All Because of Henry

by Nuala Gardner

  We decided to support him in his plan to move on, so he resigned from the college supply list, to focus on Cairn Curran and local authority supply work. There was another arduous road ahead, and we didn’t have the luxury of spare time to dwell on the past. No matter. It was Dale’s future that mattered most.

  12

  Open and Closed Doors

  Any barriers obstructing Dale’s career path certainly didn’t get in the way of his flourishing social life. This was a mercy, as that particular rollercoaster kept him sane. Whether it kept me sane or not is another matter entirely. God knows my mental health was under enough of an onslaught, but there are things that Dale, like any young man, needed to do, and I don’t begrudge him a moment of it!

  From one of his more surprising shenanigans I have a mental snapshot of Dale that I would have never believed possible. A close friend from his karate club was marrying a Columbian girl. At the groom’s request, close friends and family were to wear full Highland dress. The kilt and Dale had history, and none of it was good. In his Scouting days I used to be so jealous of the other families at those special events – prize-givings and parades – because he refused to wear the company kilt. Despite having the perfect height and stature for it, he avoided any contact with plaid. He told me he hated kilts; they were just like skirts, and the coarse woolly texture of the tartan was a sensory disaster zone. For years, I pleaded with him to wear one, for me, just once so I could capture a picture of him, but his reply never changed. “Mum, I wouldn’t be caught dead in a kilt . . . so get over it!”

  I was resigned to never seeing him in Highland dress, even if he had a Nobel Prize to collect.

  Yet this time, because he was so pleased to be invited and he knew the Columbian men were to be wearing kilts, surprise of surprises, he submitted. He was prepared to wear the dreaded garment out of respect for his friend. It was recognised as such a significant gesture that the groom even thanked him during his speech. Everyone applauded. He wore that kilt the whole night and wasn’t the least bit bothered. Doubtless, a snifter of alcohol helped him cope, but before he got too drunk, I captured him perfectly in a real picture, knowing it would definitely be a one-off!

  Every parent worries about their children when they become adults, particularly when they discover the social scene and alcohol. Now that Dale had adapted to social drinking, I was concerned how it would affect his personality. At his grandfather’s eightieth birthday, in a luxurious hotel, alcohol in general and champagne in particular flowed. I decided not to touch a single drop because I needed to see how Dale was affected by drinking. On arrival, he was reserved, and wasn’t wildly tempted by the champagne, but he did help himself to a bottle of lager. He sat alone with his grandfather while everyone else mingled. Four bottles of lager later, we were all summoned to the dining room. My beady eye was on him. I could see he was relaxed, comfortably out of his shell, as he sat beside his uncle, conversing and making jokes. During the meal, the supply of champagne continued, as if the bottles were bottomless. Dale’s appreciation of quality began to show! I noted his glass was replenished quite a few times. After the meal, we retired to a private room for coffee and mints, and for the first time in four years I witnessed my son somewhat the worse for drink!

  Everyone in the room commented as they saw him socialise confidently with his family, some of whom he had never met before. When he cornered his uncle, I was able to have a good idea of the type of drunk my son was going to make. With relief, and a little amusement, I saw Dale with his arm around that same uncle’s shoulders, telling him what a superb relative he was whilst simultaneously teasing him, in keeping with the general merriment. Similarly, with a couple of other family members, he spoke openly about their good points and regaled them with tales of how much he liked them. Thankfully, he was the jolly, friendly variety of drunk. Whew! Anyone who finds it odd that I would stand by, fizzy water in hand, and analyse my son’s reaction to alcohol simply doesn’t understand autism. Unquestionably, he was going to go out, drink – indeed, have too much to drink – when I wasn’t there. I needed to know he would be okay. He would be fine.

  Now he was twenty-two and he joined his dad and his dad’s mates for the occasional night out. I was pleased that they were getting on so well. No doubt they had an easier time together without me in the mix. Jamie and I were getting tetchier by the minute in each other’s company. But the guys were good together, and I held onto that. Even some of Dale’s favourite music was from Jamie’s era.

