by Caroline Day
I say what’s wrong, and he says he doesn’t like it. I say don’t like what. And he says the dog. And he’s still there with his hands over his head and not walking, and his head down and rocking. I say what dog? I say, Barry? But he just keeps on making the noise.
And I look down. Barry is just by a bit of grass which is longer than the grass around it, and in a position that is a dog poo position, which is with his back all round and his bottom down near the ground. And he is doing a poo. I can even see a bit of the poo landing on the ground and curling around into like a round thing or maybe an oval. And it’s OK, because of having the poo bags in my pocket, so I take out one of the poo bags and I bend down and Connor Flynn makes an even louder noise, like something is really hurting him, and he is rocking even more and I ask him is he all right and he says noooo, nooooo, nooooo.
Barry has finished his poo now and he’s just waiting. And it smells a little bit yucky but not as bad as when it’s Tinie Tempah, because of him having a tummy that can be a bit funny. And I have the poo bag on my hand and it’s OK because none of the poo goes on your fingers if you do it right and I know exactly what I’m doing so no poo ever goes on mine. Even though I’m not very good at tying knots, it’s OK with the poo bag because it’s just cross it over once and then cross it over again and it’s really lucky because there is a red poo bin very near and so I put it in and come back and I ask Connor Flynn what’s wrong.
He’s still doing the noise, but he stops a little bit, and looks around, not really at me, just more all around with his eyes that go to one corner and to another corner and he is doing a bit less rocking and then a bit less and he even takes his hands off from his head and puts them in front of him again. He says he has issues and I think he’s telling me that they are about an old factory and I ask him what old factory. He says no, not old factory, and then he says it again, and it still sounds the same and so I have to ask again. And then he says olfactory – o-l-f-a-c-t-o-r-y, pertaining to the sense of smell, and that sensory hypersensitivity and overload are common as a characteristic feature of Asperger Syndrome.
I don’t really know what he’s talking about but then he says he believes it can equally be the case in Foetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorders and do I not experience any sensorially triggered reactions. I don’t say anything because of still not understanding, and mostly I’m just looking at him without any words in my mouth, but not wanting him to think I’m a stupid No-Brain Nicely. He says: ‘Being affected by sound or smell or taste or touch or visual stimulus. Hypersensitivities? Such as clothing labels against your skin or loud noises or certain sounds or …’
‘Flipping lights.’ This is me. Because I think I’ve understood, and also I’ve remembered about me. I hate lights that go on and off and on and off. Which is flipping and flashing. And they make me want to hum and bang my head. And even now, just thinking about it, even without the lights doing the on and off thing, just remembering the way it feels, it makes me want to do a bit of shouting. And I don’t like labels very much, only nice clothes that are soft. And my mum, Jenny Nicely, buys my clothes from charity shops mostly, because they’re softer than the ones from the new shops. And she cuts out all the labels, too, so Connor Flynn was right about that, and very clever.
I say, and nothing scratchy. And Connor Flynn says no, he can’t wear wool jumpers and how also if he has different coloured food on his plate they can’t be touching. A pea can touch a French bean, because of both being green, but not a French bean and a carrot, because of that being an aggravating stimulus and making him have a meltdown. He’s still doing a bit of rocking with his hands on his head, but it’s while we’re walking now, so I don’t ask if there’s anything wrong, I just let him do it, and Barry is barking and wagging his tail, looking at another dog, which is a border terrier and still a puppy. I let Barry go off the lead for a play, which is very funny because of all the chasing and the happy noises and Barry even rolls over in a whole circle. But when I call his name he comes right back to me.
‘… if for example it was a box with printing in a certain language, that might tell you something important, or the barcode could contain salient information. It might even pinpoint a particular warehouse or …’
I’m listening very hard and I’m having to walk very fast, because of Barry stopping for a sniff by a rubbish bin, and Connor Flynn not waiting for Barry to have his sniff, so now I have to hurry to reach him again, with Barry on his lead and hurrying fast with me too.
