Saturdays at Noon

by Marks, Rachel

  ‘What about?’

  ‘It was nothing.’ I shake my head. ‘It was stupid.’

  ‘But you were about to smash his face in? Over nothing?’

  ‘I wouldn’t exactly say “smash his face in”.’

  ‘Let me guess, his son’s on a higher reading level than yours?’

  ‘Exactly. Little shit!’

  Emily smiles. A fanfare plays in my head.

  ‘He called my son autistic.’

  ‘And he’s not?’

  ‘No, he’s not.’

  Matt wasn’t the first person to suggest Alfie might have something wrong with him. Jemma and I have battled back and forth about it on and off since he was born. She wanted a reason for why we found him so difficult, a label. I even questioned it myself for a while. The extremity of his tantrums. The total inflexibility. But I’ve watched The A Word; I’ve read up about the various conditions. It’s not Alfie. He’s not non-verbal – he never bloody shuts up. He ‘gets’ emotion. He looks you in the eye, he smiles, he responds, he interacts. Besides, I don’t want my child pigeon-holed, a teaching assistant permanently attached to his side like a stamp on his forehead that reads ‘oddball’. I’ve been in education long enough to see people seeking it out as an excuse. Oh, he’s not naughty. He’s got ADHD. Bang him on Ritalin and he’ll be a model student. And I’ve also seen the judgement. Teachers whispering ‘That’s the autistic one’, with pretend-sympathetic faces like the poor kid’s got the plague.

  But I eventually gave in to Jemma’s badgering and, when Alfie was three, I agreed to take him to the doctor’s. I can still picture the doctor’s face when Jemma explained his ‘difficulties’. He needs to be in control at all times. He wants everything a certain way. He has huge meltdowns if we say no or try and get him to do something he doesn’t want to do. He practically laughed in our faces and handed us the details of a parenting course.

  So after that, Jemma went from blaming the world to blaming me. As the main caregiver, it had to be my fault. Some days, I’d not set clear enough boundaries. Other days, I’d been too strict. I should’ve socialized him more, stimulated him less. Although the exact details of my misdemeanours varied, the ultimate truth remained the same: I’d ruined our son. Who knows? Maybe she’s right.

  The sharp sound of the triangle cuts through my thoughts.

  Sam looks around the circle. ‘So who would like to share today?’

  A woman on the opposite side of the circle raises her hand. I think her name’s Sharon. She’s wearing black PVC trousers that make her legs look like two overfilled sausage skins and heels so high they must be a health and safety hazard.

  ‘Sharon. Thank you.’

  Another useless skill gained from teaching – the ability to remember names.

  ‘I’m still having problems with my daughter. This week took the biscuit. So now, apparently, not only is it my fault she can’t hold down a job, I’m also the reason her boyfriend’s walked out on her when she’s seven months’ pregnant.’ She looks to the sky as if this is the most absurd thing she’s ever heard. ‘I’m not saying I’ve been the perfect mum, but she can’t spend her life blaming me for every mistake she makes.’

  From the look on Sam’s face, I get the feeling he’s spent a number of these sessions listening to the saga of Sharon and her daughter. ‘So did you manage to come up with a non-aggressive way to respond?’

  ‘I’ve stopped seeing her. Cut the negativity out. I feel better already.’

  Emily sniggers and the whole room turns, an eager audience sensing a catfight.

  Sharon leans forward, propping her hands on her knees. ‘Oh, you think differently, do you?’

  Emily locks eyes with Sharon but doesn’t say anything.

  ‘Do you have a different strategy to help Sharon, Emily?’ Sam asks, his eyes pleading with her.

  Emily uses one nail to clean the dirt from underneath the others. ‘I just don’t think you should cut someone out your life because they make you face up to how you messed up. Maybe you are the reason her life’s so fucked up. Shouldn’t you be trying to make it better, not just pretending it’s not your fault?’

  Sharon looks like all her muscles have been pulled taut by some invisible puppeteer. ‘Coming from you? You won’t even admit you’ve got a problem.’

  ‘Because I haven’t.’

