With this last despairing message, Dale concluded that his best chance of finding employment was by upgrading his existing qualification to a diploma. He reckoned that by the time he graduated the economic climate might have improved, even if disability discrimination hadn’t! Frustratingly, Duncan Currie College ran the diploma course but with his history there too recent and too painful, this was not an option. Another college, thirty-five miles and two train journeys away, was a better bet. I sat with him while meticulously he completed the online application. On 12 February 2010, Dale was relieved to receive the written confirmation: “You will be contacted shortly to attend an interview/information session.”
With a contingency plan now in place, Dale felt more able to soldier on, gaining experience and earning a living at Gibshill. Thankfully, he was needed right until the end of term, but before he could take a breath and relax, Jobcentre policy required that he apply for another position: “This post is temporary until the end of June 2010.” What was the point of Dale applying when he had work at Gibshill until the end of the school term? Regardless, he still had to submit an application form for a vacancy he didn’t need or want.
For once, the recession and avalanche of applications for childcare workers seeking any employment worked in his favour: “After careful consideration, we will not be progressing your application.”
Thank God!
Just as well, because in 1991 when we drove to the support group in Glasgow, a momentous event was already beckoning. It was a day no parent would miss for the world. College Graduation. The day we thought we’d never see. Yet, we chose to miss it. Could you blame us?
A few weeks later, it angered me to read in the local newspaper, the words of the DCC Principal: “Graduation marks an exciting new chapter in each of our students’ lives. Everything we do at DCC is aimed to help our students reach their full potential, and it is inspiring that so many individuals come to us for that opportunity.”
Dale hadn’t heard any more news regarding his nomination for the Adult Learner of the Year Award. A member of staff had tried a few times to contact him, but he was busy working at Gibshill and didn’t manage to return the call. He emailed an explanation of his situation, but after a few failed attempts to talk, the nomination for the award simply disappeared.
Despite these setbacks, his success at Gibshill helped him maintain his self-esteem, and Sir Henry provided a welcome boost to his confidence. Out of the blue, a teacher from a Primary 2 class in Richmond School, Skegness, contacted him, having read my book. Her class was doing a project, writing uplifting canine stories on how guide dogs and similarly trained animals can help people. She explained to her class about autism and how special Henry had been for Dale. The children’s stories were being put into a book to sell for Guide Dogs for the Blind. She asked if he could draw a dog portrait as an illustration to a special tale.
With Beth’s permission, he drew a lovely picture of Ellie and I sent a short story called “A Green Day”, about Ellie and Keir’s special friendship. It was lovely to receive that teacher’s response: “We all loved it so much. In fact, there were many tears shed. I was able to show the children exactly what I have been telling them about – how eyes make a picture come alive – and they all agreed. Dale’s drawing did just that.”
By May, Dale was becoming anxious. He hadn’t received any notification regarding an interview for the diploma course. I phoned the college, intending to alleviate his concerns, and I spoke to a course tutor. Well, I was extremely relieved that I had been the one to make that call. When I explained that Dale had heard nothing since the confirmation of his application, she sounded surprised.
“That’s strange, because they are interviewing students for that course just now.”
My heart sank. I explained that his interview must have been missed or overlooked. The tutor advised it may have been because he had a “C” pass for his Graded Unit, and the course entry required an A or B. I couldn’t understand that, because this requirement was not on the website or indicated anywhere on the form. If that was the case, why had he been informed, in writing, that he would be contacted for an interview? The tutor advised me about other options. She was sympathetic, but there was no denying the outcome. Diddly squat, once again!
For Dale’s sake, I waited for the official, written confirmation. It arrived on 1 June. It enraged me more when the college patronised him further: “You may also wish to contact our partners, SDS/Careers Scotland, Jobcentre Plus, Routes to Work, to discuss education, training and employment opportunities.”
When I told him, his response wasn’t at all what I had expected. Unsettlingly, he accepted the news calmly, passively, and somehow he just got on with things, as if nothing at all had happened. With the long summer break ahead, he applied to work in local authority summer play schemes and was placed on their reserve list.
His time at Gibshill was ending. Certainly, he had mixed feelings, because for the first time since qualifying he had enjoyed the “normality” of employment, and with real job satisfaction. That was what he had grafted for, for five long years. On the last day, he came home laden with cards and presents from parents, children and staff. Isobel’s words were particularly poignant: “Hope to see you back someday. Thank you for all your hard work. The children just loved you.”
To ensure he kept his place for voluntary work at Cairn Curran, he wrote to the Head to let her know what his situation was, and if possible, he would return there. He headed off on his annual jaunt to T in the Park, and had his now customary great time. Just as well, because he came home to more hassle. Now he was signing on for benefits, the vicious cycle of being bombarded with the insistence on applying for impossible positions was once more under way.
Somehow he found the emotional strength to forge ahead. In order to improve his CV, he attended a day course on Food Hygiene and passed that, then he did a Fire Awareness course, enabling him to be the Fire Awareness staff member in any environment. His morale was low, and when Billy suggested that he join Prospects’ Social Group, which had adults in similar situations to his own, it seemed a brilliant idea. The group helped members support each other, with the extra advantage of some informal socialising, heading to the cinema or meeting up afterwards for a meal. It helped maintain Dale’s self-respect, as he came to realise increasingly that he wasn’t alone. That was a two-edged sword, of course. Their plight was every bit as bad as his.
