by Alison White
‘I didn’t know, Lou.’
‘Why has it got lentils?’
‘I didn’t realise.’
‘Why?’
*
And now whenever you hear John’s name mentioned and even just out of the blue you ask that same question.
‘Why did John give me lentils?’
‘He didn’t realise, Louis.’
‘Why did he do that?’
‘He didn’t know.’
‘Why did John put lentils in my lasagne?’
‘I forgot to tell him, Lou.’
‘Why …’
*
This becomes your new greeting when you meet anyone now, replacing your Phil Kay scream.
‘John put lentils in my lasagne,’ you tell everyone.
You have headed into puberty with us barely noticing. First you begin to masturbate in your wheelchair when we’re out and we tell you, ‘No, no, Louis, not here. If you want to do that, the place to go is your bedroom.’ And for once, miraculously, you are compliant. You take yourself off whenever you have the urge, into the privacy of your own room.
Greg has begun to shave you at the end of your bath time. After I’ve washed you and washed your hair, he comes into the room and takes over. You do not take long to develop fine stubble; there are glimmers of ginger. That must be from Greg’s side; his sister Trina has magnificent orange hair that flows down to her waist. I take over again afterwards and admire your fresh face. I rub your hair with a towel a little more and help you transfer out of the bath, up onto a bench, across onto a towel-covered chair and then over into the wheelchair covered in towels and wheel you into the bedroom. I help you onto the bed and get you dressed and get your shoes on; once these are on you have the stability to walk again. I roll deodorant under your armpits; I’ve started to notice your manly odour when you arrive home after your exercises with David. Pimples have appeared on your back and a few on your face, not many. Your jaw has become strong and people have begun to comment on what a handsome young man you are. Your hair is thick and grows quickly. It has darkened to brown and when Daphne, our hairdresser, cuts it one day you appear like a young Liam Gallagher. You have the look of a musician about you, which of course you are.
You still think it’s a compliment to invite new people you meet to take you to the bathroom. You ask them if they would like to wipe your bottom. I interrupt. I tell you again that this isn’t something people enjoy doing; it’s something only people who care for you, such as myself, should do. You giggle quietly to yourself. You know, don’t you?
And you’ve started to make a frequent request for Sudocrem on your bottom. I recognise this pattern, it’s got the potential to become a new obsession.
Today I’m holding your pile of maps in my hand to take out of your room and place down in the hallway. I’m raising my other hand to turn out your light.
‘Goodnight, Louis, I’m off for my bike ride.’
I’ve closed your door but you call out for me.
‘Mum, Mum, I need cream on my bottom.’
I go back in, turn the light on.
‘Do you really, Louis? Are you sure?’
‘Yes, yes.’
You say it urgently. Sometimes I’ll agree and at other times I refuse. Today I say, ‘No, Louis, I don’t think that you do.’
I shut the bedroom door again, this is my third attempt to say goodnight. I’m about to call out, ‘I’m off for my bike ride,’ my hand is ready on the front door handle to open the door and slam but your high scream of distress has made me stop. I go back into your room again. Your cry stops.
‘Okay, Louis, what is it? You can ask me one last thing.’
You have stuffed your pyjama top into your mouth. You pull it out through your clamped teeth. The top is sodden, a large wet circular patch rings around the neckline, small holes are punctured into the fabric. You are sitting up leaning against your two pillows and you turn and grin at me.
‘Put some cream on my ass!’
Chantal, an artist friend, has been over to stay with her daughter Esme for a couple of days. Whenever Chantal visits I notice she gets you, really understands your concerns. When you mention your fears out loud she agrees and she’s not just pretending.
‘I feel like that too, Louis.’
‘Yes, me too.’
‘Yep, that one also.’
And you like the same food. You both love rice pudding and ice cream. ‘Mmm, lasagne – that’s my favourite too, Louis.’
When the time comes for Chantal and Esme to go home we take them down to the train station. You like any chance to watch trains go by. We go in our car and make promises to see each other again when we can. When we wave goodbye your hand makes hesitant jerks and as the train moves away down the track and I balance your body, turn you around to leave the station platform, my phone pings.
‘I want to paint that image of you and Louis on the platform.’
*
A photocopy of the painting is stuck on our kitchen wall. We are standing together side by side. I am holding your hand and have a distant look in my eye. Your tie hangs crooked and bent, the green lines of your shirt bend in the paint lines, your head is tilted and your mouth is closed but you’re smiling as your eyes look directly out from the canvas.
‘Why? Why did Dad scream at me?’
Greg is step-walking you into the house, looking very stressed. You are wailing your high-pitched wail, tears streaming down your face.
‘Shit. That was a nightmare.’
‘Why, what’s happened? Don’t worry, Louis, it’s okay now.’
I’m trying to calm you. Your lip is down and you howl and howl.
‘Why don’t you go and play your piano? That will make you feel better.’
You don’t move. You don’t register I’ve said anything to you. You’re sitting on the sofa stuffing your tie into your mouth then clutching your brown leather map bag tightly, making muffled screaming sounds. Your body rocks forwards and backwards as you listen.