  Sharon’s eyes search the room for support. ‘See what I mean?’

  ‘OK. Well, thank you for sharing, Sharon. And for your input, Emily.’ Sam offers a well-practised smile. ‘I would just ask you both to consider our ground rules. They’re pinned up over by the refreshments table, if you want to give yourselves a little reminder in the break. Mutual respect of each other’s views is key in these sessions.’

  Emily and Sharon both nod, but they look like two boxers being told to tap gloves at the start of a fight.

  ‘I hope that together we can find a way for you to have a positive relationship with your daughter, Sharon, but you’re right, one strategy is to remove certain triggers from our lives. And, yes, sometimes that includes people, although when it’s our loved ones, obviously we’d hope to find an alternative solution if possible. Has anyone come up with any other methods to respond positively to triggers?’

  Tim raises his hand. ‘Well, chatting to Nathan here, I think we might have come up with a possible solution to deal with my dog.’

  ‘Fantastic.’ Sam beams, clearly thankful for the glimmer of positivity. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Snuggle time.’

  Tim’s face is as straight as a ruler. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that Emily is trying as hard as I am to conceal her amusement. And for the first time since we met, I wonder for a moment if we could end up being on the same team.

  ‘I’m going to give Bouncer five minutes dedicated snuggle time when I first get through the door,’ Tim continues, clearly pleased with himself. ‘Then he’ll have to learn I need my space.’

  ‘Brilliant. Thanks so much, Tim, and Nathan, of course, for helping you to reach a positive outcome. Great stuff, guys.’

  I have the feeling this is going to be a long twelve weeks.

  * * *

  The second I get through the door, I’m greeted by the all-too-familiar sound of Alfie yelling. Every time I walk into my house, it’s like the air is getting thinner and I imagine how amazing it would feel to march back out, the cold autumn air filling my lungs.

  I follow the noise and trudge up to Alfie’s bedroom.

  ‘What’s up?’

  Alfie is lying on his bed, a pillow over his head, kicking the wall so hard that all the Lego on his shelves vibrates. Sitting on the floor, her head in her hands, Jemma is surrounded by scattered Monopoly pieces, paper money and chance cards.

  ‘I told him we were going for a walk at the arboretum when you got home. He’s been like this ever since.’

  Jemma rolls her eyes and I smile. Very occasionally, we have these conspiratorial moments and I cherish them. I just wish we had them more often.

  ‘Come on, Alfie. You like the arboretum. We’ll take your scooter and I’ll even throw in a hot chocolate. That’s a great deal.’

  It’s an Alfie phrase. Before he agrees to anything, he always starts his negotiations with ‘here’s the deal’, like some kind of corny game-show host. Then he reels off the conditions that must be met before he’ll commit to doing whatever it is we’ve asked of him.

  Alfie lifts the pillow off his head but continues to kick the wall. Clearly, the conditions I’m offering on this occasion are not good enough for him to sign on the dotted line.

  ‘I’m not going.’

  I sit down beside him and hold his legs. He’s surprisingly strong and releases them easily, kicking me in the chest in the process and causing my patience to dwindle.

  ‘Look, we’re going and that’s the way it is. You’ve got five minutes to get your joggers and your shoes on or the iPad goes in the loft.’

  Alfie puts the pillow back over his
head. ‘I don’t care. I’m not going.’

  It’s the same every time we suggest going anywhere, whether he likes the proposed destination or not. I just don’t get it. It makes me want to either become a recluse or leave the house forever without him.

  ‘Come on. Let’s just leave him.’ I hold out my hand to Jemma and pull her up. Alfie throws the pillow at us, but it misses.

  Then he starts really crying. It’s not for show any more. The angry dents in his forehead disappear, his bottom lip rises, tears pocket in his lower eyelids and then they slide down his face in a straight line.

  ‘You said we would just do Lego and games. You never said about going out.’

  He looks like he’s in real physical pain and, if it wasn’t so absurd, I could believe that asking him to go out was actually hurting him.