  On one memorable Saturday, a Queen tribute band was playing at the local theatre. Post concert, there was a certain unwritten rule stating that some Gourock bar had to be drunk dry. The usual suspects were present: John and Kenny, who together had entertained Dale and made him laugh since his childhood days. Then George joined them. He, in turn, as both an ambulance mechanic and the one-time owner of an old Ford Zodiac, had once helped my son live out his youthful transport obsession. The alcohol supply was generous, and the comic duo started to have their fun. George was wearing a stylish silk shirt, which was a bit dapper in the context of an evening in a not so salubrious pub. Metaphorically, at least, the shirt was shredded.

  George rallied, “You’re forgetting. I’m back on the market and I’m off to the Cafe Continental after this. I’ve got to look the part.”

  John nudged in a reminder. “Make sure you stick to your price range, now!”

  Price range? This wasn’t literal enough, and Dale needed an explanation. The unconventional lesson that followed was only possible because both the student and teachers were intoxicated. They reassured Dale that he was a great-looking guy, with a fun-loving, good personality. One day, he’d meet a smashing girl.

  When dad and son eventually rolled home, my quiet place on the sofa was book-ended by inebriated and vociferous males, keen to entertain me with tales of the night’s adventures. Before too long, Jamie headed for the stairs, but Dale decided I hadn’t yet been bored to death. He had all the time in the world.

  In classic drunk style, firstly, he had to prove to me he wasn’t really too drunk. He got up and tried to demonstrate walking in a straight line. Of course, he failed, which prompted the itemising of how little he actually had had to drink. With an imperceptible shake of the head, it fell to me to humour him, in time-honoured fashion. Eventually, though, he explained what was really nagging him through the beer fuddle. Kenny and John had spent an age advising him how to steer the “market”. Suffice to say, I got the impression they hadn’t done so very badly in their efforts . . . God knows how! Unorthodox as it was, that drunken discussion boosted his confidence and gave him some kind of framework for whatever, and whoever, was out there – when he was ready.

  January 2010 was so cold. It snowed heavily, and Dale’s chance of finding a job seemed every bit as bleak. One day I noticed his mood was low, and I asked if he was all right.

  “Mum, I’m okay, but I’m fed up. I just want to work. I hate this.”

  I tried to advise him, reminding him it was only the seventh day of the New Year and things would pick up. He was so unhappy that I grabbed my laptop and began surfing. Just as I was on the verge of giving up, I stumbled upon a new vacancy twenty-five miles from Gourock, with a five-minute walk from the train station to the nursery. Superb! We called Prospects and Billy, in turn, spent ages on the phone to the nursery’s Head, who was keen to support Dale’s application. I offered her a copy of my book by way of bridging any potential understanding gap. All was going well . . .

  And then I learned that the vacancy had been removed from circulation following seventy applications for the post. Amongst those seventy applicants there were even unemployed teachers. On 25 February, despite a foot of snow on the pavements, Dale attended an interview.

  When the letter arrived, with a certain dread, I put it on top of his laptop to give him his privacy. Only five minutes later he appeared. “Mum, read this! It’s looking quite good.”

  He was one of the three final candidat
es who were to attend a second interview. They were to work with the children, and then the successful person would be appointed.

  On the morning of the practical trial, he wore a blue polo shirt, because he had noticed that the staff there wore that same colour and style. He told me that he wanted to blend in so that the children would feel more comfortable with a stranger in their midst. Again, his ability to see things from the child’s perspective is a unique quality, gifted by his autism. When he came home, I was bursting to know.

  “Dale, how did it go?”

  “Good, Mum. The morning went really fast. I felt comfortable with the staff and children. I put Henry’s collar in my bag, just for a wee bit of luck, and it really helped me feel confident.”

  Two weeks later, the letter arrived. I stuck to my routine, placing it on his laptop. He met me in the kitchen, handed me the letter, and put the kettle on.