‘As we were driving into town, you know that sharp bend past those houses in Broadway? Louis pulled the door handle and the child lock wasn’t on! It flew wide-open right on the bend and Louis’s map case flew out. If a car had been coming the other way …!’
You squeeze your map case tight, making yelping sounds.
‘Louis was screaming. I could see him in the mirror undoing his seatbelt; he was going to get out of the car. I was screaming at him not to. I had to slam on my brakes.’
‘Oh my god, Louis, that’s so dangerous. You could have been killed.’
‘I ran back down the road as quick as I could to get the case, but when I turned I saw Louis had got out of the car, holding onto the doorframe in the middle of the road. A car could have come round that bend at any moment. I was screaming, “Get back in, get back in,” but you didn’t, did you, Louis?’
Your favourite poem right now is by John Cooper Clarke, I don’t need to say which one, you know which I’m meaning. You listen to the lyrics being spoken and try to mimic them, mimic Clarke’s northern nasal twang repetitively swearing. You like to finish with the words ‘thank you and good night’ just like on the recording.
Your interest in swearing has been creeping up for years; remember the time that your school rang us when you were eleven or twelve?
‘Louis is behaving strangely today. He went with his walker into a cupboard and wouldn’t come out. He used the f word too. We don’t use that word in school. Have you any idea where he’s got that from?’
Of course I have!
And year by year I’ve noticed you slipping the f word into a conversation. Not often, just every once in a while, so that you take us all by surprise and make us smile. Listen to what you said to your grandmother Mary; that one shocked even Greg. The fire was burning in the living room and you were sitting in your favourite spot on the sofa holding your maps, knowing that it was nearly time for your bedtime. Spike and Mary had been helping us that evening
and were heading back to their holiday house. They’d put on their coats and Spike had already gone outside and got into the car. Mary was lingering saying kind words to you.
‘It’s been a lovely evening with you, Louis.’
You didn’t reply – you just chewed another hole into another tie, but we all knew you were listening.
‘Well, I’ll be off now then, Louis. See you again soon – we’re off home tomorrow.’
You are still silent.
‘Have a lovely evening then, good night.’
‘Of course I fucking will,’ you said to our shock.
*
And today I’ve decided to go to my favourite shop with my friend Maxine. This is my occasional treat. We drive from the middle of nowhere for an hour to another middle of nowhere. Here in the most unlikely of places is the infamous Toast sale shop. Of course this means nothing to most people, but when you’ve lived in the middle of nowhere for as long as we have it is an enormous treat.
As I’m driving along I’m remembering our last visit to the shop. We’d got to the town and parked on the double yellow lines outside the shop. I’d helped you out of your seat and balanced you out of the car, pushed the door closed with my shoulder. We’d managed to get up the pavement and you’d held onto the handrail up the four steps into the entrance space and then I’d balanced your weight, managed to open the heavy shop door and walked you in by the arm. Phew! The armchair was free. You had looked around. There was only one other woman browsing in the shop; that was a good sign. Kirsty was standing behind the till.
‘Hello, Louis, nice to see you.’
‘Ah hello, Kirsty,’ you shouted, thrilled. You precariously balanced over to the counter, reached out towards her breasts and then down towards her crotch with your hand, but at least you didn’t quite touch.
‘Louis, touch your bracelet,’ I called out to you.
Kirsty mouthed over your head to me not to worry.
I got you into the armchair and I felt myself relax again. I heard the ping of the door behind as a couple came into the shop. Immediately you were holding out your hand for the man to shake and then not letting go.
‘Come on, Louis, let go.’
You released his hand and stretched towards the man’s crotch, looking me in the eye. If I’d said ‘no’ you’d do it more. I ignored you.
‘Will you move away, please?’ you say.
The man was leaning forwards towards you. You stretched your hand closer towards his crotch. ‘Move away.’ And the man does as he’s told.
‘I’m sorry, he’s worried about accidentally touching you.’
‘Oh, okay, don’t worry.’
The man turned away, looking unsurprisingly uncomfortable, studied the bargain rail then quickly left. Then you were quiet for a while. Kirsty knew just how to distract you. She came over, not too close, and asked to see your maps, took a look, then marked on one where she lived, while I nipped into the changing room, found myself a bargain dress.
You insisted on paying, you always do. You started to get worried, started to raise your voice in case I paid without you. I hauled you out of your seat and walked you up to the counter. I put my card into the machine and punched in my numbers. You shouted them out loud as I did. You know it will make people laugh.
‘Shhh, Louis, don’t do that. Your mum needs that to be secret.’
You looked very pleased and said the numbers aloud again. Then you pressed the green button. Kirsty pulled out the card and tore off the receipt and handed them both to you.
‘There you go, Louis. Thank you very much. See you again next time, I hope.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Louis!’ I shouted.
I was cross with you then. This was new and disastrous too. You’d turned away and were walking towards the door making happy whooping sounds. I shook my head and apologised as Kirsty suppressed a giggle.
‘It’s okay,’ she said.
‘No it isn’t,’ I’d said very loudly, ‘Louis, that was very rude. If you do that again you will never be able to come in here.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Kirsty called after us.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I called back as I balanced you out of the shop and down the steps towards the car as you sang the Lily Allen song out a little louder.
