A Quiet Kind of Thunder

by Sara Barnard

  3) When you need a new pencil

  Eleven years old. SATs. We are ten minutes into Maths Paper 1 and the end of my pencil snaps clean off and goes skittering across the floor. I know I am supposed to put my hand up and ask for a spare; I know my teacher, Miss Kapsalis, will give me another if I just ask. But it is not only my mouth that has frozen shut – my limbs have gone rigid, my wrists scratching the splintered ridge of my exam desk, the pencil in my clenched fist. I can’t even move. I sit, panicking, for twenty minutes until Miss Kapsalis, who is walking up and down the aisles of our desks to check for cheating, finally notices. She lets out a noise that is groan, gasp and horror all in one and drops to my side.

  ‘Steffi!’ she whispers, even though she’s not supposed to talk to us during the exam. ‘You need to answer the questions.’

  I uncurl my fingers and the broken pencil drops on to the table. I’m given a new pencil with fifteen minutes to go. Needless to say, I don’t exactly come top of the class.

  2) When you look a bit suspicious

  Twelve years old. Tem and I are spending a Saturday afternoon together mooching around town. We’re in one of those bit-of-everything shops that sells clothes, twee gifts and cushions. Tem is trying on a vintage prom dress and I am standing in the corner, gazing at a shelf full of candles. The woman who owns the shop is suddenly at my side, asking me in a threateningly gentle voice what I think I am doing. I stare at her, confused and panicked in equal measure. What could have been a polite ‘I’m just browsing, thanks’ exchange turns into her getting increasingly irate and me getting more and more frozen. No amount of ardent head-shaking is enough for me to convince her I’m not stealing anything. She is threatening to call the police when Tem comes parading out of the changing room wearing a black-and-white polka dot dress, announcing, ‘Just tell me how beautiful I am!’ before she sees us both, clocks the situation in less than a second and hurries across the shop floor to smooth things over.

  1) When your best friend needs you

  Thirteen years old. I am in a stadium, watching Tem run the 800m final of the County Championships. She wins the race and is crackling with electricity and endorphins, leaping all over the track, hugging me, letting go, bouncing, cartwheeling. It’s the first county race she’s ever won. She’s just collected her medal and is standing in the crowd, beaming down at it. And that’s when a woman, the mother of one of Tem’s competitors, says to someone – to this day I don’t know who exactly she was talking to – ‘They shouldn’t let those ones compete; everyone knows their bodies make them faster. It’s not fair on our girls.’

  For one clueless moment I don’t even understand what she means, but something about the sudden slackness in Tem’s face makes it clear. There’s no hidden meaning, no nice liberal understanding or context. The woman is being just plain racist about my beloved Tem, right in front of her. And this is it: the most shameful moment of my life. Because I don’t say a word. I just stand there, even as I see the light leave Tem’s eyes, even as she looks at me for just a second, even though she spends most of her days looking after me. No one else says anything either, but I know it is my silence that is the worst. My silence that is unforgiveable.

  Later, when I try to apologize – awkward and tongue-tied – she waves me away, tells me she understands that sometimes my words just don’t come, that she knows I would have spoken if I could have.

  So here’s the thing: this was the worst time to be mute, but in a way it also saved us both. Because she didn’t have to find out whether I would have been brave enough to stand up for her. And neither did I.

  Here’s something pretty important you should know. Over the summer, I started taking DRUGS. Not Bad Drugs. Good Drugs. Prescription drugs.

  This is partly to do with this being my make-it-or-break-it year, but to be honest it’s been a long time coming. Ever since I was very young my parents and my doctor have been discussing whether or not I should take medication to help with my anxiety and, by extension, my mutism. (Why wasn’t I involved in the discussions, you may ask? What an excellent question. Let me know if you get an answer.) The thing with SSRIs – Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors, which is what I’m taking – is that they’re not supposed to be taken by ‘children’, and that basically means anyone under the age of eighteen.