Connor Flynn finds it strange that I don’t know anything about the box which was left, which was the box with me in it. I’ve been trying to tell him that it was just a box and so it doesn’t really matter, and that what was important was the thing that was inside it, which was a baby, and that was me. But he mostly wants to talk about was it a box for food or for industry or for something else and he mostly wants to know why it has not been a part of the investigation, which was for the police who wanted to find the mummy of the baby, which is me, or of the research, which is me thinking about my book in my head. And it’s better than him talking about the protein things and the other pepper things but it still makes me feel a bit like not talking at all, because of not wanting to seem stupid, because of not even knowing about the box I was left in even though it was me who was left and not Connor Flynn. And now, even though Barry is being very sweet with his walking, like jumping and looking up at me, and being a very good boy on his lead and not even pulling at all, in my head there is a feeling that is not very happy.
‘… freedom of information request regarding the police investigation, of course. But it’s also only logical to assume that interested parties would originally have been sent communications at each step of the proceedings. It would have been disclosed to social services, most certainly, and it is highly unlikely that your mother would not have been given all relevant information as part of the adoption process and she’s certain to have kept a file. I imagine you have already studied all the documentation?’
The funny thing about Connor Flynn is that although I know he’s talking real words to me, they don’t go straight into my head, but they sort of get lost in the way from my ears to my brain. Like they’re stuck in the jumble and I can’t find them when I’m looking. And I know that he’s asking me a question, but I don’t really know what it is.
But I don’t want to say that though. And so I just say yes.
He is doing the piano thing with his fingers, and his eyes are not looking at me, but sort of towards me and away into a different place. And he says perhaps there was evidence whose importance I overlooked. And I say yes again, because of Connor Flynn waiting for me to say something and because of not knowing what else to say. Hs fingers are moving and moving and it’s a bit of time before he speaks and then he says, it’s Station Close where I live, isn’t it. I say yes, number 23a, and he says and that’s just round the corner from his house, just the other side of the park, out of that gate over there …
18
Even though my brain knows about my mum, Jenny, being in a hospital with an elephant trunk on her face and all the noises and no change, it is like I don’t really know it, because after I’ve unlocked the door, I’m hurrying into the kitchen because I want to introduce Barry the dog to my mum.
‘Come on, Barry.’ This is me. And I’m walking as fast as I can with him on the lead with his legs moving quickly because of them being so little.
I want to tell her about him being a Yorkie Poo-Shit, and about how good he is, and him walking very well. I don’t even slow down in the hallway, just walk very fast and into the kitchen, and smiling. And, flip a pancake, even when I see that there’s no Mum there, just the chair and it’s empty, apart from a yellow cardigan on the back, and the table, and the cooker with no saucepan, even then I’m thinking that she should be here, saying, hello my Hope. And a bit of my brain is wondering why she’s not. I’m looking around and in my throat it’s a bit like squeezing and my breath is a bit noisy and feeling
-it-in-my-lungs like running up the stairs.
It smells just normal. There’s the cardigan on the chair and it’s my mum’s. It’s her big yellow cardigan and it smells like tangerines and cinnamon. It smells like Jenny Nicely, my mum. And even though it’s babyish to cry, that’s what I’m doing.
Connor Flynn is standing just inside the kitchen door, leaning on the door frame. He’s saying, where do we keep our important papers, and about reports and adoption certificates and archives. I can’t really say anything back to him because of the crying. So he waits for me and I’m counting – one, two, three – one, two, three – but it’s not working because I’m crying even harder, with my nose all runny and having to wipe it on the back of my hand because of Mum not being here to give me a tissue. I’m not shouting or banging my head, just doing the sobbing and the history thing, the … historics – and Connor Flynn is staying where he is and just doing the flicking-moving with his fingers and not talking, just eyes going left, right, up, down and everywhere but not at me.
