Angels in the Architecture

by Sue Fitzmaurice

  Pete’s schedule for the day was one child-focused task heaped on the next and barely a break in between any of these. After the supermarket, he had a psychologist’s visit with Tim in Lincoln; then a play group that was entirely frequented by normal children with their mothers, making Pete feel doubly odd, despite his determination to make his presence as a father with an autistic child an acceptable exercise in parenting.

  Inside the supermarket, Pete let Tim’s hand go briefly as he pulled a trolley from a queue with the inevitable heave and jerk this required, narrowly avoiding sending the trolley singing into his son’s head. He lifted Tim into the front of the trolley and veered around through the greengrocery. He knew he had about twenty minutes before Tim lost all ability to remain calmly in the trolley, which would not really be enough time, especially if the checkout queues were full and even more especially if he couldn’t find something on the damned list. At that point Tim would start wailing and would want to get out of the trolley and Pete would assume everyone within a fifty-yard radius would both see and hear this and assume that he had either hit his son or was otherwise unfit to parent in some way, and this because to all the world Tim looked like any other child. Who was to know he wasn’t? It was all very well to have the determination to parent his son regardless of the narrow confines of this English cultural context, but it wasn’t easy just the same, and paranoia, or was it an accurate take on reality, frequently descended..

  Fortunately there didn’t seem to be too many shoppers and Pete worked through his list with reasonable efficiency. Tim looked around at the supermarket shelves, without actually really looking at them, and making toddler babble.

  Because he was a sweet, good-looking child, like other such appealing children he attracted attention from adults who came into contact with him in some way – other shoppers and some store workers – all women. Most did not seem to notice that Tim wasn’t the usual intellectual elevation of others his age; perhaps people thought he was just very tall for his age. ‘What a lovely wee boy’, women would say over the sausages or the baked beans shelf or down the bathroom aisle, as Tim sing-songed to himself. Pete would always smile and say ‘thank you’ or ‘yes, he is’, and he wouldn’t really think about whether Tim was doing anything odd or not at the time, or whether any of these people noticed anything unusual about him..

  By the time Pete was at the biscuit and pet food aisle, he could see Tim’s movements and sounds were starting to get subtly louder. Rounding the end of the aisle, he sank a bit to see several overstuffed trolleys waiting to go through the checkouts.

  Bugger.

  He walked the length of the checkout row and then missed one likely spot on the way back.

  Shit.

  He found the next most likely counter and waited, the second trolley back from the one now working its way through the exit. A lengthy standstill would further exacerbate Tim’s impatience. Pete picked out a magazine from a rack near the counter and tried to block out Tim’s movement and noise, which was in fact not possible, and his own impatience swelled slowly to irritation. The hum of the store was sufficient that Tim’s crescendo had not yet risen to too noticeable a level, but Pete could see it threatened.

  The front trolley was moving off, and the one in front of Pete had unloaded half its contents. Funny, he thought of the whole thing as a trolley, not a person and a trolley. The trolley unloaded its own contents – yeah, right.

  God, is this what I’m reduced to? I’m a serious writer, and there’s total garbage in my head. Think about something intelligent, you moron. Okay, car engines. Need to get some sparks for the car. Need to wash Alicia’s car this Sunday and vacuum out the backseat where Tim’s been stuffing leftover biscuits. Bloody hell – back to Tim again. How’s he doing? Hang on, mate. Not long. Geez, this is a bit of crap writing in this magazine. Why don’t they have the Guardian or something at the checkout – why’s it all this rubbish? C’mon, lady. Move ya’ bleedin’ arse! Calm down, calm down. Everything’s moving along, steady as she goes. Things take the time they take. Take a deep breath. Put that crap mag back!

  ‘Hey, buddy. How’s it going? Not long, okay?’

  Tim was getting louder. A look from the woman in front. Sympathetic it seemed. So far.

  C’mon, c’mon.

  Tim was winding up to a major howl. Pete hated that people would think Tim was naughty or spoiled.

  At last.

  The woman in front had emptied her groceries onto the counter, and Pete could start unloading his. He’d got everything on the list – a minor miracle.

  I wonder if a full grocery list shop entitles me to a shag. You’re pathetic, Pete Watson, you know that.

  Tim was at full throttle, and with only a few minutes to go now Pete felt he could ignore both the sound and any stares that came his way. He focused on unloading and piling, unloading and piling. The woman in front moved off, and the checkout operator started tallying Pete’s items.

  We’re moving, we’re moving. Yes!

  ‘Ah, sir, d’you know which aisle this item came from?’ He asked, holding up a curry sauce. ‘It doesn’t ’ave a price on it.’

  Piss!

  ‘Ah, not sure. It was some special stand somewhere over by the meat freezer, I think. Look, don’t worry. Just skip it.’

  ‘Oh, it’s no trouble, sir. Le’ me jus’ call someone over.’

  ‘Uh …’

  Too late, she’d rung the bell. Pete could see someone from the supervisors’ desk coming over.

  ‘’Ave you go’ a price on this, Hazel?’

