Another Night, Another Day (6 page)

A few days after they’d got the news, the two of them sat down to talk it through. Glenn, a computer technician by profession, had spent many hours trawling the Internet, yet instead of
tracking down support groups or websites offering insights, he seemed to find nothing useful anywhere.

‘Looks like there will be loads of places we won’t be able to take him – social settings he won’t be able to handle and people he won’t relate to,’ he’d
said.

Unlike her husband, Abby was relieved and grateful. ‘But it means we can get help; we’ve a path we can follow.’

Yet Glenn had continued on his gloomy trajectory. ‘Sounds as if he won’t form relationships. He’ll never get married or hold down a job.’

‘How do you know? He’s only two, for goodness sake.’

‘I think it’s best we’re realistic.’

With hindsight Abby has more understanding of what Glenn was doing then; he was removing his rose-tinted spectacles so he could see the future with realism. But at the time it felt like he was
determined to squash her optimism.

‘So what if all of the fast-track immediate-gratification culture of the twenty-first century isn’t open to him? Is that really such a loss? And maybe he won’t get married; he
might not understand how bank accounts work either, or buses, or shops. I agree it’s a shame, but it’s the hand he drew, and at least we know what the reason is. I think what we choose
to believe about his options will make a big difference. If we make him feel he’s not good enough the way he is, then it might well compound his behaviour.’

‘Well, he’s shown no signs of learning to speak so far. And even if he does, apparently he won’t begin to understand the subtleties of language. How are you going to feel about
that?’

Of
course
I want to be able to communicate with my child, Abby had thought. What mother doesn’t? How cruel to hone in on that. She’d gulped and declared, ‘I’ll
work round it.’

And she had: gradually Abby had come to understand that the simplest metaphors and slang were beyond Callum’s understanding, and likely to remain so. She’d learned to think carefully
before she spoke; she wouldn’t tell Callum her ‘sides were splitting with laughter’ or that he was ‘making her heart burst with pride’, nor would she be vague about
what she wanted him to do. Instead of asking him to ‘hang it up over there’ she’d say, ‘Callum: coat on hook,’ and she encouraged his carers to follow her lead.

‘We’ll never fix him,’ she’d said over a year later, when Glenn still seemed stuck in anger and grief. ‘We need to get our heads around that.’ But her husband
never appeared to, and the two of them had polarized.

It’s as if our way of waging war was at odds, thinks Abby. Glenn retrenched, hunkered down; I went out on the attack, guns blazing. And
that’s
what happened to us; that we
reacted so differently is the reason we’ve stopped working as a couple. That’s the
true
tragedy – not that Callum has autism.

Footsteps overhead interrupt her thoughts; once again Glenn has removed himself from interaction. Abby wipes her hands and goes into the lounge.

‘I guess if Daddy won’t play with you, I will.’

Being with her son is like piloting an unpredictable plane, but this morning he proves responsive to her steer, and soon she is sitting opposite him cross-legged on the carpet.

‘You’re such a tease, aren’t you?’ she smiles at him. ‘OK then, let’s try this:
Pah
.’ She leans forward and blows into his face as she makes
the sound.

‘Pah,’ says Callum, blowing back.

Abby claps with delight. ‘Good boy!’

She repeats the noise and her son’s fringe lifts from his forehead in the small breeze. Once more he mirrors her. They do it again.

‘I don’t believe it.’ She laughs in delight. ‘You’re saying the letter “p”!’ She’s poised to run and fetch Glenn to share the moment when
Callum stops blowing and shifts onto his knees.

He’s had enough, thinks Abby, disappointed. It’s as if he knew I was enjoying it. She prepares to run after him. But instead he edges over and, like a pup wanting to suckle, burrows
right into her. He wraps his arms around her back, rests his head on her belly and remains there, curled up in a crescent.

She looks down at him and feels a surge of love.

‘What an incredible boy you are, coping with so many changing people and places when you can’t say what you wish for. Your world seems so frustrating and frightening, you’re
amazing for getting through each day with all the mischief, giggles and smiles that you do.’

Then she stops and listens.

Even the sounds Callum is making are beautiful. Primal snuffles of content, more evocative than speech itself.

The next day is Sunday, and Karen and her mother are due to visit her father in Worthing.

