Shtum

Having discussed your request for the SEN Complex Needs panel to consider placing Jonah in a specialist residential school for children with autism, it is the panel’s overwhelming conclusion that Jonah’s educational and social needs would be appropriately met by his remaining in borough.

It is the Council’s policy to educate its children in borough wherever possible, using a multi-agency approach to support them both in the home and in an educational setting.

All garnered reports suggest that Jonah is making appropriate progress at Roysten Gate and that he is extremely well supported by a loving family. The panel has therefore recommended that Jonah’s transition to the newly enhanced Maureen Mitchell Secondary School should proceed in September 2011.

Yours sincerely
Adele Latchford
Director of Children’s Services

cc.
Claire McDonald, Speech Therapist
Anita Kaur, Educational Psychologist
Jennifer Porter, Headteacher, Roysten Gate School
Emilio De Rossi, Consultant Paediatrician
Mary Carey, Social Worker

Emma waits in the kitchen because the smell makes her gag. So the day unravels like every other: bath running, Jonah standing half-sodden while I open the windows, remove the bedsheets and spray the mattress cover with disinfectant. The sheets I ball together with his reeking pyjamas. The aromatic nappy and soiled wipes get tied in a plastic bag, and in he hops – the bubble-covered water turning to consommé on contact. I clean him vigorously, showering off the stubborn bits, and dry him with
his
navy towel – any other provokes a tantrum. Dressed, I shoo him along the corridor for breakfast. That’s our division of labour – she deals with what goes in and I deal with what comes out.

The letter lies open on the table, evidently scrunched then patted down. We don’t talk for ten minutes at least – any less and it’ll be my fault. I’ve learnt to play the long game. Finally, I pick it up and read – it holds no surprises, but I still feel indignant, ‘Well, that’s it then.’

‘Optimistic as ever.’

‘They’re bloody Orwellian. What is
appropriate
? Do you think they believe their own Newspeak?’

Sitting at the dining-room table with my head in my hands has become my breakfast yoga hold – the
why me?
position.

This minor swapping of self-pity has taken no more than a minute, but in that time our son has slid from view.

‘Where is he? Jonah? Weren’t you watching him, Ben?’

‘I’ve been talking to you,’ I say, making for the kitchen – which, unless supervised, is Jonah’s morning workout. He isn’t there but the evidence is, an empty tub of Cornish Vanilla. There’s ice cream on the black gloss units, stainless steel fridge, marble floor tiles and – as I turn back to the kitchen door – also in his shoulder-length hair, all over his face and his blue school tracksuit. ‘Oh you shitbag, Jonah – Emma, he needs showering and changing.’

We watch the minibus take him off with guilt-ridden relief.

Emma cries. ‘I can’t do this.’

Her sobbing turns my knuckles white.

I choose the wrong words with aplomb. ‘Don’t be so melodramatic.’

‘Shut up, Ben. What bright idea do you have? Hold the panel hostage with your father’s old Luger until they give in?’

‘Like Bonnie and Clyde?’

The image makes her giggle. It neutralises the acid in my stomach. We’ve been here many times in the past eighteen months, but the life-saving humour has darkened to pitch and we can’t really see each other. So she talks, a lot. Repetitively – a mantra of misery.

‘I just keep remembering those words coming from his mouth: bubble, door, Dada, Mumma – why did he stop? Last night I dreamt he walked into the lounge and started talking to me and the strange thing is that it was
his
voice – I’m sure of it. When I woke up I was convinced it was true and then I heard you in the bathroom, cleaning him up, and I felt sick with disappointment. Has that happened to you?’

‘Sometimes.’

But it hasn’t.

She studies the letter again while I finish my coffee. I watch her eyes tilt skyward and her fingers run through her chestnut hair, the spotlights highlighting a strand of grey. Her lips mouth words as she shakes her head and then her voice rises to a whisper as she repeats the phrase:
loving family, loving family, loving family
.

‘They’re perverse. This whole thing is upside down. We’re being punished because we love and care for him and he’s not as good at autism as he could be.’

‘He’ll never play autism for England.’

‘It’s like they’re persecuting us for not being completely destroyed by the situation. Things aren’t bad enough, yet. He doesn’t need to wear a crash helmet or headphones and we aren’t crack addicts.’

‘Yet.’

It is truly a system to behold, a cost/benefit analysis without the human element.

