It was the sort of thing that happened, and people still talk about it in hushed tones when they gather at the village hall in Norfolk.
Jamess parents had waited for his birth for years, but the pregnancy was a hard one and the baby arrived premature, swaddled in a tiny incubator. Many of his organs were underdeveloped; he needed a respirator, two operations, and a retinal detachment was repaired. They were allowed to say goodbye twice, yet James survived.
Soon it became clear that his sight was almost nil and his hearing barely a whisper. Physically he began to catch up: he sat up, grasped a toy, then shuffled toward a support. Mentally, however, progress stalled. At first his mother, Emily, clung to hope, fighting alongside her husband. Gradually Thomas drifted away, leaving Emily to struggle alone.
When James turned three and a half, a NHS quota finally granted him cochlear implants. He could now hear, but his development still lagged. He attended sessions with specialneeds teachers, speech therapists, psychologists and every other specialist they could find. Emily often brought James to my cottage for advice. I would suggest one thing, then another; Emily tried them all, but nothing stuck. Most of the time James sat quietly in his playpen, turning an object over and over, tapping it on the floor, nibbling his own fingers, sometimes letting out a single wail, sometimes a strained, modulated squeak. Emily swore she could recognise his little coo and that he loved having his back and legs scratched.
One elderly psychiatrist finally said, What diagnosis are you looking for now? Hes a walking vegetable. Make a decision about him and move on. Either surrender him or keep looking after him youve learned the basics, havent you? I see no point in hoping for any real breakthrough, nor in burying yourself beside his playpen. He was the sole person who ever spoke so plainly. Emily placed James in a special nursery and went back to work.
A few months later she bought a motorbike something shed always wanted. She roamed the country lanes and the outskirts of town with a band of bikers; the roar of the engine washed away her worries. Thomas continued to pay childsupport, which Emily spent on weekend carers James was not hard to look after once you got used to his rhythm. One of the bikers, a lanky bloke named Harold, remarked one evening, Emily, theres something tragically fascinating about you.
Come on, Ill show you, Emily replied.
Harold smiled, thinking perhaps she meant a night together. She led him to James, who was bright and noisy, letting out a modulated squeal perhaps he recognised his mother or was startled by a stranger.
Good heavens! Harold exclaimed.
What did you think it was, a ghost? Emily shot back.
In time Harold and Emily not only rode together but moved in together. Harold, now called Thomas in the retelling, never approached James theyd agreed on that and Emily kept his distance too. Then Thomas suggested, Lets have a child.
Emily snapped, And another one like this? What would we do?
Thomas fell silent for nearly a year, then said, No, lets try.
Oliver was born, a perfectly healthy boy. Thomas joked, Shall we place James in a facility now that weve got a proper son?
Id hand you over first, Emily shot back.
Thomas quickly backtracked, I was only asking
When Oliver was about nine months old, he discovered James crawling across the floor. He was instantly fascinated. Thomas grew anxious, warning Emily not to let Oliver near James, fearing danger. Yet Thomas was often at work or on his bike, while Emily let Oliver play. When Oliver crawled beside James, the older boy strangely fell silent. Emily felt James was listening, waiting. Oliver fetched toys, showed how to play, even squeezed and folded Jamess tiny fingers.
One weekend Thomas fell ill and stayed home. He saw Oliver wobbling about the flat, babbling something plaintive, while James, who had previously lingered in a corner, now clung to Oliver like a shadow. Thomas erupted, demanding a fence around his son to keep him away from the idiot, or at least constant supervision. Emily simply pointed toward the door.
Fear washed over Thomas; they made peace. Emily came to see me later:
Hes a little log, but I love him, she said.
Terrible, isnt it? I replied.
Its natural, I said.
I was actually talking about Thomas, Emily clarified. James is dangerous for Oliver. What do you think?
I answered that Oliver was clearly the leading figure in the pair, but supervision was still needed. That settled it.
By eighteen months, Oliver taught James to stack blocks by size. Oliver himself spoke in sentences, sang simple songs, and recited rhymes like The crow boiled porridge.
Is he a prodigy? Emily asked me.
Thomas wanted to know, I answered. A mans pride can make him burst at the seams at that age, kids dont usually speak like that.
I think its because of James, I suggested. Not every child at one and a half years becomes the locomotive of anothers development.
Goodness! Emily cheered. Ill tell that timbereyed boy.
I thought of the little family: a walking vegetable, a log with eyes, a motorbikeriding mother and a budding prodigy. After learning to use the potty, Oliver spent half a year coaxing James to the same habit. Emily set Oliver the task of teaching James to eat, drink from a cup, dress and undress.
When Oliver was three and a half, he asked pointblank, Whats wrong with James?
First of all, he cant see, Oliver said.
He does see, Oliver retorted. Just poorly. He sees this, but not that. It depends on the light. The bathroom lamp above the mirror works best for him.
An ophthalmologist was astounded when a threeyearold was brought in to explain Jamess vision, but he listened, ordered more tests, and prescribed complex glasses.
Oliver never settled in the local nursery.
He should be in school! You see what a clever lad he is, the nursery mistress grumbled. He knows more than any of us.
I argued fiercely against early school entry: let Oliver stay in clubs and work on Jamess development. Thomas, surprisingly, agreed and told Emily, Sit with them until school, why drag him into that foolish nursery? And have you noticed how your boy hasnt been wailing for almost a year?
Six months later James said, Mum, dad, Oliver, give me a drink, and meowmeow. The boys started school together. Oliver fretted, How will he manage without me? Will the special school understand him? Will they get him? Even now, in Year5, Oliver begins lessons with James before moving on to his own work.
James speaks in simple sentences, can read, uses a computer, enjoys cooking and tidying (under Olivers or Emilys direction), loves sitting on the garden bench to watch, listen and sniff the world, knows all the neighbours and greets everyone. He likes molding plasticine, assembling and taking apart building sets.
But above all he loves when the whole family rides motorbikes along the country lanes he on his mothers bike, Oliver on his fathers, all of them shouting into the wind.
