‘Ah, but which way round would your dear wife put it, I wonder?’ Maitland added.
‘Well, I couldn’t be sure actually,’ Pete said, wondering himself as to Alicia’s place in all this. ‘I’m not sure she’d use these words herself, but I think she has a view of the physical world that has a powerful underpinning that she herself would like to understand. I don’t think she’d use the word spiritual, but I don’t know what she’d use instead either. I don’t think she knows herself.’
‘Albert Einstein said that all religions, arts, and sciences are branches of the same tree,’ Maitland continued.
‘He also said he was a deeply religious non-believer,’ added Loraine.
‘Oh, I like that.’ Maitland smiled. ‘Now Pete, about your dear wife …’
Maitland engaged Pete in a side conversation as others similarly rose about the table.
Their hosts, Rose and Loraine, had remained largely subdued, occasionally suggesting conversational direction or supplying some snippet of information from their own experience and in-between filling glasses, promoting the varying colour of the discussion. The idea that such an apparent free-for-all truly existed within the context of a Church-hosted evening seemed at least eccentric to Pete, if not entirely peculiar, but then these particular hosts were definitely unconventional, if not actually a little kooky – middle-aged, devoted to their Church, as well as apparently each other? Pete couldn’t quite figure that one out. Anyway, it was unimportant. Their goal seemed sincerely to create a forum, not to direct its agenda – an absence of structure within a larger context of laws and precepts, tenets and commandments. It occurred to Pete that this required a particular awareness and set of skills to be able to engineer so dichotomous an activity. Despite all this though, he remained in himself circumspect and non-committal, albeit that the discussion and the company was stimulating and certainly unexpected.
Loraine, sitting between Pete and Maitland’s conversation, asked, ‘What are you searching for, Pete?’
‘Ah, well, I’m not sure I’m searching for anything,’ a little surprised, not for the first time, by the frankness of these two women.
‘I suppose I mean, what are you curious about? You’re here. I assume not simply because Rose invited you,’ Loraine continued.
Whoa.
‘Okay, fair enough. Well I guess I’m curious about my son.’ This was news to Pete even as the words came out. ‘He’s autistic. It’s been suggested to me by one or two of his therapists in particular that he’s very spiritual. I’ve heard this said about other autistic children …’
‘Yes, so have I,’ Rose interrupted.
‘Well, it’s somewhat of an empty statement to me. What does it mean? I can see that he’s very sweet, that maybe – maybe – there’s more going on in his head than we give him credit for, albeit that that’s a bit of a mystery.’
‘What do you think?’ Rose asked.
‘I don’t know what to think.’
‘Are there things he does that make you wonder about him?’ Loraine asked.
‘Yes definitely, of course.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like the way he seems to look at things that aren’t there. Well, at least not that we can see. As though he’s communicating.’
‘I understand that autistic children … Are they called autists?’ Loraine started on a theme.
‘Yes, I’ve heard that term used,’ Pete responded.
‘I’ve heard that they see a hundred times the detail in things that we do, and that simultaneously holds their fascination and then more or less spins them out from sensory overload.’ Rose pointed out.
‘Oh, that’s it entirely,’ Pete responded. ‘And then the question is what is this thing ‘a-hundred-times-the-detail’? Is he seeing … I don’t know … wave forms? Sound? Light particles?’
‘My goodness, what an interesting thought,’ added Maitland.
‘And then what does he make of whatever it is that he sees? Pete asked rhetorically. ‘I don’t know how to think about that or what to do about that.’
‘Well, probably you don’t have to do anything. Anyway, you’re here, you’re open …’
‘Hmm, maybe.’
‘You don’t think so?’
‘You know, we’ve been bombarded the last year with information about our son, what’s wrong with him, what his prognosis is, what’s the best way to teach him, to train him, to get him to speak, this new therapy here, that research there, and so on. I think we were very open, certainly to start with. But I think we’re a bit bogged down with it all now to tell you the truth. There’s too much to take in and process and decide on. And when what you really want is to get your kid to just talk and go to the toilet and sleep and eat with a spoon, then comments about his spirituality are frankly a little beyond our capacity to deal with.’