  Jemma rubs her fingers along the line of her eyebrows. I imagine she’s hashed this out a hundred times already. ‘The sun’s shining so Daddy rang and suggested the arboretum. You’ll like it when you get there.’

  ‘But you promised we would stay in all day. You lied.’

  My whole body feels like it’s attached to a torture rack – only minutes away from tearing. Why is everything such a trial?

  ‘She didn’t lie, Alfie. We changed our minds. Now we’re going to go and get a box full of conkers. Stay here on your own, if you want to.’ I turn towards the door.

  I’m hoping the combination of getting more conkers – one of Alfie’s latest obsessions – and the prospect of being left alone – one of Alfie’s greatest fears – will be enough to swing it for me. Unfortunately, it’s not. The protests intensify, the wall becomes his punching bag. I guide Jemma out of the room, shutting Alfie’s door in a feeble attempt to contain him and the destruction he’s about to cause.

  It sounds like a catastrophic earthquake just hit the house but we try to ignore him and begin the military operation that is leaving the house with a child. Jemma packs a bag with all the things we might possibly need: hats, gloves, an activity book, pencils, snacks, drinks, plasters. The list seems endless and most of it will stay sitting at the bottom of the bag, the thing we really need sat at home, mocking us. I go downstairs and find Alfie’s scooter, helmet and coat. We both know our roles. In situations like this, we’re a good team.

  Then suddenly Alfie goes quiet. I hear footsteps padding along the landing and then the sound of a small voice.

  ‘Do you promise there will be conkers?’

  It’s like beautiful birdsong. I look up the stairs to see Alfie standing on the top step.

  ‘Yes.’

  Dear God, please let there be conkers.

  ‘Can I take my special box to put them in?’

  The settlement process begins.

  ‘Yes, if you get dressed right now. I’ll go and find your wellies.’

  ‘And can we go to the conker tree first?’

  This is a tricky one. I’m not even sure there’s going to be a horse chestnut, let alone where it is in a place that is, by definition, an expanse full of trees, but I’m so close to sealing the deal that I’ve got to go with it.

  ‘Absolutely. Now go and put your joggers and socks on. Time to go.’

  Alfie plods up the stairs to his room and then reappears at the top still dressed in just his rainbow fleece and Batman pants but now carrying his special box in one hand and a pot full of Lego figures in the other.

  ‘Alfie. Socks. Joggers.’

  He scuttles back to his room. I hear the cupboard door slam and I’m hopeful. But then he returns and I look down at his feet to see bare toes sticking out from under his orange joggers.

  ‘Seriously, Alfie. S, O, C, kicking K, S. Now.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I forgot.’ Alfie chuckles and slaps his forehead comically. Sometimes I wonder how he manages to be so infuriating and so adorable at the same time.

  I lug out all the crap and put it in the boot of my car. When I return, Alfie is racing around the hallway with his socks on his hands while Jemma taps away on her phone.

  ‘Why isn’t he ready?’

  Jemma looks at Alfie, as if she has no idea what this strange creature running circles around her actually is. Then she turns back to her phone. ‘I’ve told him a thousand times, Jake. What else do you want me to do?’

  I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. That’s why I want you to know.

  Alfie giggles and plays with the letterbox, opening it and slamming it shut over and over again, a manic look in his eyes. Eventually, I just pick him up, throw him over my shoulder still laughing and bundle him into the car, Jemma following behind carrying the wellies, his special box and his pot full of figures.

  * * *

  ‘But, Daddy, where are the conkers?’

  ‘We need to find a conker tree. We will.’

  I hope. Because if not, we’re going to be driving around Gloucestershire trying to find one.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, little man. Now let’s just enjoy the rest of the walk. You scoot ahead and I’ll race you.’

  ‘No. I’m not scooting until we’ve found them. You promised.’

  Jemma walks along beside us but doesn’t say anything, just stares at the trees, their leaves falling off and creating a carpet on the ground. Sometimes I marvel at her ability to tune out. Other times, I want to do it too, just to show her how fucking annoying it is.

  ‘I can’t magic up a conker tree, Alfie. We’ll find it when we find it.’