‘Maybe in the study, if you have one?’ This is him.
We don’t have a study because of it being just a little flat and because of working in a bookshop not paying millions of pounds, more’s the pity. And I don’t mean to shout but I do shout, quite loud. ‘No, we don’t.’ And I shout even louder. ‘Can’t you see I’m crying?’ Because it’s not very nice to just keep on flicking your fingers and moving your eyes and asking about having a study when someone else is crying. I’m moaning now and rocking. Backwards. Forwards.
Connor Flynn turns his head so it’s towards me now, even his eyes, although they still look like they want to be in all the corners instead. He says, I’m very sorry you’re crying.
For a little bit, neither of us says anything else. I’m holding the yellow cardigan and I’m cuddling it in my arms, with it up to my nose so I can smell its Mum-ness. And Connor Flynn and I are looking at each other a bit. His eyes are like his brother, Danny Flynn’s eyes, which is a colour that is a little bit green and a little bit grey, and eyelashes and eyebrows that are a colour like sand, or maybe Rich Tea biscuits or just a little bit Ginger Nuts.
He does a thing with his mouth that is a bit like a smile but not turning up at the sides enough to be a real one. And he’s still looking at me. Except not quite so much with his eyes.
‘Maybe I should make us a nice cup of tea.’ This is me. I’m starting to say it because I’m very good at making tea, that’s what my mum says – Hope, my darling, you do make a lovely cuppa, except for one time when I forgot about the milk not going in the kettle, but that was a long time ago, and we have a new kettle now. Really I am still very good at making it, and it’s because of squeezing the teabag against the side of the cup before I take it out – and a nice cup of tea makes everything better. But just as I’m starting to say this, Connor Flynn is talking too, with his eyes gone away.
‘Perhaps there are filing cabinets in one of the other rooms …?’
On my mum’s desk there is a pile of books. One is a ginormous dictionary and its name is Collins. And there’s another book called Roget’s Thesaurus, which is not quite so big. It’s yellow. I don’t know what it’s about but maybe a dinosaur. And there’s poetry and poetry and poetry and poetry, by people called Maya Angelou and Seamus Heaney and An Anthology and Grace Nichols and Rupi Kaur and also called Jenny Nicely who is my mum. There’s a bowl too, with big hoopy earrings and bracelets and keys. There’s also a photograph in a silver frame and it’s Jenny Nicely, with a big smile on her face and the bluest dress in the world, which is at Oxfam now, because of putting on a few pounds, and there’s me, standing in front of her, with her hands on my shoulders. My hair is in bunches and I’m holding an ice cream which has sprinkles and a flake and we’re on holiday but I can’t remember what the place is called. There were sandcastles – although not for me because of sand making my fingers and toes feel scratchy – and fish-n-chips, and kites and a pony and a seagull that stole a doughnut out of my hand, and a house with a maze. In the photo, I’m staring up at my mum and at the sky, and I’m laughing.
I want her to be here so much. It’s like tummy ache.
‘This looks right.’ This is Connor Flynn.
On one side of the desk, its legs are just legs, like a table or chair, but not a person or a dog. On the other side there are no legs underneath at all, but a cupboard instead and it has three drawers. The top one has a postcard taped on it, with my mum’s writing, saying Poems, etc. The bottom one says Finances, etc. The one in the middle says Personal, etc., and this is the one that Connor Flynn is pulling open now and looking through with his fingers. He’s talking, but not really to me, I don’t think, because of it being so quiet, like he’s whispering it to himself really: employment contract, marriage certificate, decree nisi, absolute, passport, rental agreement …
On my lap, Barry is wriggling, because I think he wants to be on the floor running around. But I don’t let him jump down. I’m holding him, with my arms tight, and in my head I’m counting – one, two, three – one, two, three.
