Sweet Home

by Carys Bray

  ‘There’s a sign on the wall in Tom’s classroom,’ I said as Stuart shrugged out of his coat and lifted the lid of a pan on the stove. ‘Tom thinks it says he’s got a nut allergy. I asked him about it when we got home. He must have been wondering why it’s there, why they’ve got it wrong.’

  ‘Well tell them he hasn’t got an allergy. Simple.’

  ‘It’s not about that at all. It says …’ A series of noises vaulted out of my mouth. Wobbly, frightening noises that hung in the air with the steam from the stove. Stuart stared. Tom poked his head around the door.

  ‘Off you go.’ Stuart moved in an effort to hide me. ‘Off you go, Tom. Go on. Dinner’s not ready. Mum’s upset. Go and play cars. Off you go. Now.’ He pulled my face into his shoulder. ‘Shush. Shush. God! Shush. It’s only a sign. What are you crying for? You silly thing. It’s nothing to cry about.’

  My nose ran. So did my mascara. I cried all over his white shirt. I expect it’s ruined.

  This morning we will probably be late. There’s no winner in the race to school, but there are definitely losers. Groups of parents linger at the gate chatting. Latecomers have to run the gauntlet of jokes. Late ones coming through! Did your mum sleep in again? School starts at nine! Run, run!

  I can’t find Tom’s tie. I keep telling myself that I should ask him to pass it to me in the car on the way home from school, but I get distracted. There’s no pattern in the discarding of his tie, he just takes it off and drops it. It could be in the bathroom. It could be outside.

  ‘Letty, can you help me look for Tom’s tie?’

  ‘Oh, Mummy,’ she yells from the lounge. ‘I’m watching Newsround.’

  ‘Letty, please.’

  ‘Why should I? It’s not my tie. And Tom’s bigger than me. Why can’t he look for it himself?’

  Tom wanders into the kitchen with a fire engine in his hand.

  ‘Where’s your tie, Tom?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Why haven’t you got your shoes on?’

  He shrugs.

  ‘When did you last have it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your tie.’

  ‘Nee-nah,’ he mutters and he holds the fire engine up to his face, spinning a wheel with his index finger.

  I go outside to look for his tie in the car.

  Tom was diagnosed in a private hospital. It was expensive. Stuart said it would be worth it to prove that there was nothing wrong, nothing that some decent discipline couldn’t solve. ‘Where will Tom be while we’re talking about him?’ I asked when I booked the appointment over the telephone.

  ‘Don’t worry, a nurse will be playing with him,’ the receptionist said.

  The nurse gawped at us while we answered the doctor’s questions. She sat on the floor next to Tom, ignoring him. He kicked her, softly, an exploratory sort of kick.

  ‘Well, I’m not playing with you now,’ she said.

  ‘You weren’t anyway,’ he replied.

  As we stood to leave, the doctor said fish oils are a waste of time, behaviour management doesn’t work and support at school is unlikely because he’s not stupid enough.

  ‘The doctor said that one day Tom might get a job at Tesco,’ I told the babysitter as I drove her home.

  ‘That’s great news, Mrs Parsons,’ she said.

  The doctor had smiled as he said it, as if he’d just bestowed a consolation, like the good fairy in Sleeping Beauty.

  I can’t find Tom’s tie in the car. He’s waiting for me at the front door.

  ‘Is it there?’ he asks.

  ‘Nope,’ I say and point to the visual timetable on the back of the door. ‘Shoes, Tom.’ He gets his shoes out of the rack and Velcroes them on. I move my index finger along and point to the laminated picture of a school bag. ‘Where’s your bag?’

  ‘Dunno,’ he says, and bolts for the stairs.

  The visual timetable was supposed to help. I went on a course. Chronic disorganisation and an inability to focus on uninteresting things are supposedly typical. Visual timetables are the solution. The course leader was adamant. ‘What he needs is a visual timetable,’ she said.

  ‘But he can read these short words, so surely if I just write them—’

  ‘He needs to see the pictures. It must be visual.’ She pointed to her eyes for emphasis.

  ‘Do you have anything I can use? A template or something? Only I’m not very good at—’

  ‘You’ll have to make your own.’