  In my case, we agreed that sixteen was the right age and on my birthday last year I had a series of sessions with a new therapist where we worked out a med plan for me, as well as fortnightly Cognitive Behaviour Therapy (CBT) sessions. As I said, I started my first round of fluoextine over the summer – three weeks ago, in fact. So far, all I’ve got to show for it is some pain in my teeth (a rare side-effect, so trust me to be the one who gets it) and a whole load of trepidation. It can take up to six weeks before you really start to see its effects. Six weeks! So I’ve got a long way to go.

  It’s a weird thing. For some people, SSRIs change their life – like a fog lifting, they say. Others say it doesn’t actually make much of a difference, that their anxiety remains, or in some cases it actually worsens. Which group I will fall into remains to be seen. I hope I’m one of the lucky ones. God, I hope so.

  ‘They’re not magic pills,’ Dad cautioned. ‘It’s not going to be a miracle cure. You know that, Stef-Stef?’

  Of course I know that. But I can still hope.

  I imagine going to the supermarket and buying a bottle of milk without thinking twice. I dream of speaking to the assistant at the bank. I hope of getting through a Saturday in town without a panic attack. These are such small things to most people, but the fear of them takes up my whole world.

  When I get home from my first day as an official sixth former, I find my dad still wearing his suit from work, though he’s loosened his tie and taken off his jacket, eating a nectarine over the kitchen sink. My dad is a civil servant, which means he deals with politicians all day but isn’t allowed to be political. He is diplomatic, soft-spoken and the kindest person in the world.

  ‘Stef-Stef,’ he says, dropping the nectarine pit into the compost caddy and wiping his hands on a piece of kitchen paper. ‘How was your first day?’

  ‘Pretty good,’ I say, kneeling to greet my five-year-old German shepherd, Rita, who has padded into the kitchen to greet me. She sits, tail thwacking against the floor. ‘I missed Tem, though.’

  He smiles. ‘Understandable. Did you make any friends?’

  ‘Not really. They’re pretty much all the same kids I’ve been at school with for years, Dad.’

  ‘I know, but now Tem’s moved on it’s a good time for you to reconsider old friendships.’ He reaches down and strokes Rita’s smooth head. ‘I’d worry very much if you were planning to spend the whole year by yourself. Especially after what we discussed.’

  ‘I did meet someone,’ I say quickly, hoping to avoid where I know he’s going and offering a silent apology to Rhys Gold for using him as a distraction. ‘My head of year introduced me to a new kid who’s deaf, because I know some sign language.’

  Dad’s whole face lights up. ‘Wonderful!’ he says, sounding just like Mr Stafford in a way that makes me smile. ‘You must be a bit rusty after all these years. I’ll have a look in the attic for the books we used to use. I knew I’d be glad one day that I didn’t throw them away.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I start to say, but he’s already off.

  ‘There are probably some really great online learning platforms for BSL nowadays. I remember they all seemed a little rudimentary back then. Have a look and let me know if you need to sign up for anything or if you need to pay; it’ll definitely be worth it. Maybe I could do a little refresher course too.’

  ‘Dad –’

  ‘Lucy will be pleased! Maybe the four of us could all learn together, like we did last time.’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘What?’ He’s still all smiles, and I hate to do this to him.

  ‘Three, Dad. The three of us.’

  There’s a silence. We both look at each
other. I see his smile fade and pain sweep across his face.

  Dad clears his throat. ‘Right. Yes. Three of us. Maybe the three of us could learn together.’ He turns away from me and picks up an envelope from the post pile. ‘I ordered pizza for us. It should be here in twenty minutes. I got you the Garden Supreme.’

  ‘Great,’ I say. ‘Call me when it arrives, OK?’

  It’s been three years since my stepbrother died, but somehow this still happens. It’s been three years, but I still don’t know how to make it OK.

  At dinnertime, Dad and I eat and talk as if nothing happened. He doesn’t ask me any more questions about making new friends and I feel guilty, but also relieved. My stepmother, Lucy, comes downstairs to sit with us and talk about sixth form, but she doesn’t ask me whether I spoke or not. She isn’t wearing any make-up and she looks tired.

