Angels in the Architecture (6 page)

‘How dare you call my baby a crate? The least you could come up with is jalopy or fender
bender or something. After all, this is a work of art you know, a veritable
Mona Lisa
of mustangs, a...’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get the picture,’ Kaye interrupted. ‘I’d just like to see the bloody thing get its rubber to the road sometime.’

‘Ah, but this is not necessarily the goal of course. Should it ever become roadworthy I may have to come forth from my sanctuary and speak to people, and my wife and I may not know what to say to each other after such a long period of man-shed hibernation.’

‘You sure she’s not hanging out for you to finish it so she
can
talk to you?’ Kaye asked.

‘Hmm, there’s a thought. But on the other hand
, perhaps she prefers it this way. Hard to know.’

‘
Uh-huh.’ said Kaye.

‘Anyway, how’
s Tim coming along do you think? Are we winning?’

‘You know. It’s one step at a time. One day at a time. I haven’t felt much change lately.’

‘No,’ agreed Pete.

‘Sometimes I think he’s actually just so smart that he’s really bored witless with this training we do with him and he’s waiting for the good stuff to start, whatever that is. I don’t know. What about more socialising, more outings,
and more experience with people and the wider world?’

‘I’ve wondered that. Maybe I’ll take him up
to Lincoln on the weekend. Perhaps we could see the swans at the Pool, since he’s got a new thing for them.’

‘Good idea. Let me know what he makes of it,’
said Kaye. ‘There’s no doubt he’s not in any way severely autistic. He’s never been a headbanger, he’s got great eye contact, all kinds of things that take him away from that extreme end of the spectrum. We’ve got to remind ourselves of that.’

‘Yeah, he just runs in circles, shakes his arms around, blabbers on about nothing, and laughs at empty space.’

‘I know, I know. But honestly it could be worse. You should see some of the kids I work with. Really, I do have high hopes for him. You’ll see. He’s only four. There’s plenty of time. Really.’

‘
Thanks, Kaye. I really do appreciate all you do for him. Sometimes it just doesn’t seem to be having any effect. And then other times he’s off in leaps and bounds. Not much different from most kids I s’pose.’

‘Well
like I say, step by step.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Okay, well, I’m off. See you Monday.’

‘Thanks, see you then.’

‘Bye, Timmy,’ Kaye called to the small boy at the front door.

Timmy did not respond. He was concentrating on the vertical line of the door frame, which he did by standing right up against it, with his nose touching and his head angled to one side. His eyes did a slow dance between the point at his eye level and the top of the door frame, and back again.

‘Tired him out for you sorry, but he’s kinda relaxed too I think.’

‘Oh
, he’ll be fine, won’t you, Tim-Tim?’

Tim’s eyes stayed locked in his up and down investigation of the door frame.

‘Sweetie-pie. Okay, seeya.’ Kaye turned down the path with a wave.

‘Bye.’

Pete waited another moment as Tim studied the door frame. It was apparent that there was something to do with vertical and horizontal lines that drew his attention, regardless of where they were. When it seemed he was likely to be in this position for some time, Pete wandered past him, not resisting the suggestion of a hair tousle, and headed towards lunch-making duties, his couple of hours of freedom over for the day. Not that he minded.

Pete told himself he was blissfully happy. He’d gone from student to almost professional prot
estor, to political reporter and then to his version of house husbandry, as childminder, occasional writer and long-time car and engine tinkerer. Parenting Tim proved the most challenging and most rewarding of his roles. He considered himself lucky to have such a child, a gift of sorts.

‘Still talking to
the Angels,’ the lead therapist had said one day, not quite mirroring Pete’s thoughts as Tim would smile up at something not there, or laugh out loud. At what?

‘Hey
, mate, ready for some fuel?’ Pete peered round the kitchen door a few minutes later to see Tim still glued by his nose to the door. He took a slight tumble backwards and recovered. He turned towards his father, although did not apparently notice him. Instead, his attention to the door broken, he set off past Pete on some new mission – probably an attempt on the pantry.

‘Biscuit?’ w
ould be the inevitable next thing.

Right then,
Pete said to himself, reviewing his list of possible diversions from biscuits.

The phone rang
.

This might work.

‘Hello,’ he said into the phone, and then covering it, ‘look, Tim, the phone. Who is it?’ Back into the phone, ‘oh, hi hun; how’s your day? Tim, Tim; it’s mummy, come and listen.’

Pete reached the phone out
to Tim who stood with his ear to it. Pete could hear his wife’s chit-chat through the earpiece. Alicia took the view, much as Pete did, that it didn’t matter what they said to Tim as long as they said a lot. Alicia would lecture him on quantum physics, since she could talk on the topic endlessly and it fitted with the idea of simply saying a lot. She would practise actual lectures and speeches to him in the bath, on the sofa, wherever and whenever. Pete noticed that in this way she sometimes even clarified her own thinking on things.

‘Biscuit.’ Tim had had enough of the phone.

‘Well, that didn’t work for long. Hi, love. What’s up?’ Pete spoke back into the phone and reached for the biscuit tin..

‘Oh
, we’re good. Just the usual sort of morning. You sound restless.’ Alicia’s phone calls to home were often a way of grounding herself or as a distraction from boredom.

‘Interesting. Well
, I’ll look forward to hearing about it later. Yes, the washing’s in. Enjoy the rest of your day, hun.’