  I drew the shoes, school bag, lunch bag and coat myself. Everyone laughed. Stuart said the shoes look like the ones that the Mr Men wear and after about five days Tom developed an inability to focus on the uninteresting timetable.

  I’m making the packed lunches in the kitchen when Stuart’s mother, Maureen, phones. Her call suggests that Stuart spoke to her last night while I was on sentry duty outside Tom’s bedroom. I fill her silences as I fill the children’s sandwiches, occasionally excusing the nee-naw of Tom’s fire engine and Letty’s complaints about his volume. Maureen is the only person I know who can give the silent treatment over the telephone. Her calls are littered with enormous pauses. ‘It’s very noisy in your house this morning. I’m glad I’m not there,’ she jokes before she hangs up.

  ‘Me too,’ I say into the silence of the dead line.

  I fasten the lunch bags and carry them to the door. It’s harder to forget things if you have to step over them on the way out. When it’s time to go I call Tom and Letty. Letty lolls down the corridor, collecting her bag and coat on her way.

  ‘Tom,’ I shout up the stairs. ‘Tom Parsons!’ He ambles down, tieless. ‘You’ll have to go without your tie,’ I tell him, even though this is as much a mark of failure as arriving late. ‘And if you don’t remember where you put your school bag right now, you’ll have to go without that too.’

  He disappears into the dining room and emerges with his bag. ‘Under the table,’ he explains.

  I take it from him and open it. His tie is coiled in the bottom. I drag it out and he shows his teeth in a facsimile of a smile.

  ‘I hate it when I don’t have my tie,’ he says as I unfold his collar and wrap the red strip around his neck.

  The sky is clear as we drive to school. It will be a cold and sunny autumn day. Tom sits in the front, in case there’s trouble.

  ‘Look at the moon,’ says Letty. ‘I can still see it.’ We all look up as we wait at the traffic lights. ‘How far away do you think it is, Mummy?’

  ‘Two hundred and thirty-eight thousand miles,’ Tom says.

  ‘Well, I think it’s ninety-nine.’ She smiles at me in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘That’s impossible. It would be far too close to the earth and there would be a big crash and everyone would be dead—’

  ‘Except for Mummy.’

  ‘I saw something about it in on TV and everyone died.’

  ‘But not Mummy.’

  ‘It was on TV, you idiot. Mum wasn’t in it.’

  ‘I can imaginate that Mummy would be fine if—’

  ‘You’re STUPID!’

  ‘STOP,’ I shout as Tom’s arm reaches to open the passenger door.

  ‘He called me an idiot. And stupid.’ Letty begins to cry.

  ‘STOP,’ I shout again as his hand wraps around the door handle.

  ‘I don’t want to sit here with YOU.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything,’ I begin, forgetting my theoretical impartiality, my duty as referee.

  ‘We don’t want to sit here with you either, bozo,’ Letty shouts.

  I turn the CD player on. Nat King Cole is singing ‘Smile’ and Tom starts to sing too. He knows all the words. When he was small I took hundreds of photographs of him. He used to pucker and twist and screw his face into happiness. From behind the camera I sang. Light up your face with gladness, hide every trace of sadness. And he gurned, knitted and pleated himself into ugly knots. I thought he was being funny. I know all the words and Letty joins in with the chorus. If people could se
e us right now, they would be certain of our happiness.

  We are not late. Letty prints sloppy, open-mouthed kisses on my face. I peel her off and deposit her outside the Reception Class entrance. I ruffle Tom’s hair as he enters Class 2, which is as much as he allows. I see him taking off his coat. He isn’t wearing his jumper. He must have left it at home. I watch him stand next to a girl he likes. He attempts a replica smile. The girl moves away and I witness his loneliness. His naked arms droop out of his short-sleeved shirt. If I fetch his jumper, at least he won’t be cold. I poke my head around the door and ask his teacher about the sign.

  ‘Just tell them they’ve got to take it down,’ Stuart said last night as he bundled his shirt into the washing machine. ‘He’ll be able to read those words before long. We don’t want that, do we? Maybe you’ll have got him sorted by then.’

  ‘The sign is there for information,’ the teacher insists. ‘In case there’s a supply teacher.’

  I nod and smile and suggest that it’s kept in the register. ‘Sometimes people have to cover at short notice and the information needs to be on hand and visible.’

