by Ruth Mancini
‘I’m not sure,’ she says. ‘I’ll check.’
‘Great. Thanks,’ says the man. ‘We’ll wait here.’
I glance at him again in disbelief. Will we? Doesn’t he care about the racket Ben’s making? It’s loud. It’s impossible to ignore. I can’t understand why he’s still here.
But Ben is not going to wait for my jar of coffee to arrive, that much is clear. He’s roaring now, like an angry lion, his thick mane of hair framing his face, his mouth shaped into a furious ‘O’.
‘It’s OK. I need to get him home,’ I say, nodding at Ben. ‘But thank you anyway.’
‘Not at all.’ He watches as I grab hold of the Maclaren Major and wheel Ben towards the checkouts.
Ben stops crying for a few glorious moments, as he sees that we are on the move again and senses the exit looming near. I glance around at each checkout in turn, but there are queues at every one. I join what appears to be the shortest queue, with the sales assistant – a young girl in her twenties – who looks to be bleeping everything through the fastest, but there are still three people ahead of us and it’s not long before Ben’s off again, his sobs getting louder and louder by the minute, his voice resonating round the store.
The woman in the queue ahead of me glances round at him, her face impassive. ‘His nose is running,’ she says, accusingly.
‘Yes. Yes. I know.’ I root around in my bag for a tissue and hold it against Ben’s nose. As I do so, Ben flings his arm out and bats my hand away. He then shoves his fist into his mouth and starts to bite down on it as hard as he can. I can feel my own tears pricking at the backs of my eyes again as I bend down to stop him. I gently pull his hand away from his mouth.
‘No, Ben,’ I plead. ‘Don’t do that. Don’t hurt yourself like that.’
Ben bats my hand away for a second time and shoves his own back into his mouth, clamping down again with his sharp little teeth.
I crouch down beside him and start to sing, softly, in a wobbly, tearful voice, ‘Twinkle twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are,’ but I already know that we’re way beyond the sing-soothing stage. I’ve just made the decision to abandon my basket and leave the store by the nearest exit, when I feel a tap on my shoulder.
‘Here,’ says the man in the suit, as I stand back up. He hands me a jar of coffee, the brand that I’d wanted.
I take a deep breath and fight back the tears; I can’t cry in front of him again. ‘Thank you. You’re so kind. But he’s getting too upset now, so I think I’m just going to—’
‘Excuse me!’ the man calls loudly to the girl at the checkout, who’s finished serving one customer and is about to start on the next. ‘Can you serve this lady next, please?’
He frowns, subtly, but discernibly, at the woman in front of me and then says loudly, so that everyone in the queue can hear, ‘Can’t you see that this lady is struggling, here?’
The checkout girl nods. ‘Bring your basket up here,’ she says.
The lady at the front of the queue turns and looks back at me. ‘Oh. Yes. Of course,’ she says, and moves back to let me past.
I grab Ben’s hand away from his mouth for a third time and shove his buggy forward at the same time. ‘Ben, we’re moving,’ I say brightly. ‘Look! Look!’ But, what with Ben’s flailing arms and the Maclaren Major’s size and the basket sticking out at an angle, there’s not actually enough room to get by.
‘Here,’ says the man in the suit, taking my hand gently but firmly, removing it from the handle of the buggy and unhooking my basket for me. He passes it to the woman at the front of the queue, who then hands it to the checkout girl.
‘Go,’ he says. ‘I’ll get this. Wait for me outside.’
‘But—’
‘No buts,’ he nods his head towards the door, ‘just get yourself outside and sort your little man out. I’ll see you in a minute.’
I don’t need to be told a third time. I put the Maclaren Major into rapid reverse, and we speed like lightning towards the exit. There must be at least one store detective who thinks I’ve stolen something and am making a run for it, but I’ll take my chances. Getting gripped up by security staff couldn’t raise my cortisol levels any higher than they already are. Getting Ben out of the store is the only thing I care about right now; nothing else matters.