  ‘No worries, love. Back in a minute.’ Hazel with the back end of a bus arse waddled off and the checkout girl carried on with Pete’s other items.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  Unload, pile. Unload, pile. Ignore the screaming. All Pete’s items were through.

  ‘Jus’ be a sec on that curry, sir.’

  ‘Look, really, I can skip it. It’s fine.’

  ‘Oh, here, she is.’

  ‘Fify-six pence, Molly. Sorry to keep you waiting, sir.’

  ‘Oh, it’s fine. No problem. Thank you.’

  Molly keyed in the last amount and gave Pete his total. Pete counted out twenty-pound notes.

  ‘Your wee man’s go’ a set a’ lungs, ’asn’t e’?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Pete feigned a smile.

  ‘Here’s yer change, sir. Thank you. You ’ave a nice day, won’t you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Pete scarpered. The trolley’s movement dropped Tim’s screaming back to a whimper. They were ahead of time for the psychologist. If Pete drove round for half an hour, Tim would get a sleep and hopefully be okay again for their next appointment. He hoped to God there wouldn’t be a wait when they got there.

  Alicia left a message on the home phone and then tried Pete’s car phone. Christ knows why he thought he needed the big honky thing, especially since he was hardly in the car – a remnant from journo days and needing to be on the spot, needing to be needed.

  She was going to be late home. A faculty meeting. Visiting professor. Not quite boring, and anyway a reason not to have to deal with the pre-dinner scramble at home. She hoped at least for an intelligent discussion on the Paris experiments, or at least some that went beyond scathing or disinterested. She felt uneasy at holding her position among the rank and file of respectable physics citizenry in whose midst she was tolerated. Tolerated why? For her difference? Some eccentricity on her part or theirs? Some ironic middle class, academic gesture towards institutional fashion?

  ‘You can have another appointment in October, Mr Watson. What’s a good day for you?’

  ‘Oh, any’s fine. Just during school hours is good.’

  Pete’s morning with Tim had proceeded with more calm and the psychology meeting at the hospital in Lincoln had gone quite well. Pete wasn’t sure they really had a handle on what to do with Tim any more than he did but they seemed engaged with Tim’s learning, and they seemed to be indicating that Tim’
s progress was at the upper end of the scale and one had to be grateful for that.

  Pete stood at the busy waiting room window. Tim, tired again, was standing loosely at his side, one arm about Pete’s leg.

  ‘Okay, we can do ten o’clock on the ninth. That’s a Friday.’

  ‘That’s great. Thanks. Will you send out one of those reminder cards?’

  ‘Yes, we will.’

  ‘Great, thanks.’

  ‘Just let me put this into the diary.’

  A dozen or so people were seated about the waiting room. The hospital had the annoying practice of booking all their morning’s outpatients into the same appointment time, so the wait was always frustrating, especially when children were involved. Pete had learnt to negotiate with the administration staff to arrive at a more precise time, although not without some consternation on their part, but he didn’t much care about that and it had more or less worked to his advantage over time..

  ‘Oh, Pete. Just before you go…’ One of the psychology team had put her head round the waiting room door.

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘Can I just get you to sign this consent for the autism research project I mentioned? You don’t have to do it now. You might want to take this information sheet away and talk it over with your wife. You could post the form back to us. The address is on the bottom of the page there.’

  ‘Oh sure. I’m sure it’s fine. My wife’s an academic. She’s always keen to support other people’s research projects. I think she knows how difficult it can be to enrol participants in these things. But sure, I’ll post the form back to you. Thanks.’

  ‘And if you’ve got any questions just give me a ring any time. It’s no problem. Or if your wife wants to call, that’s fine too.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Okay, thanks. See you later then.’ The woman smiled and ducked back through the swing door.

  Pete turned back to the appointments desk.

  ‘That’s all sorted for you then, Mr Watson. We’ll see you in October.’ The clerk handed Pete an appointment card.

  ‘Thank you. Bye then.’

  ‘Bye now.’ And the clear window was slid across in front of Pete’s face before he’d even turned away.

  Typical.

  Pete turned about. He had a very small and momentary instant of anxiety as he realised Tim was no longer attached to his leg nor standing nearby. He scanned the room, its participants reading over-read magazines or nursing or comforting small children or else sitting cross-armed in obvious annoyance at their wait.

  Pete wandered a few steps, peering around and over seats and people.

  Shit.

  Tim wasn’t in the room.

  ‘Did anyone see where my son went?’ he called out calmly into the room and was greeted by an array of empty faces.

  He walked to the swing doors that went through to the clinic rooms and pushed one door open. There was no one on the other side. Going back to the appointment desk window, he knocked to get the attention of the clerk. She looked up surprised and slid the window open a few inches.

  ‘Ah, my son didn’t wander through there, did he?’ Pete pointed imprecisely, trying to sound unperturbed.

  ‘I don’t think so, Mr Watson. I’ll just have a look.’ And she got up, walking out her office door to the corridor Pete had just peered down.

  She took more time than Pete was content with, coming back to relay her findings that there was no sign of Tim and looking at him sharply as if to enquire how on earth he’d managed to lose a child in just a few seconds. Clearly she was not going to offer any other kind of assistance to the bewildered, anxious man, and he turned to look round the waiting room once more, as though he had most likely just overlooked him sitting contentedly in some corner a minute ago.