  I keep smiling. I mention that the language of the sign could be seen as anti-inclusive by an inspection team and the teacher takes it down and throws it in the bin.

  When I get home the house feels calm, as if I have caught it in the aftermath of a sigh. I load up the washing machine then drive back to school with Tom’s jumper.

  Home again, and I sweep the floors, make the beds and drink frothy coffee. In the lounge several of Tom’s cars are guarding the perimeter of the dolls’ house. Each one is a type of emergency vehicle. There are ambulances, fire engines, police Land Rovers and tow trucks. I am admiring the pleasing array of red, white and blue when the telephone rings.

  ‘Did you get to school on time?’ Maureen asks. ‘I was worried.’

  ‘Yes. Yes we did. Right on time. No problems.’

  ‘Good,’ she says. ‘Good. That’s something then.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what are you doing today?’

  ‘Ironing, tidying up, cleaning.’ I don’t tell her about Tom’s jumper. It will worry her. She will say that disorganisation is bound to encourage him. ‘I’d better go if I’m going to get it all done before the kids—’

  ‘There’s an article in the Daily Mail,’ she interrupts. ‘About Asperger Syndrome.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘When I called before it sounded a bit hectic, and now I’m not sure whether to tell you. When I spoke to Stuart last night, he said you were upset. Said you had a funny five minutes. All better now?’

  ‘Yes. I was just feeling sad because—’

  ‘I read it this morning. Children who watch too much television. That’s what it says. Too much television. I’m not saying that it applies to you, love. I want you to know that because I appreciate that you try very hard with him. But I was thinking that when he was small …’ She thinks about this often: food additives, vaccinations, pesticides, lack of affection, attachment disorder, parenting classes, good old-fashioned discipline and gluten-free bread.

  ‘I don’t think …’ I search for some polite words in the blockage that is piling up my throat. ‘They both watch some television, but I really don’t think … He didn’t watch any more television than Letty and she’s fine.’ I carry the telephone to the kitchen and begin to make more coffee.

  ‘Well, that’s what it says here. I thought you could look it up on your computer.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’m only trying to be helpful. I’m not saying that you … you know.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want you to think that I’m having a go or anything. I know you do your best.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And …’

  ‘Yes?’ I throw myself into the silence, unwilling to hear it expand into a suggestion of upset.

  ‘I’m only saying this because I’m trying to help …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Last time I came round there were cars all over the floor.’

  ‘I know. Tom—’

  ‘I’m not exaggerating for effect. They really were everywhere, all over the place. Now when Stuart was small I used to say to him, “Put that toy away before you get another one out,” which kept everything tidy.’

  ‘I know, but he—’

  ‘Tidy home, tidy head. That’s what my mother used to say. You can’t have things straight in your mind if you’re surrounded by a jumble.’

  ‘I think it might make him happy. To get them all out. Arrange them,’ I explain. Tom is always quiet as he orders the cars. Focused, contented, I like to imagine. The folds of his face flatten, and he is suddenly ordinary.

  ‘He’ll keep doing it if you let him get away with it.’

  The coffee burns my lip as it creeps under the froth.

  ‘Make sure you look that article up,’ she reminds, as she concludes. ‘Tidy home, tidy head. Speak to you soon, love.’

  Before I collect the children, I put Tom’s cars away. They make a satisfying crash as they land in the toy box. I find the wooden boy and girl upstairs in the nursery of the dolls’ house with the miniature train and rocking horse. Wooden Dad is still on the sofa. The Dalek has moved. He’s lying in the master bed under a pile of blankets. I can’t find wooden Mum. She isn’t in the dolls’ house. I crawl across the lounge to check the toy boxes. She isn’t with the train set, or the Bob the Builder toys. I check Letty’s wooden farm. Wooden Mum isn’t in the paddock or the barn. I open the hay loft and there she is, lying next to a little pig, her wooden face split by the red biro grin.