  I mentally run through any possible Clark-related anniversaries that I may have forgotten, but I don’t land on any. It won’t be four years since he died until next June and his birthday was in January. I decide this is just A Bad Day. We all get them, because grief doesn’t care how many years it’s been. Before Clark died, Lucy was the kind of well-kept, together person who wore make-up just to sit at the dinner table with her family, but that poise is gone now, maybe even forever. It’s like when death took Clark he took a big part of Lucy too.

  In my dad’s family – just the three of us now, a tiny, slightly wobbly unit – we talk about mental health, which is why I know that Lucy is depressed, that it’s a particular kind of depression they call ‘complicated grief disorder’. It’s strange; for all the focus there is on understanding the ‘cause’ of a mental health issue (people always seemed to talk as if my selective mutism could be totally cured if only they knew what caused it) in Lucy’s case, when the cause is so clear, knowing what it is doesn’t actually help. Lucy’s sadness was so total, and she was so lost in it, that it didn’t matter that we all knew why it had happened. Knowing the cause didn’t give us a cure. Lucy had to rely on what she calls the three Ts: tears, time and talk. (‘The only things that really help, in the end.’)

  The irony is that people I meet now always think that my anxiety and communication difficulties were caused by Clark’s death, as if I were diagnosed at fourteen instead of five. And part of me always wants to say, Would that make it better? Would that make it easier, if I could point to something as obvious as that to explain myself? Would you be more sympathetic if it was tied to something as seismic as death?

  Clark’s death was the worst thing that ever happened to me, but I was a selective mute long before it. It may have changed some of the specifics of my anxiety – I worry a lot more about cars now, and death in general – but it didn’t create it. Sometimes things, like car accidents and the weather, just happen. And maybe that’s the scariest thing of all.

  BSL signs it’s handy to know

  Hello/Please/Thank you

  The essential basics. Hello, like a wave. Please and thank you are the same – the prime hand held upright and flat, fingers touching the chin, move hand down and away. Mouth the word for clarity.

  The alphabet

  If you can fingerspell, you can say anything. Just . . . well, slowly.

  Mum/Dad

  The finger-spelling for M (as in mother) and F (as in father)respectively, tapped twice.

  Brother

  Two fists moving up and down, side by side with knuckles facing each other.

  Sister

  Index finger on the prime hand curled forward, held up to the nose and tapped twice.

  Step (as in stepbrother, stepmother, etc.)

  Interlock the two little fingers (finger-spelling S), then follow it with the sign for brother, mother, etc.

  Half- (as in half-sister)

  Prime hand held out flat, the other hand makes a motion as if it were cutting it in half. Follow this with the sign for sister.

  Sit (useful if you have a dog)

  Each hand held out in a fist. Move both fists down in one motion.

  I love you

  Point to yourself. Put your two hands on your heart. Point to the person you love.

  On Wednesday I get my first glimpse of what Maths is like in the sixth form, which is basically that emoji that looks like The Scream, and also my first class with Rhys. He sits next to me without asking, smiling at me as he does so.

  Good morning, he says on arrival.

  A woman I’ve never seen before stands at the front of the room, just to the side of the teacher, Mr Al-Hafi. I realize that she is Rhys’s communication support worker as soon as Mr Al-Hafi begins to speak and her hands and face spring into action, turning his words into signs. Everyone around me gawps at her until Mr Al-Hafi loses his patience and tells them to ‘at least not be so obvious about it’.

  The downside of all this interesting stuff going on is that I get to the end of the lesson and realize I’ve only taken in about thirty per cent of it, and have made even fewer notes.

  As everyone starts gathering up their stuff at the sound of the bell, Rhys touches my shoulder. Not many notes? he signs when I look at him. He smiles. You must have a good memory.

  He has definitely simplified his BSL for me since we last spoke, which I love, because last night I spent a good hour or so with one of my old BSL books, sitting in front of my mirror, signing to myself.

  Before I can think of how to reply, the communication support worker comes to stand beside us and I take a step back so she can speak to Rhys. They have a quick conversation that is too fast for me to follow before she hands him a couple of sheets of paper that I assume must be notes of some kind about the lesson. Then, to my surprise, she turns to me. ‘Hello,’ she says. ‘You must be Steffi.’ Both her voice and her hands speak.