  ‘I’ll just…’ Pete stammered slightly, more to himself. ‘Okay…’ and he walked towards the main hospital corridor.

  Outside the clinic he looked up and down, not knowing which direction to go in, and headed towards the front entrance to the hospital. Passing an orderly coming towards him, he asked if the man had seen a small boy wandering along, but no.

  ‘Look, I’ll keep an eye out and ask down this way. If I find him, I’ll take him to the desk at the front entrance,’ said the man.

  ‘Thanks.’ Pete kept walking.

  Jesus.

  Pete fought a rising panic.

  He’ll be somewhere and any second now I’ll see him. Someone will have found him and have him somewhere. Front desk.

  Rounding hospital corridors, he came to the lobby. There were several small shops and kiosks, a florist, a snack bar, a gift shop, a travel agent.

  What the hell is a travel agent doing here?

  He peered into the different stores asking the salespeople if they’d seen a small boy, about this high, fair hair. No one had spotted him. He went to the desk in the centre of the foyer and spoke with the administrator, who’d not seen him either, but she said she’d keep an eye out and she’d send a message round to all the orderlies and let them know there was a child on the loose, yay high, etcetera.

  ‘You would have seen him if he’d come right past here, wouldn’t you? I mean if he’d headed out the door. I mean if he’s gone outside…’

  ‘I’m sure I would have, sir. Look, just go back the other way and keep looking. Come back here every few minutes. Don’t worry. I know it’s a big hospital, but people aren’t going to let a small boy wander round on his own. Someone will have spotted him, for sure.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll go back the other way past the clinic then.’

  And he went back the way he came.

  C’mon, Timbo, where are you?

  Pete shivered.

  He went back into the psych clinic and tapped again on the glass window at the reception desk. The clerk looked at him as though she’d never seen him before.

  ‘Look, I haven’t found Tim yet. I’ve been down to the foyer, and, well, I’m just heading back the other way. I don’t suppose…’

  ‘We haven’t seen him, Mr Watson.’

  ‘Right … okay then. Well, perhaps he’ll turn up here again. Who knows?’ Pete looked around, unsure of himself. A couple of people, who’d been in the waiting room before, now stared at him blankly.

  What fucking planet is this?

  ‘I’ll keep looking then,’ he said back to the clerk, who was already closing the window. He escaped back out into the main corridor and headed in the other direction.

  He wandered along the corridor, not knowing really where he was going or where to look. He passed another clinic and went in – another waiting room and another glass window. This one’s window was open, and he went over.

  ‘Hi. Ah, I’ve just been at the clinic down the corridor with my son, and he’s wandered off somewhere. You haven’t seen him by any chance? He’s four. Little guy. Sandy hair.’

  ‘No, sorry,’ said the younger, friendlier clerk. ‘No one’s come in here the last half an hour and I’ve been here all the time. Where have you looked?’

  ‘I’ve been down to the front foyer, and I’m just coming back this way now. I guess he could be anywhere.’

  ‘Okay. Look, I’ll ring the orderlies…’

  ‘Ah, the woman at the front desk already did that.’

  ‘Right. Look, I’ll come and help. Just a minute.’ The woman got up and came out into the waiting room through a side door, walking back to the corridor with Pete.

  They started to walk further up the corridor.

  ‘You go up that way,’ she said, ‘and I’ll go down here to the wards,’ indicating where the corridor divided off to the left. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll find him.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Pete, refreshed by the woman’s helpfulness, and he kept walking.

  The corridor was longer here, and there were no doors or other corridors leading off anywhere till he got to a flight of stairs which apparently lead up to the staff cafeteria. He started up, and then heard an out-of-breath male voice calling up t
o him.

  ‘Hey, mate, we’ve found your kid. He’s back here.’

  Pete looked back and recognised a large man who had been in the psych clinic.

  ‘Oh God, thanks. Where is he? Is he all right?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s fine. Got himself into a bit of a cupboard and shut the door. He’s a bit upset, I think. Back this way…’

  Pete hurried back past the man.

  ‘Which way?’

  ‘Back to the clinic. Down there.’

  Pete rushed back to the original clinic, bolting in to see Tim jiggling up and down, waving his arms, and crying out in a repetitive whine.

  ‘Oh, there you are, Mr Watson.’ It was the bitch clerk. ‘Your son’s soiled himself, I believe. Seems he got himself into the toy cupboard over there without anyone noticing,’ indicating a low cupboard with a television and a fish bowl on top. ‘He won’t let anyone near him, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, that’s hardly bloody surprising, is it? It’s okay, Tim-Tim.’ Pete picked Tim up, and the boy latched on to him round his neck. ‘It’s okay. It’s okay.’

  ‘Really, Mr Watson. This has caused hospital staff quite some disturbance. I do hope…’

  ‘Oh, really! And do you mind telling me how exactly it’s caused you any disturbance? When exactly was it that you felt any need to be disturbed. To get up out of your bloody little glass cage over there and make yourself useful. Huh?’