‘But you’re curious about that in some way, nonetheless.’
Pete thought I don’t want to say yes. I’m not saying no either. What am I saying? He was momentarily exasperated. ‘I’m saying I don’t know where to start. And I’m saying I’m unconvinced of the value of any discussion around Tim’s spirituality. And I suppose I’m saying … don’t push me.’ Pete looked Loraine square in the eye. She smiled.
‘Wouldn’t dream of it, Pete,’ she said with a bigger grin.
‘Okay. Thanks. I do love my son, and I think there’s a way into his head. I just don’t know whether that’s about psychosocial and speech therapy, or whether it’s maybe about force of character – my character – and the feelings I have for him, and when I’m with him.’
‘Here’s a thought for you. How about keeping a journal about Tim? Note things down, anything at all. Perhaps it might help to make sense of things. I think journal writing can be quite a zen activity. Maybe it will help you get into the flow of what’s happening – Tim’s flow. Give it a try.’
‘Okay,’ Pete said slowly. ‘Sure, why not. I like to write. That’s a good idea.’
‘And bring Tim to the cathedral again – perhaps that’s a good place for him – who knows …?’
Pete wasn’t feeling at all sure whether he wanted to go within a mile of the Cathedral ever again, or not.
‘Yes, I will.’
‘Coffee?’ asked Rose, rising from the table.
‘Ah …’
‘Oh no you don’t, you two,’ called Maitland from the other end of the table. ‘You’re not getting your clutches into this poor man. Come on, Pete. The Wig & Mitre awaits our benefaction. My round.’
Pete wasn’t sure a jaunt to the pub with Maitland was his best choice either, but it seemed a done deal.
‘Ah, looks like I’m being dragged away,’ he said.
‘I can see you kicking and screaming.’ Loraine laughed, not at all put out, which made Pete think perhaps he’d rather stay.
Pete laughed too. ‘You know, you have made me think about a couple of things. And thanks for the suggestion about the journal. I’ll probably do that.’
‘Good. Well, I’ll be interested in your observations. And I hope you’ll come again, although I’ve no doubt Maitland is about to fill you with enormous doses of cynicism. Heaven knows why he comes here. Clearly, he’s not right in the head,’ Loraine finished off, to gales of laughter.
‘I’ll see you both out,’ said Rose, as the two men donned jackets and nodded their goodbyes around the table, Maitland managing to look smug yet again.
‘Hang on a minute,’ Sally said. ‘Maitland might think he’s rescuing you from this lot, Pete, but who’s going to rescue you from him? And it’s Thirstday and I could seriously do a pint!’ Sally stood, grabbed a coat and scarf, and did a round of goodbyes and a few cheek kisses. She followed Pete, Maitland, and Rose into the hallway.
‘Bye, Loraine,’ she called back.
‘Here you are youngsters. Careful driving home,’ Maitland cheekily lowered three pints to the table.
‘Why on earth do you go to these evenings, Maitland?’ Sally
asked.
‘Well, I do believe, you know.’
‘In what, for heaven’s sake?’
‘In God, of course!’
‘Well, why all the argy-bargy all the time? All the cynicism.’
‘Well, I just don’t believe there are proofs. I told you. I don’t believe we can know God. It’s a simple matter of Faith, pure and simple. And I choose to believe. But I’ll argue to the bitter end anyone who wants to belittle an omnipresent, omnipotent God with their meagre proofs of divine existence.’
‘So what about prayer then? Do you believe in it or not?’
‘Of course I believe in it. But it’s about Faith, nothing else.’
‘Well, what’s Faith then?’ Sally persisted.
‘The extent to which I believe.’ Maitland’s responses were curt, but not unkind or rude.
‘That feels like cheating.’
‘Why?’
‘Science exists. God exists. Surely the two can coexist.’
‘How do you know God exists?’
