The beer and the school meeting have wrecked me, so I take a chance and lay my head on his thigh and he lays his hand on my cheek. I tense every muscle in my body, desperate not to spook him. It was his decision, this physical contact, he wanted to do it, but when he leans down and puts his nose to my nose and his eyes to my eyes, I am in heaven, despite the overpowering odours of Old Spice and chopped herring. Not only does he look like my father, now he smells like him too. It’s a stirring smell full of long-suppressed childhood memories and insufferably vague feelings of a trusting love.

  ‘It’s okay, Ben? The video? Better than Schindler’s List? I don’t have much of a collection.’

  ‘Get back to the boys, Dad. It’s perfect.’

  I wake up as Victor and Elsa take off into the fog. My left cheek is bright red and ridged from Jonah’s pyjamas, my right bears a sweaty handprint. He is asleep and – in his armchair – so is Dad. I slide out and gently place Jonah’s hand where my head has been. Then I flick Dad’s ear.

  ‘Can you help me,’ I growl.

  Jonah is a lump, so it takes both of us to get him up the stairs. I go backwards, gripping him under the arms and supporting his head on my chest. Dad takes his feet and gently kisses his toes as we struggle – Hillary and Tensing – and by the landing Dad is sweaty and wheezing horribly, and Jonah is awake again by the time we lay him in his bed, before Dad shuffles to his room.

  I’m still flushed by the warmth of Jonah’s apparent earlier affection and – like the calming effect of the first hit of a whisky – I need to keep chasing that elusive feeling. So few moments feel like true connection with him, I almost grieve when each one ebbs away.

  ‘What is it with you, Jonah? When I was your age I used to pretend to be asleep to avoid listening to my father. I know I don’t have the storytelling gift like Papa Georg, but that’s okay, isn’t it?’

  Jonah farts, long and loud, the nappy acting as an amplifier. It makes me belly-laugh and he catches it, like a yawn, and laughs too. I try to lie next to him, but he pushes me away, so I sit across the bed with my back to the wall and he doesn’t object. I squeeze his thigh through the duvet.

  ‘Take your Papa Georg.’ I feel a pang of guilt. ‘He and I can’t talk – not like you and I. And we don’t hug, whereas I can’t keep my hands off you. Yes, I know sometimes it irritates you, but I need to. I can’t help it. I wouldn’t trade you in – as you are – for anything. I can’t imagine you being any other way or wanting you any other way.

  ‘So this business with your mum, all this talk of schools you’re going to hear, about going away – you must know that it’s because I love you so much. We’ll be back with Mum soon, Jonah, I promise, and I know these last two weeks have felt like a year, but I have to tell you this whether it registers or not, I want your days to be full of joy and fun and free of anxiety and pain. Other people may think you’re missing out on life. Believe me, Jonah, when I tell you it’s not so great. It’s hard and confusing and disappointing. I want none of that for you. If you spend the rest of your life in blissful ignorance of all the shit going on around you then I will have succeeded.

  ‘Who else is going to listen to me apart from you? I’m finding it hard to convince myself that my motives are pure, but you won’t judge me, will you? You understand that I’d never abandon you. The problem is, if Papa tells me I’m being selfish, I believe him. If Mummy tells me I’m being selfish, I believe her. Maybe I can’t find the words with them like I do with you? Just know, Jonah, that whatever anyone says, I’m going to find the belief to fight for you, because you being okay is so important to me, I can’t be okay if you’re not.’ Is he taking any of this in? He’s turned on his side away from me, so I rub his back.

  ‘God, your Higher Power, DNA or whatever, has given you certain wonderful gifts, it’s just that most other “individuals” aren’t programmed to appreciate them. They want you to be like them. Arrogant fuckers. I’m envious of those gifts – your lack of jealousy, self-pity and resentment. Those are emotions, Jonah, that are unattractive and self-harming and if some knob of a doctor came to me and said, I can, among others, allow your son to experience the following emotions, I’d tell him to sling his hook. I know you trust me, because you cling to me in the park when a dog comes near, somehow you know I’ll protect you. When you feel threatened, you reach for my hand.

