Ill never forget how we waited for little Oliver. His mother, Mabel, and his father, George, were thrilled, but the pregnancy turned out to be a hard one and Oliver was born three weeks early. He spent his first days in an incubator, his organs underdeveloped, hooked up to a ventilator, and he needed two surgeries, one of them to repair a detached retina.
We said goodbye to him twice while he was still in the hospital, yet he survived. It soon became clear that his eyesight and hearing were almost nonexistent. Physically he began to improve he learned to sit up, grasp a toy, and shuffle along a support rail but his mind seemed stuck.
At first Mabel clung to hope. She fought alongside George, then George faded away quietly, leaving her to battle alone. When Oliver was three and a half, they managed to get him hearing implants funded by a charitable grant. He could hear now, but progress was still sluggish. He attended countless sessions with specialneeds therapists, speechlanguage pathologists, psychologists and every kind of specialist you can think of. Mabel often brought Oliver to see me.
Id keep suggesting new exercises, new toys, new routines. She tried them all, yet nothing seemed to move the needle. Most of the time Oliver would sit quietly in his playpen, turning a small object over and over, tapping it against the floor, biting his own hand, sometimes letting out a highpitched wail, other times a more modulated cry. Mabel swore he recognized her voice, called to her with a peculiar coo, and loved when she scratched his back and tickled his feet.
Eventually an elderly psychiatrist, looking weary, told Mabel, What diagnosis do you want now? Hes a walking vegetable. Either you make a decision about his care and move on, or you keep looking after him have you learned anything yet? I dont see any reason to expect any substantial improvement, nor to keep burying yourself in his playpen. He was the only one who spoke plainly. Mabel placed Oliver in a specialist nursery and went back to work.
A few months later she bought a motorbike a lifelong wish. She started cruising the streets of Surrey and the country lanes with a group of likeminded riders. The roar of the engine washed away her anxieties. George paid maintenance, and Mabel spent it all on weekend carers Oliver wasnt particularly demanding once you got used to his routine. One of the riders, Nigel, said to Mabel, You know, theres something tragicyetcompelling about you.
Come on, Ill show you, Mabel replied.
Nigel smiled, thinking she was inviting him over. She led him to Oliver, who at that moment was bright and let out a modulated wail, perhaps recognising his mother or reacting to a stranger.
Blimey, thats something! Nigel exclaimed.
And what do you think youre seeing? Mabel shot back.
They soon started not just riding together but living together. They agreed Nigel would never approach Oliver theyd discussed that beforehand and Mabel was firm about it too. Later Nigel suggested, Lets have a baby. Mabel snapped, What if we get another one like him? He fell silent for nearly a year before finally saying, Alright, lets try.
Harry was born, a perfectly healthy boy. Nigel, halfjoking, asked, Should we enrol Oliver now that we have a normal son? Mabel retorted, Ill be the one to send you packing. He quickly backpedalled, I was only asking Harry discovered Oliver when he was about nine months old, just as Oliver began to crawl.
Harry was instantly fascinated. Nigel grew nervous, warning Mabel not to let the boy get too close to Oliver, fearing something might happen. But Nigel was often at work or on his bike, and Mabel let Harry play. When Harry crawled beside Oliver, Oliver didnt wail. He seemed to listen, waiting. Harry would bring toys, demonstrate how to play, even try to hold Olivers tiny fingers.
One weekend Nigel fell ill and stayed home. He saw Harry wobbling around the flat, babbling something like a plea, while Oliver, who had usually holed up in a corner, lingered behind him. Nigel erupted, demanding a fence around his son to keep him away from that idiot, or constant supervision. Mabel simply pointed to the door. He startled, they made up, and Mabel came to see me.
Hes a little monster, but I love him, she said. Its awful, isnt it?
Thats natural, I replied. Loving your child despite
I was actually talking about Nigel, Mabel corrected. Oliver is dangerous for Harry. What do you think?
I answered that Harry seemed the stronger partner in the pair, but supervision was still essential. We agreed on that.
By eighteen months, Harry taught Oliver to stack blocks by size. Harry himself spoke in sentences, sang simple songs, and recited rhymes like the crow cooked the porridge. Is he a prodigy? Mabel asked me. Nigel wanted to find out. Hell be proud if he can brag about it to his mates.
I think its because of Oliver, I suggested. Not every child at eighteen months becomes the engine driving anothers development.
Goodness! Mabel cheered. Ill tell this wooden blockeyed boy.
I thought of the little family the walking vegetable, the woodeneyed boy, the woman on a motorbike, and the prodigy. After learning to use the potty, Harry spent half a year coaxing his brother into it. He also taught Oliver to eat, drink from a cup, dress and undress tasks Mabel had set for Harry herself.
At three and a half, Harry asked bluntly, Whats up with Oliver?
First off, he cant see, I answered.
He does see, Harry protested. Just poorly. He sees something, but not everything. It depends on the light. The best is the bathroom lamp above the mirror thats where he sees the most.
An ophthalmologist was astonished when a threeyearold was brought in to explain Olivers vision, but he listened, ordered further tests and prescribed complex glasses.
Harrys nursery never clicked. He needs to go to school, you know! What a clever lad! the teacher snapped. Hes not a snack; he knows more than anyone else here.
I argued strongly against an early start: let Harry stay in clubs and work on Olivers development. Nigel, surprisingly, sided with me and told Mabel, Sit with them until school, why waste time in that silly nursery? And have you noticed your boy hasnt screamed in a year?
Six months later Oliver said, Mum, dad, Harry, give me a drink, meowmeow. The boys started school together. Harry worried constantly, What will he do without me? Will the special school understand him? Will they ever get him? In the fifth year he still does lessons with Oliver first, then his own.
Oliver now speaks in simple sentences, can read and use a computer, enjoys cooking and cleaning (Harry or Mabel supervise), loves sitting on the garden bench, watching, listening, sniffing. He knows all the neighbours and always greets them. He likes shaping plasticine, building and taking apart Lego sets.
But above all he loves the family rides on motorbikes down country lanes he on the back with Mabel, Harry with Nigel, all of them shouting into the wind.