‘I’m not talking about me right now – I’m trying to get to the heart of where you’re at. You just said God exists …’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Yes, you did!’
‘No. I said I believe in God.’
‘So what in hell is the difference?’
‘There’s a world of difference. For example, I choose to believe in my wayward son’s ability to secure a solid income for himself and stop sponging off his father, despite that there is absolutely no objective evidence of this likelihood at all. In other words, that he might create this future for himself does not exist, but I believe in it just the same.’
‘All right then. Using that ridiculous example, why do you believe in it?’
‘Because, my dear, I choose it.’
Silence.
Sally’s eyes narrowed in mock evil at Maitland. ‘You’re toying with me.’
‘Absolutely not. Wouldn’t dream of it. How’s your glass?’
‘Another thank you. You semanticist, you.’
‘I assure you I am not playing word games. Not my style. Pete, another?’
‘Thank you. Let me get them.’
‘No. Sit yourself down. Back in a jiffy.’ Maitland headed for the bar, amid a reasonable bustle and the hum of a stereo mounted behind the bar.
Most patrons were locals but a good smattering of tourists as well, the one group quite distinguishable from the other. The Wig was a fairly typical old English pub, although it wasn’t the business that had always been housed there, within the stone walls and low-beamed ceilings. Several hundred years old now, it was at least known to have housed a mortuary in one past life, and probably many more besides.
‘What do you think, Pete? Do you think God exists, is provable, what …?’ Sally turned to Pete after losing herself for a few minutes in the hubbub about the bar.
‘I don’t think I’ve thought through it enough, Sally. It’s never been a focus in my life, but I must say I enjoyed listening tonight to the different views. It’s very interesting. And I like Maitland’s contributions a lot. It’s all making me think, that’s for sure. What about you?’
‘Oh, I’m a believer for sure, but I also believe science and religion must be able to be unified. What does give me pause is whether I need to have proofs to bolster my belief, and that’s where I do really respect Maitland’s stance. He chooses to believe, and he doesn’t require proof. And the notion that scientific proof is an insult anyway to the idea of an omnipotent God, that’s got some synergy for me – interesting, as you say. So you’re not sure what to believe in?’
‘I don’t know. And I don’t want anyone telling me either.’
‘Well said, Pete!’ Maitland returned, placing two pints onto their table with one hand and then giving a mock salute with the third.
‘So why did you come tonight?’ Sally resumed, lifting one of the pints in return salute to Maitland.
‘Because I was invited and because I was curious.’
‘So are you going to come back again?’ Sally pressed on.
‘Don’t know,’ Pete responded.
Sally rolled her eyes. ‘You’ve caught his bug already! Look what you’ve done, you grumpy old sod – turned another innocent into a doubting Thomas.’
Maitland beamed.
‘Oh no, truly I don’t need Maitland’s help for that.’ Pete grinned. ‘I have been committed to non-commitment my whole life. Or so my wife would have anyone believe, although I am appreciative of finding such a stalwart in Maitland. Thank you, old chap,’ lifting his own beer to the mock salutes.
‘Pleasure!’ Maitland rejoined.
‘Oh knock it off, Maitland,’ Sally scolded, over the increasing noise of the pub.
‘I do rather luxuriate in the idea of getting sozzled after going to Church, don’t you, Pete? Something quite degenerate about it, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Except you haven’t been at Church – you’ve been at Rose and Loraine’s,’ Sally interrupted.
‘Even better. Post-Bible class pickling!’
‘That was Bible class!’ Pete was enjoying, keeping the mock impiety going. ‘Goddamn!’
They all laughed.
The newly created trio wound its relaxed way through a fond evening, regaling each other with its odd recipe of cynical but respectful anecdote, tales of life and children and careers. When it was obvious it must come to a close, it was jointly anointed by its participants in typical understatement as a ‘rather good night’, by which stage all three were firm friends. They also, all three, could barely stand.