‘Fuck you, fuck you very mu-uu-urch, I don’t like what you do, I don’t like your whole crew, so please don’t stay in touch da da da da.’
*
And I’ve just remembered this as we are driving there today. I decide not to mention it to Maxine in case you hear and it triggers you. I hope that you have forgotten. I don’t know why because you don’t forget anything.
In the shop this time there’s no Kirsty – it’s her day off. There are two older elegant ladies who have not met you before. They’ve been helpful and kind and you’ve been good so far. And now we are paying again. Maxine is buying something from the bargain basket, a pair of corduroy trousers. She allows you to help her press the green button then one of the ladies passes you Maxine’s receipt and bank card.
I hold my breath. You’re not giving anything away. Will you? Won’t you?
‘There you go, Louis, have a nice trip home.’
You say nothing in return. You turn away and start to wobble towards the door.
‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you,’ you call out.
The women have gasped in astonishment, ‘Ah, isn’t he wonderful.’
You got me again, Louis.
As I help you down the steps you giggle, ‘Have I been a good boy today? Can I come here again?’
You seem rather quiet when you come in from your swimming lesson, strangely so. You go straight into your room and do not ask for a snack straight away.
‘Did you have a good swim, Lou?’
You don’t answer.
‘Sue was cross with him this week. He touched her breasts in the water, put his hands on her wet t-shirt, so she lifted him onto the side of the pool and left him. Didn’t say anything, just walked away for five minutes,’ Greg says.
‘Oh dear. What did she say?’
‘Well, you know what she’s like. She’s firm. I think that it worked, kind of. I suppose it might help us. It’s easier to discipline in a contained situation like that.’
‘What did Lou do?’
‘He just sat there on the edge, until she came back. But then he did it again. Most of his lesson was wasted. I said to Sue afterwards that really Louis just does what all of us men want to do.’
‘Did you?’ I laugh.
‘Yes! But the way that she looked at me made me think shit, what have I just said?’
And I suddenly think of Barbara, our wise older neighbour and friend up in Glasgow who said to me once a long time ago, ‘Louis shows us everything, all the feelings, his joy and his pain. He doesn’t hide it away like we do.’
And it’s true. Your tears and your laughter erupt in an instant and clearly your urges do too.
*
And when I think about all your current compulsions I realise your urge to touch others has always been a bit of a problem to us. Take Jack, for example: you’ve been touching Jack’s head or shoulder for years and years. It used to be Tasha but when Jack was born you moved on to him. It’s sibling rivalry in play but it is also a compulsion. Through the years Jack has had to learn to cope with it. You used to make him scream when he was young as you pulled his hair and this made you laugh. The remarkable thing is Jack’s never thumped you. Even when Jack was tiny he knew you didn’t understand how to behave properly, that you were vulnerable and weaker even though you hurt him. We have tried all of the obvious disciplines – taking away treats, scolding – but it’s stuck as one of your long-standing compulsions. Now Jack is older he has learnt to ignore you; he realises any mention of it makes you worse.
Today, as on most days, you wheel over to Jack sitting on the sofa and place a hand on his shoulder and keep it there. Jack’s had enough this time.
�
��Don’t, Louis.’
You don’t move.
‘Get off me, Louis.’
You keep your hand there.
‘Just get lost, will you?’
Jack moves away.
And even though you annoy him Jack is always kind to you. He lets you borrow his laptop when yours is broken. He tries to negotiate with you to make you understand not to touch him. You always agree with him.
‘I promise I won’t do it again,’ you say.
And Jack mutters, ‘But you always do.’
‘I won’t, I won’t,’ you cry as I take your maps off you again to try to teach you that you have to stop.
And you howl and howl.
*
But you also surprise me at times, especially when you seem to be able to turn these annoying compulsions of yours into a joke. Take yesterday, when we said goodbye to our old friends Simon and Rowan.
‘Bye, Louis,’ Simon said in his booming voice and stooped down to give you a hug. You put your arms around him and dug your fingers hard into his shoulders, tugged him forwards and hung onto him tight. Then it was Rowan’s turn.
‘Bye, Louis, see you again soon, I hope,’ Rowan said in her bright high voice. She stepped forwards to hug you and you held out your arms as I balanced your body holding your hips. You put your arms around her shoulders and pulled her forwards, almost toppling her onto you.
‘Piss off,’ you whispered.
Rowan laughed but I heard you.
‘Louis! That’s not very nice. Where on earth did that come from?’ I said.
‘Jack,’ you replied with a very pleased smile.
I’ve been hiding the phones from you for the last couple of years – you’ve asked me to help you not phone people over and over. I forget where I’ve put them until they ring out. Then panic ensues as we try to find them before they ring off or switch to the answering machine. But now you come home from school and play at seeking them out. You’ll be screaming for me to find the landline or mobile at all costs. You know all the places I hide them, high so you can’t reach, then you balance up on your legs, wobble and crash to the floor as you try to reach to the top of a shelf or the fridge, the projector, the cupboard, the wardrobe.