  “Mum, I feel like giving up. I’m only good for voluntary work because of my autism.”

  My heart sank as I read: “Unfortunately, due to your lack of experience since qualifying, [we are] offering the position to another, more experienced candidate. We thought you were brilliant with the children.”

  I had to take heart, even if at that point Dale could not. It was hardly a bog-standard rejection letter. The Head had even contacted Prospects to ask if they could secure a year’s salary so she could offer him that length of experience, but, alas, no funding was available.

  “Due to financial constraints [. . .] we are unable to employ two new people.”

  However, Dale could work voluntarily. From his point of view, that was all there was for him, and I struggled to highlight any positive aspects of the letter.

  “Mum, the job advert said nothing about securing funding for wages. Autism changed the situation for me, didn’t it?”

  I managed to convince him that his work with Barnardo’s and Cairn Curran was the best way forward, but I felt his pain and frustration. It would take a long time for me to be able to help my son see that things were tough out there for everyone, and being one of the final three from a pool that size was incredible. Where getting a job is concerned, even second place just doesn’t cut it. Far from his autism going against him, I could see that that head teacher had really seen potential in Dale and had gone out on a limb, even using his autism advantageously to try to secure funding for a second post. She had been ingenious, and brave on his behalf. It was just so hard for him to understand that, holding yet another bloody rejection letter.

  Then, just when we needed it most, our wonderful Sir came to the rescue again. I was aware of the great effect Dale and Henry’s story had had internationally, because of all the uplifting emails and Facebook messages. This one came from Italy. Giovanna, whose ten-year-old son had autism, contacted me. She was another of those mother warriors, and in company with several other parents, she had formed a non-profit-making charity, Cancellautismo (www.cancellautismo.org). Having read my book and seen After Thomas, she sensed that my experiences paralleled her own. Ever resourceful, she wanted to do something special to raise awareness of the condition in her own country. Could I help her obtain permission from Hartswood films to transfer some scenes from the film onto her charity’s website? Of course I could! The scenes would have Italian voice-overs and would show different aspects of autism.

  Later on, she sent me the link, and it was superb to see Henry making a difference somewhere else. I began to wonder if he needed some extra names in view of his international standing . . . Enrico, Henri, Enzo!

  At last, at the end of February the local authority phoned to ask Dale to cover a full-time position ten miles away, in the east end of Greenock, at Gibshill Children’s Centre. Within the first week he had settled in as if life had been kind. He had to get a bus in order to catch a train, to ensure he arrived that necessary fifteen minutes early. While a few of the staff were aware of who Dale was, the Head, Isobel, decided not to disclose his autism. She hoped that staff would get to know him first, as a person and as a practitioner. He was pleased with that approach, which seemed right in light of his recent history. Indeed, that strategy proved really successful. Dale was respected and liked by all the staff, and more importantly, by the children! If proof was needed, two encounters, the first a chance-in-a-million meeting, were about to verify it.

  My mother-in-law was having a medical investigation, requiring a day-patient admission to hospital. The male nurse in charge of her case asked if she was by any chance related to a certain Dale Gardner. When she said that she was, the nurse smiled. “My daughter attends Gibshill and adores Dale. When she comes home, all she talks about is Dale, Dale, Dale. He’s her hero!”

  Also around this time I went to a local support group to see old friends and catch up on any latest research or advances in autism. As the session ended, a mother called Louise approached me, asking, “Are you Dale Gardner’s mum?” After I confirmed that I was, she said, “Please give my regards to Dale. He was so good with my son Luke.”

  Louise explained that Luke has severe autism and is non-verbal. He went to Gibshill, and when she would drop him off there, Dale would help him with his coat and shoes. Every time Luke attended, he calmly went with Dale.

  Louise was really touched because Luke’s autism was delicate, he needed to feel comfortable to gain trust with others. Through Luke’s non-verbal communication he gestured a real liking and affinity with Dale, as if he sensed his autism was safe, secure and understood in Dale’s hands. When he attended nursery, Luke went happily off to his room with Dale, hand in hand.