The relief I feel when I reach the doors is overwhelming. As if by magic, when they slide open and I wheel Ben onto the pavement, his yelling stops. I crouch down in front of him, unstrap him and take him in my arms, kissing the red bite marks on his hand and wiping his nose, before wrapping his legs round my waist and holding him tight against my chest. I can feel his little heart beating against mine, rapidly at first, but slowing down as the tension eases from his body, and as it does so, from my own.
‘There, there,’ I soothe him. ‘My poor boy. My poor boy. It’s OK.’
Ben lays his head against my shoulder for a moment, then looks up, takes one last, heaving sob and rewards me with a smile, his eyes still glistening with the tears he no longer needs.
‘Bah bah,’ he says.
‘I know,’ I say. ‘You don’t like shopping. I know.’
Ben watches me speak and then puts his fingers inside my mouth.
‘Teeth,’ I say. ‘Sharp.’ I close my teeth very gently onto his fingers. ‘See?’ I say. ‘We mustn’t do that. It hurts.’ But I know that’s why he does it. I know that he’ll do it again, next time. There’s always a next time.
But for now, me and my boy, we’re OK.
We stand on the pavement outside and rock gently back and forth together as the early-evening traffic whizzes by. The road empties for a few moments as the cars stop for the lights behind us and we watch a flock of birds take off from the branches of one of the trees across the road. I feel the stillness of the air, the stillness of my son who, exhausted by our ordeal, lies motionless in my arms, his head resting on my shoulder. The lights change and the traffic breaks through again. A motorbike whizzes past and Ben lifts up his head to follow it.
The doors to the store slide open and the man in the suit wanders out with my shopping. He glances round briefly, then spots me and Ben. I give a little wave and he walks over.
‘How much do I owe you?’ I ask immediately. I’m already heavily indebted to this man. I don’t want to owe him actual money a minute longer than is necessary.
‘The receipt’s in the bag,’ he says. ‘But there’s no hurry. We can sort it out later.’
He hooks the two bags of shopping onto the Maclaren Major and it immediately falls over backwards.
‘Don’t...’ I say at the same time, but it’s too late. The shopping hits the pavement and the buggy falls on top.
‘Oops. There goes another jar of coffee,’ he says, and we both laugh. He leans over to pick up the bags while I seat Ben back into the buggy and strap him in, his weight now stabilising the shopping that’s hanging over the back.
‘Do you live nearby?’ he asks. ‘Can I walk you home?’
I hesitate. I’ve only just met him, after all. He seems nice, but what if he’s a stalker? Or worse? A rapist? Or a paedophile? How would I know?
He takes a step away from me. ‘Oh God, I didn’t mean...’ He shakes his head and looks distraught. ‘I just meant... I could carry your shopping for you, that’s all, to your door. It’s all been a bit stressful for you. I just wanted to make sure you got home OK. But I can see how it might look... so, honestly, forget I said that.’
He smiles apologetically as he clutches the handle of his own shopping bag with one hand and brushes his hair back from his face again with the other. He’s actually blushing – and stuttering – and his diffidence makes me smile too. He reminds me of Hugh Grant in Four Weddings and a Funeral. He’s far too awkward to be a rapist.
‘I live just round the corner,’ I say. I lift the two bags of shopping from the handles of the Maclaren Major and hand them back to him. ‘And, actually, it would be a real help if you could take these. Shopping weighs
the buggy down. Well, you know that.’ I grin. ‘It’ll make it much easier to push.’
‘Of course.’
I swivel Ben round and we walk up past Wetherspoons and the Coronet, before turning the corner into the side road which leads down to the street where I live.
‘I’m Sarah, by the way,’ I tell him. ‘And this is Ben.’
He looks at me for a moment, as if he’s forgotten what his name is. I laugh.
‘Alex,’ he says, and attempts to hold out his hand, but it has a bag of shopping in it, and I laugh again.
‘So, do you live on your own?’ he asks, and then says, immediately, ‘No! Don’t answer that! God, every time I open my mouth, I sound more and more like some crazy stalker.’
I smile. He’s actually reassuring me. Stalkers don’t usually give you a heads up that they’re stalkers.
‘Yes, I live alone,’ I tell him. ‘Ben’s dad is Australian. He went back to Perth. He found it really hard, with Ben... he couldn’t cope with the situation. That’s the bottom line.’