  I smile back, surprised. Who told her who I am? Mr Stafford? Rhys?

  ‘I’m Clare,’ the woman continues. ‘I’ll be popping in and out to give a bit of assistance to Rhys here at Windham. It’s good to know there’s another student who knows a bit of BSL.’

  I wiggle my hand in a so-so gesture, hoping she won’t get carried away and think I can be anything like as helpful as her.

  ‘Oh, don’t be so modest,’ Clare chides, not even acknowledging the fact that I haven’t spoken out loud. I decide I like her. ‘Every little helps. I’ll see you after lunch, Rhys. Nice to meet you, Steffi.’

  What’s your next class? I ask Rhys after she leaves.

  Free period, he replies. He smiles and waves the sheets Clare had given him. I need to go over these. You?

  Also free period, I say, then quickly add, just in case he thinks I’m hinting at anything, I’m going to the library.

  Cool. Can I come? He hoists his backpack up over his shoulder and smiles expectantly.

  I have to say yes. It’s only polite. Sure. I keep my expression relaxed, like this is a normal day for me. This way.

  Steffi Brons – English, notes on Atonement Chps 1–3 Sept 7th

  Briony is a

  Can you write instead of signing? SORRY!

  SURE ☺ WHERE IS YOUR SURNAME FROM?

  My dad’s dad was German.

  What about you? Where’s Gold from?

  WHO KNOWS? IT’S AN OLD WELSH NAME I THINK.

  Ian McEwan is

  HAVE YOU READ THE WHOLE BOOK?

  No, just first 3 chaps. Have you?

  NO. SEEN THE FILM THOUGH. IT’S GREAT.

  Is it on Netflix?

  PROBS NOT. I’VE GOT THE DVD.

  YOU CAN BORROW IT IF YOU WANT.

  Book opens with play – what does this say about construction of narrati—

  CAN YOU NOT TALK AT ALL?

  I can talk sometimes.

  WHAT MAKES THE DIFFERENCE?

  No idea. Sometimes it just goes away and sometimes it’s fine.

  I’m much better with people I know.

  Strangers are harder.

  IT MUST BE REALLY HARD.

  Yeah. Sometimes. I guess it Not as har
d as Maths!

  Briony is a writer What is REAL, etc. How does

  I SAID I LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING.

  oh . . . thanks ☺

  My email is steffi@bronsmail.com

  No seriously that is my email address.

  We have a family account, bronsmail.

  I promise!

  My dad thinks it’s funny.

  He’s really proud of it. What’s yours?

  RHYSESPIECES@GMAIL.COM

  cute funny address!

  DO YOU USE JACKBYTES? IT’S AN APP. LIKE A CROSS BETWEEN WHATSAPP AND A CHAT ROOM. MY USERNAME IS RHYSESPIECES. SET UP AN ACCOUNT AND ADD ME! OH AND FACEBOOK TOO ☺

  Briony is

  oh bugger this.

  I play it cool and force myself not to add Rhys on Facebook until the end of the school day, when I head to the kennel where I work for my weeknight shift. I click ‘Add Friend’, then turn my phone off and put it in my locker. Done.

  I’ve worked at the St Francis Kennels and Boarding since I turned sixteen. People are often surprised that I have a job, what with the whole not-speaking-much thing, to which I say – selective mutes have the right to earn money too. And I’m not even that mute any more.

  St Francis is the only kennels and cattery in the county that operates a day ‘crèche’ as well as overnight boarding, so it’s always busy, even during term time. Now that school has started up again – in the summer I do a lot more hours – I work two days a week: Wednesday from 4 p.m. to 8 p.m., when I sign out dogs back to the care of their owners, and either Saturday or Sunday for the full day. At the kennels, I am happy. I am my best self. It is one of the places where I can talk almost as much as normal people, and it’s one of the reasons I can believe I’ll be properly OK one day.

  ‘Hello, Steffi!’ Ivan calls to me as I come through the door. He’s grinning, leaning against the reception desk. Ivan has known me for years, back from when I used to visit as a silent, unhappy child. He was the one who suggested I volunteer and then, later, become a paid employee. It is an understatement to say I owe a lot to Ivan.