  Letty’s pencil case is poking out from underneath the sofa and it only takes a moment for me to find the red biro. I score its hard tip into the wood and drag wooden Mum’s smile into an undulating frown. I sit on the floor holding the vandalised doll. I can see the autumn sky out of the lounge window. It reminds me of the day Tom was born. Afterwards, Stuart stroked my hair and said things like good girl, well done, I love you so much. Happiness penetrated my pethidine-fogged mind. It ballooned into the empty nest of my stomach and crept down my legs, reacquainting me with my feet. I was too happy to smile. I couldn’t risk the joy escaping through my mouth like a puncture. From my hospital bed I could see a window which framed only sky. It was autumn blue, streaked with the white streamer-wisps of aeroplane contrails, as wide, and deep, and high as my elation. Stuart stroked me with gentle, trembling fingers and Tom dozed in the cot beside us. I am the happiest woman in the world, I thought.

  Dancing in the kitchen

  She is sewing pips of reminiscence in his fertile mind, selecting scenes for the reel of his memories. She is the Director, Writer and Make-up Artist. She would like to be the Film Editor too and supervise the relegation of her inadequacies to the cutting-room floor. She would like to censor any shameful language: ‘You stupid boy,’ ‘I can’t take you anywhere,’ ‘I should have thought twice about having children.’ She does this in her Director’s Cut. In this version she is always smiling. She makes delicious, nutritious meals, irons his favourite clothes in time for him to wear them, patiently explains homework and never shushes him in the car because she is listening to the radio. But she does not have final-cut privilege. He is The Editor of this portion of her life. He selects rare, single-take footage of her shouting and crying. He creates miserable montages of her mothering misdemeanours. ‘Remember when I really wanted to go on a donkey and you wouldn’t let me?’ he asks. ‘Remember when you said I would have to sleep in the loft with the wasps’ nest if I kept getting out of bed?’ he enquires.

  She is determined to expunge her failings. She selects a location, prepares the storyboard and applies make-up.

  Take One: Dancing in the Kitchen:

  The radio is loud. The dance is a comedy combination of moves she used to perform in earnest several years ago. The noise will draw him to her and her exuberance will proclaim: I’m so happy to be your moth
er that I’m dancing in the kitchen. I love you so much; let’s dance in the kitchen, together.

  Take Two: Dancing in the Kitchen:

  The radio is louder. This time he will forsake the television in order to investigate. He will burst into the kitchen and join in the dance. They will laugh together in a way that allows her to begin sentences with, ‘Remember when we danced in the kitchen?’

  Take Three: Dancing in the Kitchen:

  The radio is moderately loud so as not to irritate him. He will come into the kitchen eventually, when he wants a drink or to ask what’s for tea. He will chuckle at her dance.

  Director’s Cut: In the Kitchen:

  The radio is on. Eventually he comes in. She sends him such a smile. Perhaps he will remember it.

  Scaling never

  There are so many kinds of never. There’s the never that Jacob’s mum uses when she says, ‘Never talk to strangers; it’s dangerous,’ and there’s the never his dad uses when he says, ‘Never play with your food; it’s bad manners.’ But Mum talks to loads of people she doesn’t know, and Dad breaks Oreos in half to lick the creamy bit. Issy used to say, ‘I’ll never be friends with you again if you don’t play with me.’ But she didn’t mean it. And sometimes she said, ‘I’ll never eat sprouts.’ She did mean this, and if Mum is right, and death is definitely the end of being alive, Issy will absolutely never eat sprouts. However, Jacob has noticed something. Never is a word that doesn’t always mean not-on-your-nelly and absolutely no way. Sometimes never means not yet.

  The house is full of sadness. It’s packed into every crevice and corner like snow. There are bottomless drifts of it beside Issy’s Cinderella beanbag in the lounge. The sadness gives Jacob the shivers and he takes refuge in the garden. Like the house, it is higgledy and unkempt. The lawn is scuffed and threadbare in places like a grassy doormat that’s felt too many feet. It is speckled with fallen leaves. Overgrown flower beds stream along the length of each of the old, red brick garden walls, all the way to the end wall which is partially concealed by a hornbeam hedge. Randomly planted apple trees poke out of the lawn like twisted, witchy hands. Clusters of green fruit cling to bent branches which are already almost bare of leaves. Windfalls pepper the grass and Jacob kicks them as he makes his way to the end of the garden. Some of the fallen apples are rotten and they detonate, spraying pulp and larvae. Others are hard and thwack on contact like tennis balls.