  Alfie falls to the ground wailing, lies right in the middle of the path and refuses to move. People walk around him or step over him, but it’s always with a backward glance. The looks he is given vary. Sometimes it’s irritation, sometimes confusion, occasionally empathy. But there’s always something. Some kind of judgement. Of Alfie, and, of course, of us.

  It’s clear nothing is going to placate him so Jemma and I walk on ahead until Alfie is just a tiny blemish on the beautiful landscape of brightly coloured trees. When we reach a point where walking any further would mean we might receive a call from social services, we reluctantly stop.

  ‘Shall I go and get him?’

  Jemma shakes her head. She looks as if even that slight motion has used up the last of her energy reserves. ‘He’ll come in a minute.’

  ‘Have you met our son?’

  Jemma smiles, but the humour doesn’t reach her eyes.

  Then, in the near distance, I see it. I couldn’t be happier if there were bars of gold hanging from the branches.

  ‘Alfie,’ I shout. ‘A conker tree!’

  But he’s too far away to hear me so I keep jabbing the air in front of us with my finger and move my hands in a way that is supposed to represent a tree but looks more like I’m outlining an apple-shaped female form. Surprisingly, Alfie must have worked it out because he stands up, abandons his scooter in the middle of the path, flies past us and starts scouring the ground under the tree. I take over his special box and join him in the search, while Jemma sits down on a bench on the opposite side of the path.

  It’s amazing how long it takes to fill a box equivalent to a two-litre ice-cream tub. The problem is this seems to be the only horse chestnut in the entire arboretum so it’s already been raided by lots of other children, but I know we won’t be able to leave until the box is full. I picture myself, reduced to just skin and bone, stuck here still searching until I keel over. But then I spot a large spiky conker case – the perfect size to fill up the remaining space in the box.

  ‘How about this, Alfie? You can’t have conkers without a shell to keep them safe in. Look, the spikes will stop anyone who tries to steal one.’

  Alfie examines the shell. He tries out a few of his conkers to see if they fit inside. They do, thank the Lord.

  ‘OK. Put it in the box.’

  I want to jump up and down, as if I’ve just sprinted past Usain Bolt and won the 100-metre sprint. I quickly shut the lid of the box and go to put it in my rucksack, but Alfie insists on carrying it. Scooting with
a box full of conkers under your arm, particularly one whose lid you have to hold closed, is a feat that would challenge even the most skilled of acrobats, but Alfie’s determined to do it and I’m too exhausted to argue. He scoots over to get Jemma from the bench of indifference and we continue on, Alfie dropping the box and having to stop to gather up his conkers every few minutes until we reach the café.

  ‘Right, you go and find a table with Mummy and I’ll get the drinks.’

  ‘No, I want to come with you.’

  Please don’t. ‘OK, but no touching anything.’

  The queue isn’t long by normal standards, but there are three people in front of us so, with Alfie, it feels like being stuck in line on Black Friday.

  ‘Will it have whipped cream and marshmallows?’ Alfie runs his hand along the table beside us, nearly knocking off the ornate glass stands displaying the severely overpriced cakes.

  I take his wrist and return his hand to his side. ‘I don’t know. I think so.’

  ‘Last time they ran out of marshmallows.’

  ‘Well, hopefully they won’t today.’

  ‘But what if they do?’

  ‘Let’s just wait and see.’

  Alfie’s body seems to have been invaded by a tribe of particularly lively jumping beans, his limbs twitching and banging into the table. ‘I need to know now. Go and ask them, Daddy.’

  ‘No. I can’t push to the front. You just have to wait.’

  The jumping beans seem to have gathered kinetic energy, ready to burst out at any point. There’s a well-to-do older woman behind us and Alfie keeps accidentally knocking into her. Her response to my apologies started with a polite smile but now it’s become a glare.

  ‘Alfie, stand here. Stand still.’ I position him in front of me and grip his shoulders, as if holding on to a criminal being transferred between one secure unit and another.

  His questions don’t cease and I’m just at the point where containing him is no longer possible when we reach the front of the line.

  ‘Two cappuccinos and a hot chocolate, please.’