Timothy
Timothy was long-awaited by his parents. Yet the pregnancy was fraught with complication, and the boy arrived too soon. He slept in an incubator, delicate and unfinished, his organs uncertain in their duties. There was the murmured breath of ventilators, the white-shifting hum of machines. Twice, surgeries carved fragile hope into him, twice the thin curtain between worlds seemed to partdoctors urged his family to say their last goodbyes. But Timothy lingered, soft and stubborn, refusing the invitation.
It soon became clear that Timothys vision was clouded and his ears barely caught the world. He slowly gathered himselfsitting, grasping a chewed toy, lurching upright with the help of a chair. But his minds journey was stopped up, sluggish, as if wading through the syrup of a dream.
At first, his parents clung to hope, fighting together through the labyrinth of appointments. Then his father drifted quietly from the scene, leaving his mother, Julia, to fight on alone. She wrangled a funding grant, and when Timothy was three and a half, they fitted him with hearing implants. Now the world chimed in his ears, but still, inside, nothing budged.
Therapists, speech specialists, psychologists, all manner of English experts stepped in. Julia brought Timothy to me time after time. I would offer this suggestion, then another; she tried everything. Still, Timothy sat quietly in his playpen, spinning objects, thudding them on the floor, biting his hand or another toy. Sometimes he howled a single note, sometimes it twisted through mumbled chords.
Julia swore Timothy recognised herhed greet her with a peculiar warble or gurgle and loved the gentle scratching of his back and his feet. In the end, a grey-haired psychiatrist told her plainly, What diagnosis do you want at this point? Hes more a walking vegetable, love. Accept it, and choose: hand him over, or care for him yourselfyou know how now, dont you?
No one else had ever spoken so clearly. Julia placed Timothy in a special nursery and returned to work. Sometime later, she bought a motorbike, something shed always dreamed of. She thundered through English towns and out past the hedgerows with a pack of fellow ridersthe growling engine drowning out every last anxious thought. Child support cheques from Timothys father all went to weekend carers. Timothy, once you knew his routines, was oddly simple to look afterif you could bear his howling.
One day, a fellow biker, Graham, confided, You know, lass, I fancy youtheres something haunting in you, tragic and marvellous together.
Come on, Ill show you, Julia replied.
Graham grinned, thinking she was inviting him home. She took him to meet Timothy. The boy was wide awake, warbling and modulating, either recognising Julia or disturbed by the stranger.
Crikey, blimey! Graham spluttered.
What were you expecting? Julia answered.
After that, Graham not only rode with Julia, he moved in. They agreed: Graham would keep his distance from Timothy, which suited them both.
Eventually, Graham said, Lets have a child together. Julia snapped, And what if it happens again? Graham fell silent for nearly a year before he dared repeat himself.
They had a sonPatrick, this time perfectly healthy. Graham ventured, Now that we have a normal lad, shall we send Timothy somewhere permanent? Julia retorted, Id sooner send you. Graham immediately retreated: Just a question, love…
At about nine months, Patrick discovered Timothy as he crawled across the floor and was instantly drawn to him. Graham protestedKeep the baby away, God knows whatll happen. But Graham was always working or riding, so Julia let Patrick visit. When Patrick was near, Timothy made no sound, seemed almost to listen and wait.
Patrick brought toys, taught him how to play, even gently arranging Timothys hands around each puzzle piece. One weekend, when Graham had caught a cold and stayed home, he saw Patrick teetering around and calling out, with Timothy trailing behind like an enchanted shadowafter all those years, hed never left his own corner. Graham exploded: Either keep my son away from your idiot, or watch him every moment! Julia wordlessly pointed towards the front door. Graham shrank, they reconciled.
Julia told me, Hes a wooden doll, but I love himGod, is that wrong? Its natural to love your own child, no matter I was on about Graham, she interjected. As for Timothy, is he dangerous for Patrick, whats your view?
I told her, from all Id seen, Patrick was the leader, but she should keep watch. We left it at that.
By a year and a half, Patrick had taught Timothy to stack nesting cups in size order. Patrick spoke in little sentences and sang simple English rhymes, demonstrating old nursery games like This is the way the lady rides. Is he a prodigy or something? Julia asked. Graham wants to know. The blokes say their kids barely say daddy at this age. I think its because of Timothy, I said. Not every child learns to pull anothers development along. Aha! Julia beamed. Ill tell that to my log with eyes.
What a dream of a household: a walking vegetable, a log with eyes, a biker mum, and a wunderkind.
Once potty-trained, Patrick took about half a year to teach his half-brother the same. Then Julia stacked other lessons onto Patricks shoulders: how to eat, drink from a cup, get dressed. By three-and-a-half, Patrick pointedly asked, So whats actually wrong with Timothy?
Well, he cant see.
He can, just badly. He sees big things, but not small ones. Depends on the light. Best is the bathroom lamphe sees lots there.
At Timothys next appointment, they brought three-year-old Patrick, who explained his brothers eyesight to the baffled optometrist. The doctor listened gravely, arranged a fresh assessment, and prescribed complex spectacles.
Patrick hated nursery. His teacher complained, exasperated: He ought to be in schoolsuch a clever clog, thinks he knows best. I strongly advised against sending him to school earlylet him join clubs and help Timothy instead.
Surprisingly, Graham agreed and told Julia, Why send him to that silly nursery? Sit at home with them. Besides, have you noticed? Timothys hardly made a sound in nearly a year.
Six months later, Timothy began to say, Mum, Dad, Patrick, please, drink, and meow-meow.
The boys started school together. Patrick fretted: How will he cope without me? Are the staff at that special school any good? Will they understand him? Even in year five, Patrick still helps Timothy with his lessons before his own. Timothy speaks in plain sentences, reads, uses the computer. He loves cooking, cleaning (with Patrick or Julia leading), watching, listening, smelling the garden. He knows all the neighbours, always greets them. He likes modelling clay, building and unbuilding sets.
But most of all, Timothy adores when the whole family rides togetherJulia with Timothy behind, Patrick with Graham up ahead, all roaring through the countryside on their bikes, shrieking odd songs into the English wind.