I don’t know if it’s a rule, but in my brain I’m thinking that it should be my mum, Jenny Nicely, who is sitting at her desk and saying, ah, yes, this is more like it, Adoption file and Hope’s stuff. And even if it’s not a rule, being in my mum’s room without her in here too, and Connor Flynn putting all her papers on the desk and turning them over as he’s reading, going, interesting, interesting, ah, I see, it is making my head itch. It’s making me feel squeezed and tight. I’m thinking a thing which is not very good, because it’s that I want to hit Connor Flynn. I want to bang his head down against the desk and yell and shout and scream and maybe even punch and kick. But I mustn’t do it, because of keeping our hands and feet to ourselves and hurting other people being bad. And also because of research being valuable. But I’m thinking how he should not be here, and how rude that he did not even want a cup of tea.
One-two-three, one-two-three. I’m humming a little bit, too.
‘Adoption, adoption, adoption, adoption, Interesting. Social workers’ report. Original newspaper cuttings. Preliminary … adoption ruling, and … Ah, look, a box of stuff for you, called: Hope Nicely, My Life. Mostly photographs.’
Barry is moving his paws now, pressing against my arms, with his claws digging. They’re scratching me. And it’s like I want to shout, and the claws are going scratch, scratch, scratch, and in my brain, it’s like there’s scratching there too. Scratch, scratch, scratch on my arms and in my head, but the shout is still not coming.
‘Letter from caseworker; letter from lawyer; results from … that’s curious …’
Connor Flynn has his back to me and he’s not even talking to me. He’s not even turning round to say, guess what, Hope, this is research and it’s all about you – about you and not about me, so really I should be telling you and not just mumbling to myself, like it’s my own life and my own story and my own book.
One-two … Barry is pushing and wriggling and whining a bit. I don’t think he wants me holding him anymore but I want to hold him. His claws are making scratches on me. I’m going to scream. And I’m going to kick Connor Flynn. I can’t help it. I need to scream. And I need to kick. But just as I’m standing up, and getting ready to run at him, yelling, yelling, yelling, he says a thing, and the kicky anger inside is gone.
‘Were you aware of communications from somebody claiming to be your biological parent? Or of a request for contact?’
I’m on my feet, with my mouth open for the yell, and even with one foot ready for giving him a big kick. I’m holding Barry so tight, with my arms hugging him, even though he’s moving and scratching a lot, because I don’t want him to be hurt. But now I’m just standing. And still my mouth is open, but the noise is gone out of it and it’s just a silent mouth now, with my eyes even wider. And in my brain it’s like when you’re listening to a language of people on the bus, like French or Spanish or the other one, which is what all the builders talk,
and you’re trying so hard to understand but it’s not making real sense.
‘Of a meeting arranged? Let me see, is there a date here …?’
There is a place in the woods where I walk with the dogs on my dog-walking days, and it’s a very funny place, because when you call one of their names – like Humpty or Tinie or Scooby – you can hear your voice shouting, like it’s saying it back to you. And that’s called an echo. So when I shout out Humpty, there’s another shout Humpty straight after, and it’s really an echo which is me, coming back. And now in my head, it’s like an echo. Biological parent … biological parent … biological parent; contact … contact … contact.
19
Even in my dumb old jumble head, I know that this is important. I know I should be asking a question now, but it’s like there are so many questions and they’re all fighting because they all want to be the first one to come out. And so I’m saying nothing, but with my mouth open, and Barry in my arms going whine, scratch, whine, wriggle, because of wanting to be down on the floor and running around. And I say, shh, because I’m trying to make my head think and to make the echo and all the questions be quiet.
‘… interesting that this is here because your recollection is of there being no connection whatsoever between you and …’
Like pressure in my head. Like noise. All the questions and Barry yelping and Connor Flynn with his talking that doesn’t quite make sense. I want to put my hands around my ears but I can’t because of having to hold Barry tight to stop him scratching and pushing. There is a thing. Like something in a deep hole. In my brain. And the echoes. There is a thing. A big, big thing. But I don’t know what.
