Odd Girl Out

by Laura James

  The cafe owner comes over and we order more water. Tim smiles at me.

  ‘This could be really good, you know.’

  I agree. It’s my turn to come up with something else.

  ‘I can’t stand living in such a mess,’ I say.

  ‘But it’s your mess. You don’t see the piles of clutter that build up around you, but God forbid someone moves the toothpaste and you can’t cope. You insist on clean bed linen every Sunday, then go to bed in a room that looks as if it’s been burgled.’

  This is so true. The house is too cluttered. I find it hard to stay tidy, but feel so much better in uncluttered rooms. Tim is, by nature, hugely tidy and cannot bear anything to be in the wrong place. If one of the boys leaves a bottle of ketchup in the sitting room he visibly winces.

  ‘OK, so if we come up with a decluttering plan, tackling a couple of rooms per month, will you stick to it?’ he asks.

  I say I will.

  ‘Your turn,’ I say.

  ‘Perhaps we should try seeing more people,’ he says. ‘We’ve sort of fallen out of the habit of seeing anyone.’

  I am great at work relationships. Better than great, actually. Most agencies that do the kind of work we do keep their clients for three to five years. I have worked with our longest-standing client for eighteen years and the others for more than a decade. Our relationships are strong and work really well.

  I need to learn to try to do that on a social level. I am hugely fortunate in that I have people I could pick up the phone to and they would be pleased to hear from me. I could make plans with them, but the idea makes me anxious. What if we arrange something and then I don’t feel like it on the day? What if a work thing comes up and I have to cancel? Cancelling anything leaves me feeling overwhelmed. It is almost impossible.

  I don’t know why Tim has fallen out of the habit of seeing friends. Maybe it’s because in many marriages it often falls to the wife to organize social things. Maybe it’s because he gets all the interaction he needs playing tennis a few times a week. I think about asking him, but I know he hates any kind of self-examination.

  ‘Shall I say yes to the invitation to Cata and Dave’s party?’

  ‘Yes, and while you’re at it, I think you should sign up for Cata’s yoga classes again. You always feel great once you’ve been and it’s really not healthy for you getting no exercise.’

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘And shall I see if Jenny and Peter are free the weekend after the American election? We could go and stay with them in Brighton and see Jack and Mary at the same time.’

  All we have done is sort out a bit of a shopping and cleaning routine and agree to make a couple of plans to see friends, but it is as if I have run a marathon. It feels good. Later, when we get home, I start to think about other people I would like to get to know better.

  There’s a writer called Rachael Lucas, who has also recently come out as having Asperger’s. She is working on a novel in which her teenage heroine is autistic. We’ve been talking a lot online and I’d like to know more. I impulsively send her a message. Do you fancy a chat?

  She comes back immediately. That would be great.

  I wonder if she’s as nervous as I am. Talking to someone I haven’t met before is fine in a work context, but trickier when it’s social. It is beyond weird that I think nothing of ringing up someone like Mary Berry or Anna Friel, but would find it impossible to call someone nice I’d quite liked at the school gates or a yoga class.

  I’ll treat the chat with Rachael like an interview. Another perspective would be great. She picks up the phone after a couple of rings.

  ‘Hello,’ she says in a soft and lyrical Scottish accent. I don’t know why this surprises me, but it does. We get chatting and it’s surprisingly easy. We seem to agree on everything and have had spookily similar experiences. She tells me about her novel.

  ‘It was strange,’ she says. ‘There was a very precise moment when the idea came to me. I was walking past WHSmith’s when a voice in my head said, “I could totally be popular if I wanted. It’s not difficult. You just have to look at what they do and copy it.”

  ‘When I got home this little voice in my head wouldn’t stop talking and I knew straight away she was Grace, the main character in my novel. I’m really sick of novels by people not on the spectrum telling us how it feels to be autistic and using autistic characters as props to make a sentimental point. Whereas in fact, we’re just out here getting on with living our lives.