No matter! After all the setbacks he had endured, Dale wasn’t about to be defeated. A special time lay ahead. Thirteen years after the death of his beloved Granny Madge, he was preparing to connect with her again.
13
The Chauffeur
Granny Madge was always special, and the greatest of her gifts to her grandson was his very first word. Mum was one of seven siblings who had been brought up in a modest two-bedroom cottage in the village of Chapelizod, which is now part of greater Dublin. The enormous back yard housed the miniature zoo and a closet toilet for the entire household. Four menfolk slept in one room and the women in the other. Granny and Grandpa were in a bed recess in the lounge, hidden by a curtain, and that lounge was the hub of their home. Central to that was the great cast iron range, which heated the whole house, gave all the hot water and bubbled up huge, comforting pots of thick Irish stew.
Over a hundred years later, that cottage remains. The yard is gone, and only a few metres from the back door there is an ugly big wall, all grey cracks and concrete. Behind that, there are rows of new estate houses, all thrown up where the yard and the acres of fields used to be where there were once horses, donkeys and sheep. Today the cottage is virtually derelict, and it has been like that almost since Uncle Peter’s demise. My family lost the back yard, and some of the land, because the lease had expired after a hundred years of tenancy. Thankfully, my cousin Veronica now owns the cottage and it has recently been listed. She intends to restore it to its one-time glory. If my treasured Irish roots are earthed anywhere, it must
be there. That wee cottage is a hoard of memories.
A very precious part of that memory hoard is my dear old Uncle Tommy, who was my mum’s brother. Now I know that like so many of his generation, Tommy had undiagnosed, classical autism. My Aunt Eva had been his main carer, but all the family over in Ireland simply accepted Tommy’s difference. He rarely spoke and gave little eye contact, but he managed to hold down a labouring job on the railways and he appreciated a pint of good Guinness at the pub every night. He had his routine, and in over forty-five years, he was never off sick, nor was he ever late for work. Working was perhaps the easy bit for him. Retirement and the loss of his purposeful routine came hard. Perhaps it comes hard for a lot of folk, but Tommy wasn’t just anybody.
Somehow, a few months later, he managed to develop a new routine; sleeping a little later, walking to the shop for his paper and feeding the stray cats in the field behind his house. He’d have a wee nap, and then nip to the local for a refreshing pint of two of the black stuff. He was always abed by eleven. That was working out fine, but alas, he’d developed another habit: a sinister, hacking cough. Eva fretted him into giving up his beloved Woodbines, and plied him with wholesome food, the all-curing boiled country eggs and other remedies and a raft of advice, most of which he ignored. He never complained, but his cough worsened. The doctor was summoned at last, but in truth, it was far too late. Advanced lung cancer was diagnosed.
When Tommy was admitted to hospital it was the first time in his life he had been near one. The doctors were shocked at his poor physical state. Near death, Tommy was put on a morphine infusion because the doctors deduced he was in severe pain. His deterioration was rapid. A scan revealed extensive cancers throughout his body.
The family was ever faithful and vigilant, knowing the bewildering strangeness of it all for him. As he lay there, staring up at the ceiling as if examining the paintwork, he remarked to my cousin Veronica, “Did you ever see a cricket up close?”
“No,” she replied, “I don’t believe I did. I think I just heard them. They are very noisy little creatures.”
Then, as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world, he continued, “Well, I did, and they are very odd-looking fellas altogether. They look exactly like creatures from outer space.”
And that, as my cousin recalls, was the essence, the innocence and ordinariness of Tommy, even in his final days. There were those moments of absolute joy and devastating pain, in equal measure. Such was the gentleness of this incredible and, yes, this odd oul soul.
The doctors told Eva they couldn’t understand how Tommy had tolerated such excruciating pain for so long. And no one knew just how long. I understood. There it was again, that sensory processing problem, and no means of communicating his agony. Unlike Dale, he had no charging trains, nor did he have access to Amy’s galloping horses of pain.
Mum and I felt a great relief when Tommy died peacefully a couple of days later. Distance meant I never had the chance to know my uncle as well as I would have liked, but I adored him. There’s an extra-special bond, surviving now, in the shape of my children. May they never suffer as he did. Bless you, Uncle Tommy.
Dale was back in my country of memories, not looking back, however. He was most certainly looking forward! Before Amy’s new school term started, Dale had a rather special twenty-first birthday present to spend. Veronica’s husband, Anthony, is a driving instructor, so she had invited her honorary nephew to stay for a long weekend, when he would receive intensive driving lessons, on the house! This was a superb gift, but I was unsure how he would receive it. The one-time tiny village of Chapelizod had been developed almost on a par with Benidorm, and he knew that the roads and streets of Dublin would challenge Stirling Moss. Dale, however, was delighted and couldn’t wait to get started. I was thrilled that he had this opportunity, yet it was tinged with a certain sadness that he would be driving in those same streets that his granny had wandered so freely as a child.