‘I’m afraid George isn’t out of bed yet,’ says the nurse who greets them at the care home. ‘He refused point-blank.’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll do that,’ says Shirley, slipping off her tweed coat in preparation.

‘They should have tried to get him up, Mum,’ whispers Karen as they head down the corridor to her father’s room.

‘Maybe they haven’t enough staff on a Sunday.’

No, it’s because he’s difficult, thinks Karen.

They tap on the door and when there’s no sound from inside, they go in. George is fast asleep.

‘The staff should raise the blinds if they want him to wake up,’ mutters Karen, and walks directly to the window to do just that.

Shirley sits down on the edge of the single bed. The mattress creaks under her weight. ‘George, darling. It’s time to get up.’

‘Go away!’ George turns his head to see where the light is coming from. ‘And shut those blinds!’

Karen joins her mother at his bedside. He could do with a shave, she notices; his white stubble is almost a beard. ‘Dad, it’s nearly midday.’ Surely letting Dad stay in bed so
long isn’t good for him, she thinks, even if he does say that’s where he wants to be? He has no routine and gets no exercise, which only makes him more infirm. Plus it dehumanizes him,
leaving him alone all day. I’d treat a dog better.

‘Who are you?’ George rolls over, away from them, without waiting for her to answer.

‘I’m Karen. Your daughter.’ Part of her would like to admit defeat like the nurses, and leave. Then she and her mum could enjoy a cup of tea and a stroll – she’s
left Molly and Luke in Brighton with Simon’s brother, Alan, and his wife for a few hours – and it’s sunny outside, if cold. But her sense of duty is too strong.

‘Let’s get you up, Dad,’ she says, gently easing back the covers.

George pulls them up again, huffing. ‘I’m ill! Fuck off!’

‘Darling . . .’ Shirley shakes her head, exasperated. She and Karen are confident he is
not
poorly – he says this every morning. So Shirley takes over soothing and
placating until eventually her husband relinquishes control of the duvet.

Karen snatches the opportunity. ‘Would you like a drink, Dad? How about some water? You know you’ll feel better if you do . . .’ She reaches for a glass, fills it from a jug on
his bedside table.

Scowling, he raises himself to take a sip. Shirley slips pillows behind his head and the two of them ease him to sitting.

‘Why don’t you swivel round, pop your legs out of bed?’ suggests Shirley. ‘Then we can put on your shoes and socks.’

‘I
don’t
want to get up!’ says George. ‘Who are you? And who’s
that
woman?’ He points at Karen. ‘You’re fat.’

Ouch.

The insults Karen can just about endure, but the lack of recognition makes her want to cry out in pain. It seems he has not known who she is since he and Shirley left Portugal, as if his mind is
like a bicycle chain, and the change of environment has caused it to slip and come off. That he’s so disorientated appears to verify this, but Karen is loath to point this out to her mother.
Shirley worries enough about George as it is.

‘What are those?’ He is pointing at his shoes, which Shirley is placing on the floor beside his swollen feet. ‘Who are they for?’

He gets more confused lately, too. Everything has to be explained to him each time he does it – not once but several times. Getting him dressed is exhausting for anyone involved, let alone
trying to persuade him to have a shower or take a walk round the garden, and he never ventures outside the grounds of the care home. He’s unwilling, and here Karen and Shirley have given up
coaxing. He’s extremely hard to manage in public; he’s inclined to insult strangers at the top of his voice: ‘Your hair looks like a horrible old mop,’ ‘What a rude
waitress you are,’ ‘Why are you wearing those ridiculous trousers?’ – his insightfulness can be excruciating. Plus occasionally he gets aggressive, perilously close to
violent.

Half an hour later, George is dressed and vertical. It takes ten more minutes to lead him with the aid of a Zimmer frame to the communal lounge, where they sit, a trio drinking weak tea, where
only two of them know who all three of them are.

* * *

Michael is in the garden shed when a gentle rap on the door heralds the arrival of Chrissie with a cup of coffee.

‘Thought this might warm you up.’

‘Thanks, love,’ he replies, barely glancing at her. He’s down on all fours, mending one of their kitchen chairs with extra-strong adhesive and string. It’s a relief to be
able to concentrate on something unconnected with work: ever since his encounter with Tim, Michael has been doing his best to contain his anger, but having to be in the shop has made it hard.