  ‘I wanted to write a book in which the character was autistic but that wasn’t the point of the story. It was a coming of age. Will she find a boyfriend? How’s she getting on with her friends? The things all young girls go through. She just happens to be autistic.’

  I think how much I wish her book had been around when I was a teenager.

  ‘It’ll be so cool that Aspie girls will be able to read your book and find a character who resonates,’ I say. ‘I read loads as a child and teenager, but never quite found someone I could totally relate to. The nearest I think I got was a Jilly Cooper character called Taggie O’Hara. Did you like Jilly Cooper books?’

  ‘Oh my god, yes! To the extent that my son Archie is named after Archie Baddingham. And Verity, my eldest, was very nearly Tabitha.’

  ‘I wanted Toby to be Tabitha had he been a girl,’ I say.

  Rachael goes on. ‘I was completely obsessed with her book Class as well. I learned all the proper things to say. I also loved Nancy Mitford’s “U and Non-U”. People always thought I was quite posh. I grew up on a housing estate in the east of Scotland that was really quite rough. I stuck out like a sore thumb because they thought I was a snob.’

  I tell her I used ‘U and Non-U’ as a handbook for life. It feels liberating to talk to someone so like me and with such similar experiences. We both married very young and divorced. ‘I can remember thinking if I got a wedding ring on, I would be a proper person,’ Rachael says.

  We both went on to have four children. We both find social situations exhausting, but can manage to do things for work that others would find daunting.

  ‘I’ve spoken a number of times at literary festivals and I’ve sat on panels at blogger’s conferences,’ Rachael tells me. ‘Before I wrote my book I had a successful gardening blog. Give me a microphone and put me on stage and I’m fine. It’s really odd.’

  We are both incredibly prescriptive when it comes to the things we will eat and drink. ‘If someone makes me a cup of tea,’ Rachael says, ‘it has to be with fresh water. You cannot reboil the kettle and it has to be poured immediately or I just won’t drink it. I realize it makes me sound like a complete princess.’

  I relate so much to this. From my coffee order to the way my bed is made, it has to be done my way.

  The conversation goes on way longer than I am used to. It must be months if not years since I have telephoned someone for a chat. It feels strange and lovely to have spoken about such ordinary things – everything and nothing – to someone who understands me.

  I realize that to most neurotypical people this would sound so strange, but it was such an amazing hour for me. It ends when Rachael needs to go to pick up her children from school. We agree to meet up in London in the New Year. I feel exhausted and elated.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  November 2016

  I’m sitting on the edge of a riverbank with Tim. It’s freezing and I can’t quite believe I’m doing this. The grass beneath us is cold and damp and the sky is a dirty grey.

  ‘I’m so cold,’ I say, shivering for effect.

  ‘Sshh,’ Tim says gently. ‘It’s a bit like fishing. The thrill is in the waiting, the expectation. Without the wait, the moment itself will mean less. It will have no context. You have to learn to be patient. If otters presented themselves on command, the sight of them would be commonplace and ordinary. It is the fact that you have to wait in the mere hope that they will show themselves that makes the experience special.

  ‘Oh, and there’s no such t
hing as inclement weather – just inappropriate clothing.’ He fishes in a pocket and hands me a warm woolly hat.

  Outside, crouched behind reeds, with a bitter wind biting my face? I thought he’d choose warmer things. Thankfully I have coffee, which is keeping my hands warm, and I am bundled up in jumpers and an outdoor jacket, which belongs to Tim. It’s huge on me, but I am thankful for the extra layer.

  ‘Just wait until you see them,’ he says. ‘They’re magical.’

  I look around but struggle to find anything of interest. Grass, bushes, a line of small trees in the distance and more reeds on the opposite bank of the river. Tim points out a buzzard circling overhead, but for me it is a black blur. Two ducks glide past, but I’ve seen ducks before. They’re just ducks.

  We sit for another forty minutes or so, with Tim occasionally bringing his camera up in the hope that something is stirring, me surreptitiously looking for a signal on my phone.