‘Biscuit.’

‘No, Timmy. Like this.’

A pair of small and gentle hands guided even smaller loose fingers across brightly coloured wooden puzzle pieces, placing them correctly in the different shaped holes
.

‘See?’

But the little boy did not see and picked up the wooden box containing the pieces and shook it, enjoying the sound of it more. He laughed. At the sound? Who knew what.

The two children were
fair-haired with happy round faces. Toys were strewn about them, and there was a long row of different size cars and trucks lined up end to end across the room. The children’s play was relaxed. If there were rules of any kind, none impacted the enchantment of this scene. They weren’t hurried or trapped by a time that said they had to be here or there. Nothing bound them in any way except they were with each other and doing as they wished, the one helping the other to learn, the little student happy with this sweet friend who had always been with him.

‘It’s funny
, isn’t it, Tim? Do you want to try again?’ Jillie Watson, with a devotion and patience beyond her seven years, gently took the box from her younger brother and emptied the shapes on to the floor where they sat. If anyone else had taken the box from him, he would have screamed. But Jillie usually had Tim’s complete cooperation. She never became bored or frustrated with him although the children’s parents were willing to concede she one day might. For now they took pleasure in her custodial attitude.

‘See. This one goes in here. This one here. Where does this one
go, Tim?’

Jillie passed a red wooden circle
to Tim, and he took hold with his thumb and forefinger, letting it drop into his lap and turning it over with his hand.

‘You put it in here. C’mon, put it in here.’ Jillie held the circle side of the box out
to Tim.

Putting it down again
, she picked up the red piece in Tim’s lap, put it into his hand and guided his hand to the circular opening in the box, manoeuvring the piece through the hole.

‘Yay, you did it! Let’s do that again
, shall we?’ Jillie began the process over. She’d watched Tim’s therapists many times and knew that repetition would eventually pay off.

Timmy smiled at something. A huge smile that went on and on, and he laughed
.

‘You don’t want to do that? Okay, what do you want to
do, Tim?’

Jillie waited, looking
as Tim continued his smile and giggle and stare. He rolled backwards on to the floor, giggling still, as though he were being tickled. Jillie rolled back with him, not sure of the game, until it seemed just as suddenly to be over and Tim sat up.

‘Shall we go outside and kick the ball?’

‘Ball.’

‘C’mon then.’ Jillie held out her hand and took her brother’s small chubby one.

Tim got up from the floor, still smiling. Whatever amused him had gone by the time they got to the back door. Jillie took the steps carefully, watching her brother’s footing and then running together into the yard. Jillie retrieved a rubber ball from under some bushes and launched it carefully towards her brother. Tim jumped up and down, feet together in one spot on the lawn.

A while later their mother’s voice called them inside to get ready for
a Sunday drive.

It is not known precisely where angels dwell
. It has not been God’s pleasure that we should be informed of their abode.

Voltaire (1694–1778)

Giles Johnson
was a barman at the
Magna Carta
. He was a big northerner with a generous ear and a solid word of advice for most. He was also large enough and fearsome enough that a look from him across the pub would still almost any kind of fracas about to happen.

Giles stood behind the bar, sleeves rolled up and tea
towel scrunched and twisted round the inside of a pint glass. It was quiet yet, apart from the two fellows in the corner, one old and one younger, with a chessboard and a very slow pint each. They were often in, always just the two of them, always the chessboard. The pair of them always looked like they’d seen better days – a bit scruffy, worn collars and cuffs, and shoes that might do with a polish. They were an odd couple. He’d been surprised the first time he’d gone by them and heard their conversation – well spoken and gracious in an unexpected way. He could imagine the old boy was retired from something, a university perhaps, but never quite fathomed the younger one. Giles figured he was an oddball, just too unusual for anyone to employ. Or just maybe the old guy was an eccentric millionaire and this was his nephew – no need to work, could just do as they liked.

Giles had begun to look forward to seeing them. They usually came in at fairly quiet times – early to mid
-afternoon – and their presence became like that of other regulars, like a visit from a favourite old uncle or cousin. They made the place their home, and that made it a home-away for others just with the feel of it.

Giles watched them chatting away. He thought he might offer them an extra pint later on
– on the house. Why would you not? He liked their chit-chat, and they were always kind and friendly with anyone coming within their small tableau, and they enjoyed a joke as much as any, never taking offence at even the most raucous of the typical displays of an English pub.

The mother doesn’t quite understand what it is that she can see.

No, but she doesn’t need to especially. Words aren’t everything. She’s very connected
, most devout.

But surely understanding
...

Yes
, of course it helps. Your move. Focus on one thing at a time.

The younger moved his bishop from harm’s way.

There. Well the Earth keeps turning just the same.

Aye. And so do
the Angels look still for those who would speak with them.

And what do they find indeed?

Mostly just those newly arrived, who stare past their mothers’ eyes and over their shoulders, attracted by the beauty lingering above, which waits to provide its special protection. But after a while, these little ones usually forgot how to see Angels
.

...
which I find so disappointing, don’t you? As I feel sorry for God when I hear someone say they don’t believe in Him.

Infants hear more and more the voices of
the World, and although these are not so soft as Angels’ voices, they listen anyway because there is magic in the World as well, and it lures and it captivates and it steals souls.

The older man responded with a more aggressive move towards his friend’s queen.

And so all through a single life there is nothing but this moving away? Such a waste
.