I say, ‘Maybe I’ll have a nervous breakdown, you could grope a client and get disbarred, then we’d be poor and insane – that would boost our case? And if the worse came to the worst we could always split up, they love a single parent.’ I laugh to myself at the craziness of it all.

I look at her, but she isn’t looking at me and she isn’t laughing. She grabs her briefcase and heads off.

‘See you later,’ I say to the closing door.

I’m at the warehouse by eleven – where hundreds of plates sit waiting to be washed, caked in the remnants of celebratory food that has gone hard and rank over the weekend. This is my daily rhythm: tables, chairs, crockery, cutlery and glasses – sent out for hire in pristine condition, picked up in chaos, washed, wrapped and sent out again. It’s a living for the sick of life.

‘I’m going to lunch.’ Valentine, who, at well over six feet with his massive shoulders, looks like a West Indies fast bowler, doesn’t look up from his glass polishing. ‘I’m going to lunch.’

‘Heard you,’ he says. ‘Got your phone? I’m not answering it.’

‘I’ll only be an hour.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Back by twelve.’

‘Right.’

‘Leave it to go to answerphone.’

‘Okay.’

‘If my dad comes in, tell him I’m on a delivery.’

‘Okay.’

I swipe twenty quid from the cashbox and head through the next-door printers to the high road. Vinod blocks my way.

‘Need to talk to you about the rent.’

‘Have a meeting. Twelve?’

‘You said that yesterday.’

I push past him and dive through the front door.

‘Six hundred and twenty pounds, Ben.’

‘No problem.’ But it is.

‘Morning, Ben.’

‘Andrea.’

‘Guinness?’

‘Please, darling.’

She talks and pours. ‘How the flats going, love?’ Permed brunette Andrea has the height of a supermodel and the voice and Adam’s apple of a prizefighter.

‘Still waiting for the bloody council to sort the planning permission out. Bastards.’

‘Bastards. Still, suppose it gives you time to work on your house?’

‘Sure,’ I say, settling on to a stool at the snug’s horseshoe bar. ‘Bloody planning.’

This is my alter ego, relayed to the other members of the Professional Drinkers Club – all tradesmen, all Irish – in an effort to fit in. So, it’s early and I’m happily alone in the snug with a pint of Guinness, drowning my angst. I like the wood panelling, sticky floors and Irish company. I love that they think I’m one of them. It happened by accident, but I didn’t correct them and now I wax lyrical on everything from plastering to the Pope. It feels good being Catholic for a couple of hours a day, I like to try it on for size. It certainly beats the ignominy of hiring out catering equipment and I love the anonymity. It wasn’t easy, I had to earn this seat – five months in the public bar before I plucked up the courage to join them. I’m just beginning my second pint, when my mobile wriggles on the bar top like an upturned woodlouse. JONAH: SCHOOL.

‘He’s fine.’ Jonah is grinning, looking over my shoulder toward the car park without blinking. His eyelashes could catch dragonflies. ‘Are you sure he was sick?’

‘Mr Jewell, it was a projectile.’

‘But he’s clean as a whistle?’

‘Yes, but Miss Glen needs a dry cleaner.’

I resist offering to pay.

‘It’s the coughing that triggers it, he’s not ill. Seriously, look at him.’

Jonah is jumping up and down at the door, following the manic formation flight of an advance group of starlings.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Jewell. He has to stay off school for forty-eight hours following a sickness episode – it’s borough policy.’

‘Brilliant. What am I supposed to do about work?’

‘I’m truly sorry. Could his mother not look after him?’

She’s new, Maria. Only joined at Christmas. I don’t know how she copes. She is pale-skinned, red-haired and willowy – very attractive in an ethereal way – but no physical match for Jonah and his gang of unpredictable classmates.

‘Friday, then?’

‘Yes, Friday, as long as he isn’t sick again,’ she says.

‘And what about Cherrytree?’ The play scheme that he visits twice a week after school and on Sundays – a blissful day free from nappies. She grimaces.

‘I’ll let them know Jonah won’t be coming.’

Sentenced. No parole. ‘Okay, come on, Jonah.’ I reach for his hand, but he jerks it away, so I follow his skipping form to the car – dividing the coming two days into hours and minutes and seconds – and clench my fists in my pockets.

‘No I can’t, Ben. I’m in court both days.’