‘How long ago was that?’
‘Just over a year. So, it’s been just me and Ben ever since.’
‘Do you mind me asking what’s wrong?’
‘With Ben?’
‘I’m sorry. If you don’t want to talk about it...’
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘I’m glad you asked. When people just ignore it, it feels as though they’re ignoring him, and me. It can make you feel very cut off.’
He nods. ‘I’ll bet it does.’
‘Global developmental delay is the diagnosis he was given,’ I say. ‘Which isn’t actually a diagnosis, in fact. It just means that he’s – well, to use the term that most people understand – retarded. They don’t know why. All they know is that his brain doesn’t work properly. He just didn’t develop the way he should.’
‘Did you notice it straight away?’
I shake my head. ‘No. Everything seemed fine at first. The pregnancy was normal. His birth was a bit traumatic: an emergency caesarean. But everything seemed fine afterwards. It was a few months before we found out that anything was wrong.’
‘It must have been a shock.’
‘It was. Although, there were a few signs there, if I’m honest, and we did have some concerns. He was slow to bat toys with his hands and pick them up, for instance, and he wasn’t able to sit up, even at around seven or eight months old. We mentioned it to the health visitor but she didn’t seem too concerned. She just said that he was lazy, a typical boy.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Her words, not mine,’ I add, smiling.
‘It’s all true.’ Alex smiles back.
‘Do you have children?’ I ask.
He glances at me and pushes his hair back from his eyes with his upper arm. ‘No. I’m... I’m not with anyone.’ He pulls a face. ‘There I go, sounding like a stalker again.’
I laugh. ‘I’ve met quite a few stalkers. You’re nothing like any of them.’
He raises his eyebrows.
‘Through my work,’ I add, quickly. ‘Not through my personal life.’
He nods. ‘That’s good. To have one stalker would be unfortunate. To have more than one would be...’
‘Careless?’ I suggest.
‘I was going to say “very bad luck”. Although perhaps, then, you could encourage them to stalk each other instead of you.’
I laugh. As we reach the end of the street, I slow down. ‘This is where I live.’ I point towards the house and Ben kicks the buggy in anticipation.
Alex and I turn to face each other. He nods towards Ben. ‘He seems to have settled now.’
‘Thanks for everything,’ I say, at the same time.
Our eyes meet and we laugh again, and I tell myself that even if he hadn’t just come to my rescue, stuck up for me, acknowledged Ben and the reality of my existence and exposed it to the world (well, four people in a shopping queue), and even if he hadn’t then paid for and helped me home with my shopping – I would still really, really like this man. ‘Look, would you like to come in?’ I find myself saying. ‘For a cup of tea?’
Alex frowns and shakes his head. ‘No. Honestly. Don’t feel you have to... I really only wanted to see that you were OK. And you are. So there.’
I look him in the eye again. ‘Please. I’d like you to. And besides, I need to give you some money.’
He nods, decisively. ‘Thank you. A cup of tea would be very nice.’
Ben’s feet land heavily against the buggy again and he lets out a wail. I push him down the path and Alex follows. I turn the key in the lock and bend down to unstrap Ben and lift him out. Alex puts the shopping down in the doorway. ‘Want me to fold this up?’ he asks.
‘Yes please.’ I nod. ‘The hallway’s pretty narrow. There’s not enough room to leave it up.’ I indicate the levers on the sides. ‘You have to pull those up and then fold it in at the same time. There’s a bit of a knack to it.’
But Alex releases the levers, squeezes the handles together and snaps the back down in one swift movement. He places the folded buggy behind the door and follows me into the kitchen with the shopping. ‘Why don’t I make the tea?’ he suggests. ‘I expect you need to see to your little man.’
I nod. ‘That would be a help. Cups are up there.’ I point to a cupboard above the microwave. ‘And tea is in the tin just there. Unless you want coffee. You know where the coffee is.’
We both laugh.
Alex fills the kettle and finds the mugs, milk and teabags, while I seat Ben in his chair, locate his sippy cup (on the floor) and give him a piece of bread, which he shoves into his mouth and gobbles down, his cheeks bulging.
