Читать книгу The Twinkling of an Eye - Sue Brown - Страница 9

Grown-ups never understand anything by themselves

and it is rather tedious for children to have to

explain things to them time and again.

– The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

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It is a stifling, sticky, early December evening in the Bishops Memorial Chapel, the slightest waft of a breeze not penetrating beyond those standing in the doorways. An introvert by nature, I usually dread the end of the fourth term with its busy schedule of end-of-the-year school and social functions to attend. I am more tired than usual this year, feeling irritated as we parents all cram into the narrow wooden pews. The clamour of our communal babbling drowns out the beautiful tolling of the bells; their call for quiet and reverence for the carol service about to begin.

Strained-looking teachers doggedly police the rows of fractious boys behind us, while the choir boys face us from their tiered stand. Craig is, as usual, seated between the two tallest boys: an arrangement necessary to harmonise their voices, or simply the choirmaster’s sense of humour? He looks a little slumped and pale, and I catch his eye, mouthing, ‘Are you okay?’, his reply a tiny shake of his head, and a mouthed: ‘I feel sick.’ He manages the rest of the service, and cheers up at the traditional doughnuts and Coca-Cola for the boys afterwards.

Three days pass uneventfully, and it is Friday evening. I am about to take my son to a party at his friend Dylan’s home, when I am shocked to see vomit in the toilet.

Craig’s exasperated, chilling reply: ‘But I have been telling you that I am swallowing vomit!’ How can it be that I have not have heard this most alarming information?

I suddenly remember my bemusement at his phone call two weeks ago. Neil and I were at an end-of-year cocktail party, Craig phoning me from home to say that he has vomited in the basin – not wanting to bother the babysitter, what should he do? Citing overeating – as had been his wont recently – I reassured him not to worry and go to bed.

Yet, a growing, sickening awareness of the possible malevolence underlying Craig’s behavioural problems has now settled in my gut.

In the morning, we are at the GP’s waiting rooms as their doors open. A friendly Australian locum doctor dismisses the vomiting as anxiety-related reflux – a common issue at this age, she says.

Armed with a bulk-size bottle of peppermint-flavoured antacid, and my repeated entreaties to wear his cap and sunscreen, on Monday Craig boards the big bus for the school camp. He returns two days later – filthy, but not sunburnt, and in high spirits.

I take him to see Dr Mike, our usual GP, for a follow-up appointment to investigate his reflux. Doctor and patient resume their familiar banter, Craig moaning about the medicine’s gritty texture, and Dr Mike teasing that this is due to a lack of ‘manliness’ – as seen by his bright-pink T-shirt, attendance of a private school and vocal support of Manchester United.

‘That petulant Portuguese primadonna,’ he mutters about Craig’s favourite player, Cristiano Ronaldo. Craig seems to be feeling better, and Dr Mike agrees with the diagnosis, but changes the medicine to more palatable little white tablets to be taken daily. If the symptoms persist, he recommends a gastroscopy in January.

I mention, as an aside, that Craig has been in trouble for verbal bullying at school. But Dr Mike has known him since birth, quietly enjoys his intense personality, and also knows that I have often found my son to be a handful. Dr Mike’s own son, he says, recently – albeit accidentally – knocked out another boy at school. ‘I wouldn’t worry,’ he concludes.

The prize giving is the year’s final function. Craig forewarns us that he will not – for the first time – be seated among this year’s prize winners. I have not taken his pleas seriously that teachers have been getting angry with him over poor school work. I know that he is competitive, liking to be in the top two in his class – but I have seen him unable to concentrate on his homework for the past two terms, so I am not surprised.

Last to be announced at the ceremony are the leadership positions. Despite all that has happened, Craig’s peers have – to our immense surprise – voted for him as a deputy head of Charlton House for the coming year. A friend has to elbow him, saying, ‘Craig, that is you!’ for him to go up to be congratulated. I see him coming towards us afterwards near bursting with pride: ‘My legs were shaking so much I could hardly walk up there!’

After the ceremony, Craig thanks his drama teacher for the wonder-filled experience of being in Seussical the Musical. She teasingly requests his gold brocade waistcoat as a memento. Subtly appraising her, he replies with a little grin; ‘You may, ma’am – but I am not sure it will fit!’ Still on edge about how appropriately he is speaking to people, I am calmed by his humour, and careful choice of words.

It is not until some weeks later that I look inside his school books – and reel at the deterioration in his academic ability over the second half of 2010.

Initially the mistakes and messy crossing out were mainly in his maths books: ‘Neater, please!’ the teacher wrote, adding an exasperated: ‘I think you are doing this just to annoy me.’ Worksheets have been clumsily cut out, and stuck in crooked.

‘What has happened?’ is written in red across an English essay.

What am I, at the epicentre of all my son’s symptoms, thinking at the end of 2010?

I have been furious with him for making my life so difficult, blaming the challenges of his behaviour for fomenting tension between Neil and me. Meg, always so undemanding, has been quietly getting on with her first year of high school – and I am aware that I have been irritable with her, too.

I have been frustrated at my inability to make Craig change his behaviour. Distressed that he could be so unkind, picturing him as a delinquent teenager in the making. Humiliated and self-pitying about how his behaviour must reflect on my parenting.

I also love him deeply, and feel a profound disquiet that I cannot identify.

Later I will ache at my son’s confusion and hurt, and my total lack of understanding as his mother.

By joining all the dots – the ‘red flags’ I had once learnt about in my physiotherapy training – I will see the complete image.

One that remains unthinkable, unimaginable even, for my mother-mind to conceive at the end of 2010.