  At that time Louise didn’t know Dale had autism, although she had heard other parents comment, “Dale is wonderful with the children.” She learned from Isobel who Dale was because Isobel advised her to read his story. Louise was truly pleased with Dale. He gave her hope knowing they were together, a child with his “teacher”, but because of their autism they were and always will be connected.

  Of all placements to date, Dale felt most comfortable and, significantly, most part of the Gibshill team. Isobel and her staff supported and respected him. Despite the long hours, he took on all the responsibilities the position required, attending Parents’ Nights and in-service days.

  Now that he had a regular income, he used it to really focus on learning to drive. His quality of life soared and it was superb to see him getting on so well. Suddenly, he was buying new clothes, and he could afford to attend some big concerts, bands like Coldplay and Green Day. Better still, he proved he wasn’t a miser after all, and bought his sister and me birthday presents and even wee impromptu gifts, without needing any prompts.

  He continued to play in his own band, but on nights out with the crew, he hated wearing his glasses because it affected his confidence. Now that he was earning, I suggested that he might want to look into having laser eye surgery. I went with him to the appointment in order to ask the in-depth questions – and, yes, I was hoping that one day I’d be able to afford the same treatment for myself! His karate practice meant that it was advisable for him to have both eyes lasered at the same time. In fact, he needed the advanced procedure that was performed on astronauts, which was the safest but also the most expensive. Unfortunately, that would kill off all his savings but the outcome of the surgery would be worth it. Having done the research, I drove him to the clinic to support him. He was slightly nervous, but the staff were excellent and he went through the whole process without a hitch.

  Ever the nurse, I took responsibility at home for administering his eye drops. We both knew that infection was the big risk. He returned to Gibshill a couple of days later and for that whole week, every single lunchtime, I drove up to apply his drops.

  Staff members were impressed that he was brave enough to have the procedure performed on both eyes. Certainly they couldn’t miss what he’d done, especially when he wore his sunglasses to reduce the glare when working outdoors. Such was his gangster-like style with the shades that his dad and I referred to him as “M
r Green” from Reservoir Dogs. When he ditched his sunglasses, fully recovered, the change in his demeanour and confidence was impressive. The results were excellent. Now he could virtually see around corners, which even improved his already competent driving.

  While he was settled at Gibshill, despite its demanding requirements, the Jobcentre Plus policy had to be followed. It was imperative that Dale secured suitable employment in view of his autism, but because he hadn’t worked for eighteen weeks prior to starting at Gibshill, he had to apply for any local jobs in childcare or he would lose his JSA. The voluntary hours at Cairn Curran counted for nothing. The theory was that supply work could end at any time. Fair enough; it could! What wasn’t fair, however, was the mounting pressure that put on Dale. All the efforts he continued to make to secure employment were ignored.

  At the time, Dale was still registered with Duncan Currie and the local authority supply lists, while simultaneously working at Cairn Curran. He received notification from his DEA of vacancies available for sessional childcare workers within a charity-run provision, which also ran an autism-specific play day every week. I drove him to that interview and waited. Encouragingly, he was given a copy of the interview questions – but at the end of the interview! I hid my frustration and made sure I didn’t voice to Dale that he really should have had those questions a few days before. I buttoned my lip on my opinion that that would have made a real difference to his chances of success. At no point did I even say, “And that would just have been in line with DDA demands!” I kept my own counsel – just! Why, though? Why?

  I saw it coming: “Unfortunately, you have not been successful on this occasion.” No reason was given. Yes, we could have requested written feedback but by now neither of us had it in us. Anyway, what was the point? We knew employers could justify their stance, as Dale didn’t have enough experience, particularly knowing the abundance of unemployed practitioners who were available. So we moved on. Still, it rankled. Dale would have been an asset to the position, especially in view of the ASD play day. He would have ticked inclusion, equality and fulfilled their legal requirement to employ a person with a disability. But for some reason, once again his name wasn’t on the job offer.