  ‘Well, my gorgeous boy, you need to trust me now too. Because a lot of pit bulls are out to spoil the world I’ve planned for you and if I have to use Papa’s gun to get you there, I will.’

  I bend down to him and he’s already breathing softly through his nose. So I kiss him gently on the forehead. His eyes remain closed. It doesn’t matter if he hasn’t heard me.

  Witch

  Wynchgate Social Services

  The Civic Centre

  Brown Street

  London N24 3EA

  23 February 2011

  Dear Mr Jewell

  Re: John Jewell D.O.B. 11 May 2000

  Adele Latchford, director of children’s services, has passed on your recent correspondence and has asked me to provide an evaluation of John’s needs. I understand that your circumstances have recently changed and I would like to visit you and John at home at your earliest convenience.

  Please ring my office on 020 8555 1000 ext 435 to make an appointment and I look forward to meeting you soon.

  Regards

  Mary Carey

  Senior Social Worker

  After a month, we’re settling into a rhythm – my father, Jonah and I – school, food, bath, bed, bollocks and booze. Most nights, when I’m the last awake, I take a spin past the flat – just to check, but the lights remain off. Things are moving slowly and I’ve caught the inertia like a virus.

  I feel like I’m wearing a costume, shuffling around in oversized shoes, playing the role of an adult. At most if not all of the countless meetings and phone conversations with officialdom, I have taken a back seat to Emma. I have hundreds of email trails about Jonah, cced to me from my wife – but I’ve read none of them. With the exception of his school, I know none of the significant characters in the unfolding drama of Jonah, but Emma does and that has always been good enough. But with all this going on around me, I wonder what else I’ve missed and how I’m going to cope.

  The shot of brandy I’ve added to my coffee has frayed the edges of this blanket of dread but, as I spy a human shape through the opaque front-door glass, the blanket engulfs me. I feel I may be less than prepared for this front-of-house role.

  ‘Jonah.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘His name’s Jonah, not John.’

  I run my finger beneath his name in the letter.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jonah,’ she says. ‘You know how it is.’ Mary Carey is a picture of robust androgyny, like an East German discus thrower.

  ‘If I knew how it was, you wouldn’t be here.’

  She settles at the dining table, but I want to move her out of the kitchen before she sees Dad’s
lethal collection of knives hanging precariously from a rusty magnetic strip.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ She takes her pad out and lays a ballpoint on it. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, I’d just like to observe Jonah for twenty minutes or so and then we can talk. Would that be okay?’

  ‘Be my guest. Maybe it would be better if we moved to the lounge,’ I say.

  Mary Carey approaches Jonah and he moves away. Then she begins to sign, mouthing along as her bare arms and blinged-up fingers perform t’ai chi for my son. He leaves, through the lounge and out into the garden, and she follows. I feel like giving her my own version of sign language.

  It’s a coat, hat and scarf day, but Jonah doesn’t feel the cold and through the lounge window I watch, amused, as he skips circuits around the garden discarding clothing. Mary Carey stumbles after him picking up items as they fall. Then the cold inspires his bladder and the unfortunate social worker – on her haunches with arms full of school uniform – gets a proper hosing.

  He laughs, his head thrown back and uncontrolled. She probably thinks her soaking is the joke, but the truth is it’s the least likely explanation. I may think it’s hilarious, but with Jonah it’s as likely to be the way the wind has caught his hair or the pattern of light created by the bare apple tree. I check my watch. It’s 4.30, crapping time, she should count herself lucky.

  I grab a nappy and go outside to rescue him. He stands still, twiddling a leaf to the sky as I stretch the sticky straps either side and secure the situation. The soiled social worker hands me Jonah’s clothes and heads to the bathroom.

  ‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’

  She has taken her vest top off and now sits at the dining table in a leather biker’s jacket.

  ‘So he doesn’t sign.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t.’

  ‘PECS? Makaton?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘How does he communicate with you then?’

  ‘He understands simple instructions, otherwise he points, grabs my hand or just grabs whatever he wants for himself.’