When he returned from Dublin, he told me he had driven past the cottage several times and each time he thought of Granny Madge. The street signs and traffic were chaotic, and one of his more alarming moments at the wheel occurred when a horse and cart waited beside him at traffic lights. It all paid off. The hours of driving through Dublin bolstered his confidence, changing his driving forever.
Back in Inverclyde, as he’d done in previous summers, he helped out at the Barnardo’s play scheme, and he knew how much the children benefited. Amy, meanwhile, continued to thrive at Moorfoot, settling effortlessly into Primary 6, with all her friends by her side. Dale was recalled to cover at Gibshill, but there was a small, practical problem.
While his driving had improved, he struggled to pass the theory test, having failed at two attempts. Such was his frustration that I asked him to show me the mock test DVD he had been using to prepare. The questions were in multiple-choice format, with four possible answers. At the end of the test, the correct answers flashed up, but there was no means of storing them to support revision. I’ve been driving for more years than I’m prepared to say, but when I sat with him and we did that test together, we both failed spectacularly! I found the choices quite confusing, and I felt the frustration for Dale and others who have conditions like dyslexia. Perhaps it needs a format which obliterates the wrong answers, a bit like the popular Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? game show. I phoned and spoke to one of the assistants who supervised the test, highlighting Dale’s difficulties. I explained the issues around information overload. Indeed, she agreed, the test format was far from ideal for candidates like Dale, but unfortunately it was the only one available. She did, however, reassure me that the organisation was looking into a more accessible system, but that would take time. He needed it now.
In order to help Dale overcome this, I typed out the questions he got wrong and printed them out so he could revise them without the attendant information overload of the multiple-choice setup. He built up a long list and, bit by bit, he improved his score until he managed more passes than fails. He applied to resit the test.
Dale’s time at Gibshill ended at the October break. Isobel arranged for him to do some voluntary work with them in order to maintain his skills. He’d enjoyed his time at Cairn Curran, but he also wanted to increase his chance of work in the local authority sector. Covering all bases, he wrote to the Head of Cairn Curran, thanking her for his time with them and letting her know how much he had enjoyed the experience. He requested that his CV be kept on file, in order that he could be contacted in the event of any future vacancies.
Usually at that holiday, he would do some voluntary work for Barnardo’s if he was needed, but this time he wanted to try something different. Dale and I had continued to develop our friendship with Gillian Naysmith. Her own young son has autism, and she got in touch after reading my book. She was then the co-ordinator of a new UK charity, founded by the author Rupert Issacson. Named after his book,{1} the Horse Boy Camps provide autism-specific equestrian therapy for the child and their family. Rupert’s book tells how a chance encounter with a horse broke through to his own severely autistic son, in a similar way to how Henry had come through for Dale. Rupert was deeply impressed by Dale when he met him.
Gillian was running a four-day Horse Boy Camp at Newtonmore in Inverness-shire. After Dale had spoken with her, he decided to help out at the camp, knowing how much horses had helped his own sister. Preparing to attend, he tapped into his HNC skills and worked hard to bring different play activities to suit all the children at the camp. Inclusion for those with autism and those without was a strong underlying principle. By necessity, children and families would have to wait for their turn on the horses; there was plenty of free time and fun to be had for all. Physical and aesthetic play opportunities abounded for the child with autism and their siblings, together.
Days before, I was handed a shopping list: crayons, glitter, glue, stickers and the like, and the all-important play dough ingredients. There would be multi-coloured dough, glittery do
ugh, scented dough. Dale planned to make a mountain of the stuff, having already found it to be a real winner with all. When I took Amy to her Sunday riding lesson, we set up a collection box for old horseshoes, and he ended up with dozens of them. I helped him wash them and get them into a safe condition, ready for the children to paint and decorate. Keeping with the equestrian theme, he downloaded and printed images of different types of horses, which he would use for colouring-in exercises to help the children learn they were about to be involved with real horses.
The day he set off, his bag weighed a ton. Thankfully, Gillian was collecting him from the station. She hadn’t told any of the families who Dale was, nor had she disclosed his autism; the staff knew, so they could support him if required. Just as Isobel had done at Gibshill, Gillian wanted parents to get to know him firstly as a person, because it was entirely possible that they wouldn’t even notice his autism.
As a volunteer, he helped the families and children in any way he could. When an autistic child was on a horse, Dale and another supported them, walking alongside, in order to stabilise the child and make them feel safer. He played with the children, and the resources he had brought were a big success. The children with autism connected more with the horses through them, just as my canine resources had supported that connection with dogs. He fully involved himself with all the chores – yes, even the mucking out! In the evening, most of the children settled, including those with autism, and this allowed the parents some time to relax and have a drink while Dale entertained them with his guitar. He enjoyed the evening down time with both the parents and the staff. He played games and even had a few wee drams, brought by a parent or two, because he was off duty. Although he had worked hard and had had a brilliant time, when he returned he informed me, “Mum, it was good helping the parents and kids, but horses are not my thing. I think I will stick with dogs. I’m glad I’ve done it.”
All Because of Henry Page 16