  Suddenly, there is a splash in the water and Tim moves the long lens in the direction of a glistening line of fur as it breaks the water and then, in a moment, is gone again.

  ‘Well, that was very special,’ I say to Tim but he doesn’t move. Then a head pops up, followed by another. Two surface then dive, surface and dive. The shutter on the camera clicks frame after frame as one of the otters leaves the water and sits on the opposite bank. Its face is remarkably cat-like. It has white whiskers and bright, intelligent eyes.

  ‘What’s it eating?’ I whisper to Tim.

  ‘A fish, I think,’ he replies. ‘A small fish.’

  The second otter catches up with the first and they begin a brief game of chase on the opposite bank of the river.

  ‘Pass the binoculars,’ I find myself saying, keen to witness the otters’ games in greater detail. A couple more have joined in and they’re jumping on top of each other until, with heads and tails blurring in motion, I can’t make out which is which.

  Tim turns his head away from the camera’s viewfinder. ‘Some look quite young,’ he says. ‘They don’t take to the water with any confidence until they’re around four months old, so I think some of these are juveniles.’

  I sit watching in silence, no longer aware of the cold. It is weirdly relaxing. An otter rolls over onto its back and starts playing with a stone. It’s making a weird squeaking sound. It’s holding the stone over its head, looking at it.

  The others join it on the bank. They seem tired after their games and just sit there quietly looking around. I look at my phone and see that an hour has passed. Usually I’d feel too guilty to sit and do nothing for this long.

  One of the otters heads back to the water and the others follow. Soon they are all gone.

  ‘Worth it?’ Tim asks.

  ‘Definitely,’ I say. And I am surprised to find I mean it.

  We warm up in a nearby pub. I begin peeling off some of the layers I’ve been bundled up in.

  We decided when making our life plan that we were going to give each other’s interests a go. Tim has tons of ideas; I have very few, I’m still learning what my interests are. I’ve been dragging him into the kitchen more so we can cook together, but I haven’t yet discovered a passion I am desperate to share with him. I think this is because all my intense interests are around learning facts. We have listened to some audiobooks together in the car on long journeys and also while lazing around on the sofa at home. I’ve learned, though, that while for Tim it is about sharing something he finds magical and special, for me it’s more about the time we spend together.

  ‘I loved watching the otters,’ I tell Tim. ‘What will your next suggestion be?’

  ‘Maybe you could come and knock a ball around on a tennis court with me,’ he laughs. I’m not sure if he is wholly serious.

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘I’ll give it a go.’ We both know I don’t mean this.

  ‘We’ve had a nice time lately, haven’t we?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say and think about it for a moment. It’s true. Things do feel better. We feel closer. I am being more honest about the things I can’t cope with and, instead of getting irritated, Tim is being hugely supportive of any difficulties I encounter.

  My lists are working and so is the planner. Of course things aren’t perfect. Forty-plus years of behaving in a certain way and the chaos that came with it cannot be erased overnight.

  I am taking the first steps though. We’ve stuck to the weekly meal plan, which means most days I manage to eat healthily a couple of times. We’ve begun the great decluttering exercise. There are a lot of rooms to go through, but each one that is cleared makes me feel lighter. It is in some ways as if I am curating a retrospective of our family life. It isn’t, though, that I pack old Lego sets and Thomas engines into boxes with sadness. Instead, it’s with hope for the future.

  Deciding what to keep has been interesting. It’s as if we have been planning for a future we can know nothing about, an imaginary one. Before I learned about social imagination I would have got rid of all the children’s old toys, figuring they were no longer needed. Now I box the better ones or those which were the children’s favourites.

  ‘You never know, we might have grandchildren one day,’ I say to Tim, who looks slightly horrified at the thought.