Arriving home after closing time, Pete found his way with some difficulty along the path to the front door of his house, momentarily wondering why Alicia had not left a light on for him. He was loosely cognisant of trying four or five different keys in the front door and then, having secured entry, gave up on trying to relock the door from the inside.
That his wife was awake and pretending otherwise was entirely apparent to him when he half stumbled into bed, but of little account to his furried consciousness then or later.
Alicia herself lay in a maelstrom of animosity, resentment and despair, jumbled with a general perplexity that all of these reactions were grinding their way round her head at all. Her release from the weight of all this angst, which seemed to sit somewhere behind her eyes, seemed via rage, and while she knew clearly the incompatibility of her anger with any kind of mature and settled life, she was completely without strength or faculty to do other than allow it its course. She had no coherent reason for the trajectory her bitterness took, which was clearly towards her husband and to a lesser extent her children, except logic offered guilt as a convenient understanding, and pragmatism gave her a basketful of both real and relatively made-up excuses with regard to her husband at least.
On the other hand, she knew none of that was rational either, albeit that bits of it suited her, at least as a means by which to avoid closer examination. She supported her family, and she and Pete shared responsibility for most aspects of household decision-making, especially as it concerned Tim’s care.
What she ultimately could not abide was her inability to make everything in her life right and satisfactory, at least as much as she would like, which was a level she knew was unreasonable. She couldn’t escape her want to make Tim normal, physics palatable – or a career in physics palatable, and Pete an attractive proposition again – Pete whose casual, indolent approach to daily life she could choose if she wished to brush aside in favour of once more being in love, or at least content, if she had a mind to..
No, she had realised she did not feel guilty. She felt incapable, impotent. She had relied in large part in her adult life on success founded on intellectual endowment – mental grunt. While she was not naive or foolish enough to think managing her marriage did not require something more than this, whatever talents she was without were not only not present, her ability to even want them, let alone develop them, was bizarre
ly concealed from her. And so from this position of weakness she fought, as though such flailing might eventually bring her into contact with some more advantageous or salutary temperament. And each night when this turmoil had whirled and rotated itself into more convolutions and revolutions than could be numbered or made sense of, it would finally dissipate briefly into sleep, to manifest on waking into a reluctance to emerge into the day or to engage with any part of it. Habit alone would pull her into routine and goad her to another daily round, through an obstacle course of emotions competing for ground in her over-engaged consciousness.
For now, Pete’s late arrival and drunken noise, along with the reek of stale beer, gave her emotions a target and she eventually fumed and enraged herself to a sleep, but not before an infuriation of tears spilled silently to her pillow.
Friday, 3 April 1981
I’ve noticed Tim’s generally more engaged with his surroundings lately, although I’m not sure what has brought about this change. It’s undoubtedly a factor that Jillie spends so much time with him, and that she’s always talking to him. It would seem entirely ‘normal’ if instead she went about as if he wasn’t really there, or if she felt irritated by him, but she’s completely devoted.
Tim’s been quite ‘disturbed’ today though. There are times when he’s quite scratchy, and perturbed by something – his surroundings, us, I don’t know. It’s puzzling. It’s not behaviour that seems attributable, necessarily, to tiredness or to being a bit under the weather. It’s as though some pressure is being applied to him – like a parent is insisting on a new standard of conduct in a child and the child is pushing, resisting. And then after a few days, the child surrenders and then all is peaceful again. There are times Tim does this with us, like when we had him change from sitting at his little child’s table and chairs to eat, to sitting at the dining table with Alicia and Jillie and me. He absolutely was not going to play ball, and it took about four days to get him to make the switch. We were almost ready to give in and leave him at the little red table; it was such a battle. But then all of a sudden he just got up to the big table as if that’s what he’d always done. But the rebelliousness associated with the table-changing episode was only evident just prior to mealtimes. This other kind of response – as though to some kind of pressure – is a general thing that’s there all the time, usually for a few days. I imagine there are some ‘connections’ being made in his brain that act like a flickering light to his consciousness, eventually a new bulb goes in – a light goes on – and he settles again.
Angels in the Architecture Page 10