‘But you know Thursday and Friday are my busiest days. Can’t we at least do one each?’

The pause and heavy sigh is the answer. She pushes some rocket leaves around her plate with a fork.

‘What about your dad?’

‘You know we haven’t spoken since Yom Kippur in September.’

‘You’re both so childish. What you have to understand is …’

Here we go.

‘… that if I miss court, someone stays on remand; if you stay at home, someone may not get their fish forks. Do you want me to phone him, he’d love to see Jonah?’

‘No. Have you finished?’ I ask, taking her plate. But she has me and she knows it and I can’t face her now, so instead I begin the washing-up – my rage as hot as the gushing water.

‘I’m going to check on Jonah. Meet you in the lounge?’

She’s back in seconds.

‘He’s wide awake and the room stinks.’

‘So change him.’

‘Ben …’

‘Tell you what, I’ll do it, shall I?’

He’s not a baby any more, physically, anyway. As the years have passed I’ve watched other people’s kids developing quickly, dreading the inevitable day when – like a burn-up at the traffic lights – my son remains in neutral as they roar off into the distance. Month by month the chance of hearing words again grew fainter. Now he’s ten, statistically those words will never escape. His mind is like a dictionary with the pages glued together. I kiss his forehead and pull the duvet up to his chin. I don’t know if he sleeps at night, but as long as he’s quiet I can live with it. The trouble is he rarely is.

Before I join Emma, I quietly dispatch the remaining half bottle of wine and return the empty bottle to the fridge.

‘Is he all right?’ She’s curled up on the sofa. ‘Are we all right?’

‘I’d say we’re all about the same, aren’t we? Sleepwalking?’

‘Suppose a shag’s out of the question?’ she asks.

I laugh, flute-like and nervy, and file it in the drawer marked ‘rhetorical’. It’s been months and her half-suggestions and hints leave stab wounds all over me. It’s not that she’s lost her attraction for me; it’s the possible result. The silent knowledge of her desire to extend our family, her outward broodiness in baby company. This has yet to become a full-blown crevasse between us, yet the cracks are appearing. Maybe if Jonah had been born second … She unfolds herself from the sofa, walks down the hall and into the bathroom. It’s the fourth time this evening, five minutes of sanctuary, I suppose.

‘Could you get me another glass of wine?’ she asks when she comes back.

‘It’s finished.’

‘No, there was at least half left.’ She stares into my eyes.

‘What?’

‘You know what.’

‘Suddenly I can’t have a glass of wine after dinner?’

‘It’s what you seem to be unable to do after your glass of wine and your brandy or scotch. Don’t think I don’t realise why you’re always suggesting I go to bed early. I’m not stupid, Ben.’

I’m not good at being caught, humiliated. It invokes silence, heavy with unwashed linen. We both know it’s my method of avoidance, but I don’t know if she suspects that her wriggling bottom – pushed into my groin in the early hours of the morning – feels like an attempted rape. There is nothing carefree about sex any more and a thick blue line appearing on a stick of piss-washed plastic may be her foremost desire, but it just might finish me off for good. It’s easier to fall back on a drink problem than admit I don’t share her wish. So occasionally I succumb, praying that my sperm have zero sense of direction and the motility of a sloth – they are, after all, mine.

She goes to open another bottle and pours herself a glass.

‘Ben, I spoke to a colleague today.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘She specialises in educational tribunals.’

‘And?’

‘As it stands, she doesn’t fancy our chances.’

‘And that fabulous piece of insight is worth?’

She digs me in the ribs. ‘She said
as it stands
.’

‘And how does it stand?’

‘Us. Together. With the resources we have.’

‘I thought this whole thing is about Jonah?’

‘It is about Jonah. I showed her the letter; we discussed other cases – successful cases. There were commonalities, certain things that would help him.’

‘Such as?’

‘This morning’s conversation. Splitting up. They love a single parent, remember?’

‘That was a joke, Emma, and not a good one.’

‘Do you hear me laughing?’

‘You’re serious? Pretending to split up?’

‘It would be for Jonah.’

‘Just for him?’

‘Yes. But don’t tell me you think I’m loving life at the moment.’

‘And you’ve noticed me tap dancing in between arse-wiping?’

‘It wouldn’t be real, Ben, just a temporary arrangement until the tribunal is over.’