  I have taken lots of my clothes to a designer reseller in our local town. Over the years I have bought all sorts of clothes, but have only ever really worn my grey jumpers and jeans. It was as if I was stocking a wardrobe for a life I would never have. I bought beautiful heels I could never walk in and would never wear and other items I thought looked nice, but which were simply too uncomfortable against my skin. It felt good clearing out my cupboards and drawers and even better when I was given a nice cheque in return for things that were only littering my life.

  Tim is reading and learning more about ASD. It is putting my autism into perspective for him. His understanding of me – and my weird ways – seems to be growing every day. I see it in the small things he does. He is quieter around me. When we go out together he resists the temptation to drive fast. He has stopped trying to explain how I feel or why I feel the way I do and instead has started asking more questions.

  It must be annoying for him to have lots of pieces of paper stuck all over the house, reminding me to eat, bath, drink water, go for a walk and so on, but he doesn’t say so.

  Our relationship feels stronger than ever before. It’s as if we crossed into somewhere bad and have now crossed back again. I don’t think I considered the impact my diagnosis has had on him. Before I started to learn more about autism and my inability to see things easily from the perspective of another, I would have thought he shouldn’t be affected by something that wasn’t happening to him. Now I see it differently. While I cannot understand what it is like for him (I don’t think I will ever learn that skill), I can see and accept that it has had an effect.

  We have met in the middle. We have also seen that each other’s ways do sometimes work. I’ve allowed Tim to take more control of our lives and he’s accepted that sometimes my way isn’t simply an idiosyncratic quirk. Sometimes it is logical and it works.

  We are being kinder to each other. We have become more understanding of each other’s faults and we celebrate each other’s talents more. Kindness, I realize, is the key to everything and it is in a marriage where it is perhaps easiest to let it slip.

  Tim has started writing songs again, this time seemingly from a happier place. I think perhaps he uses music to process how he is feeling at any one time. From the kitchen, I hear him working on a new track. The lyrics drift down the hall and catch me unaware. I recognize myself instantly in his words.

  She’s a book without an end

  A pocketful of friends

  An email yet to send

  She’s the odd girl in a crowd

  In a world that’s way too loud

  Obsessive but unbowed

  She’s a green light on the road

  Acid for the soul

  Fragments of a code

&
nbsp; A system overload

  She’s a spectrum all her own

  Cashmere grey and stone

  Cabbages and rose

  She’s the hope without a prayer

  The truth before the dare

  A campfire in the wild

  A mother and a child

  She’s a whisper and a scream

  A nightmare and a dream

  Our conscience in the dark

  Politics and art

  If M were to ask again: ‘Who in your life supports you?’ I would now have a different answer. Tim does, I would say.

  I have accepted that my autism, while not totally disabling, has an extreme effect on my life and I have to take it into account. That I have managed to muddle through for so long has been down to luck and sheer grit.

  The cracks had always been there, but they weren’t allowing in any light. I’m coming to accept now that there are huge advantages to being autistic – the quickness of my mind, my ability to take in new information, my intelligence, the passion I feel for causes I believe in, my inability to take offence. The list goes on.

  I think of Kintsugi, the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with powdered precious metals. The craft and the philosophy treat breakages and repairs as part of the history of any piece, rather than something to hide.

  I am flawed. I am, in part, broken. Not by my autism, but by my insistence on fighting it and by the stresses it places on me. My being different from most people around me – and the years of living a life not meant for me – have taken their toll.

  I look up pictures of Kintsugi bowls. I see the gold cracks glistening and realize that without them many of the pieces filling the screen on my laptop would be dull and ordinary. If they had been invisibly mended they would always be slightly inferior, a lesser version of what they once were.

  Now, with their imperfections celebrated, they are somehow more. They are damaged and that damage makes them beautiful.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  December 2016

  The children are home for the Christmas holidays. Toby arrives first. Used to the warmth of halls and having people on hand to talk to all day, he wanders around the house shivering and looking a bit lost for a while. His hand is in plaster; he broke it skateboarding. He brings with him a pile of dirty laundry and his girlfriend, although she stays for just a couple of days before heading off home to Poland.