‘Brr!’ His wife shivers. ‘It’s nippy. You sure you’re OK?’

‘Mm,’ he grunts. How can he explain how much he likes being in here, regardless? Ryan and Kelly still have their own bedrooms in spite of being away at college, Chrissie has the rest
of the bungalow, and Bloomin’ Hove to some degree belongs to his customers, but this slatted wooden hut with one small window and a hazardous electricity supply is Michael’s territory
alone.

‘Where do you want this?’ she says, hovering. It’s a good question: currently his bench is home to a disassembled hi-fi he’s trying to mend because he has a vague notion
he might take it to the shop so he can play some of his vinyl there. Could make the place less dispiriting.

‘Er . . . just pop it down,’ he says, indicating the floor close by.

‘I don’t know how you can ever find anything in here.’ Chrissie eyes the disarray with an expression he knows well: a mixture of incredulity and affection.

But there’s order amidst the chaos, Michael protests inwardly. Within easy reach above his workbench are his tools; years back he banged pairs of nails into a horizontal baton on which
hang various hammers, pliers, chisels, screwdrivers, spanners and saws. Even the giant steel sledgehammer he bought for knocking through a hatch from their small kitchen to the
living-cum-dining-room has its own spot. Above are two shelves: one is stacked with glass jars – those filled with nails reflect a long-standing penchant for Chivers Olde English marmalade;
those containing screws a liking for Branston pickle. Chrissie started soaking off the labels and saving the jars long before recycling was commonplace, and now he has a pleasing array separating
out butterfly bolts from basin fixings, carpet tacks from clout nails, and much more. On the second shelf are larger items; some – different types of glue – go in plastic cartons left
over from years of takeaway curry; plugs and light bulbs are housed in old shoeboxes.

Opposite the door is propped a 1950s Formica dresser now assigned to decorating equipment – paint, brushes, white spirit and filler, not forgetting a couple of rolls of wallpaper covered
in pictures of cupcakes left over from Kelly’s room. At right angles to the dresser hang tools for the garden and chammy leathers and an ancient minivac for washing the car.

‘I like it in here as it is,’ he says.

So what if my workbench is covered in splashes or the yellow stuffing of my armchair is being eaten by mice, he thinks. This is where I can relax and read my dog-eared
NME
s, where I can
enjoy the rich bass of my analogue radio without anyone scoffing at the meagre selection of stations, and where I can come for a quick snifter of the Scotch I keep hidden in that old cake tin
marked
Loose bolts
if Chrissie or the kids are getting on my wick. I’m not sure how I’d have got through the week without the occasional surreptitious swig.

‘I know, love,’ replies Chrissie, and bends to kiss the top of his head before closing the door and retreating back to the warmth of the house.

Abby is with Callum in the kitchen, clearing space so they can make biscuits. Through the ceiling she can hear the murmur of Glenn talking on the phone. He laughs, and she
wonders who he’s chatting to – it seems ages since Abby managed even to make him smile.

She turns to her son, trying to remain upbeat. ‘Shall we start with the butter?’ Yet he stares out of the French window, ignoring her.

This bit is best done without Callum anyway, she reasons, opening the cupboard and getting out the mixer. Using beaters is dangerous with no one to help keep an eye on him.

Then all of a sudden her eyes well up, and before she knows it, she is weeping.

Sharing a house with someone you’re splitting up with is worse than living alone, she thinks. If only I had someone on hand to talk to; someone who understood Callum, like the woman who
helped us out at the Co-op – what a tonic that would be . . . But it’s so hard to connect with other parents – most mums with small children can only focus on adult conversation
in fits and starts, and I can seldom focus on one at all. And there’s the awkwardness of comparison; the milestones of their ‘normal’ children as opposed to the
one-step-forward-two-steps-back of my boy.

For goodness sake, get a grip, she scolds herself. Weakness and self-pity won’t help anyone. I must be strong. She wipes away tears with the back of her hand and turns her attention back
to the task in hand.

A few minutes later Glenn strolls into the kitchen. ‘What are you doing?’ he asks, flicking on the kettle.