Alex smiles. ‘You liked that, didn’t you, buddy?’ He picks up the pack of bread. ‘Shall I give him some more?’
‘Yes please.’
I watch him for a moment as he opens the plastic bag, takes out a slice of bread and hands it to Ben. He then turns and taps the teaspoon against the mugs, making a tinkling sound. He looks at Ben, who laughs. ‘Huh?’ he says to Ben. ‘Nice noise, huh?’
I finish unpacking the shopping and put a pan of eggs on the stove to boil. Behind me, Alex places two mugs of tea onto the table and sits down. He loosens his tie and removes his suit jacket to reveal a white shirt, which is now open at the neck. I realise, suddenly, how handsome he is. His eyes are deep-set, navy blue and are smiling at me, creasing up attractively at the corners.
‘Thank you,’ I say, picking up my tea.
‘Bah bah,’ says Ben from his chair.
I look from Ben to Alex in shock. ‘Did you hear that?’ I ask.
Alex smiles. ‘He was copying you.’
I go over to Ben and crouch down to his eye level. ‘Good talking, Ben!’ I tell him. ‘Clever boy!’ I turn to Alex. ‘He’s never done that before,’ I say. ‘He’s always babbled. But never meaningfully. I know it doesn’t seem much, but...’
‘Of course it is,’ Alex says. ‘It’s huge. He’s talking to you. Maybe not in our language. But he’s communicating with you, all the same.’
‘You’re right.’ I feel uplifted as I stand back up and wash my hands at the sink. Ben’s progress has been so slow, that any new thing he does, no matter how small, can make me feel as though I’ve won the lottery. Well, maybe not the lottery, but a scratch card. This is definitely a scratch card.
I chop up chunks of cheese and banana, which I place onto Ben’s tray. I sit down opposite Alex at the table and we watch as Ben swipes up the food into his fist and shovels it into his mouth.
Alex takes a sip of his tea. ‘So how did you find out that there was a problem? With Ben, I mean.’
‘Well, we started to notice that he was drifting off a bit when he was awake. It was hard to tell at first, whether he was just getting sleepy, needing a nap. But it was happening more and more. His eyes would go blank and we’d wave at him, but it was as though he was looking straight through us. Then he’d jump, suddenly, as if we’d startled him.’
I look up at him. ‘Yes. How did you know? You know about seizures?’
He nods and opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something, but then says, ‘Go on.’
‘Well, then, when he was nine months old, he had a proper fit. I mean, a full-blown seizure. It went on for a long time, for a good ten minutes, and afterwards he was really still. His eyes had rolled right back in his head and he wasn’t moving at all. Andy called an ambulance and he was rushed into hospital. I really thought he was going to die.’
‘You must have been very scared.’
‘It was the most frightening experience of my life.’
Alex puts his cup down and we look at each other in silence for a moment across the table.
‘They did all the tests,’ I continue. ‘They ruled out all the usual things. But then, the neurologist called us into his room and told us that there was something seriously wrong with Ben, that he wasn’t developing normally, that he should be sitting up, crawling, into everything by now. They said that he had a significant, global – as in, across the board, all areas, speech, language, everything – developmental delay. When we asked if he’d ever walk or talk, the doctors couldn’t say. We didn’t know at that stage if he would develop at all, whether he would catch up at some stage – or whether he would spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair needing round-the-clock care. They just didn’t know. No one could tell us. As time’s gone on, of course, I’ve learned that it’s likely to be something in between. But it’s not just that. He’s also autistic. He’s just been diagnosed. The fear of crowds and busy places, the comfort he finds in repetition, his intolerance of change or new situations. Things like that – they all make life a bit of a challenge.’
‘It must be unbelievably tough. And you’re doing this alone?’
I get up and take the pan from the stove. I fetch two egg cups from the cupboard, sit the eggs inside them and slice the tops off with a knife. ‘I don’t know if it was any easier when Andy was still here, to be honest.’
I sit down next to Ben and feed him the soft-boiled eggs with a spoon. Ben opens his mouth obligingly, like a little bird.