The arrival of little Harry was something his parents had longed for, yet the pregnancy was fraught with difficulty. He was born into the world unnaturally early, barely clinging to life in a glass cot beneath the humming hospital lights of Oxford. His lungs drew breath only by borrowed help; a ventilator pumped rhythm into his tiny chest. Two surgeries before his hair had even grown. The world arrived blurred before his half-formed eyes, the retinas peeling back into darkness. Twice, the nurses let the family in to say their goodbyes, but Harry would not leave.
Soon enough, it became heartbreakingly clear: Harry could hardly see or hear the world at all. His body learnt, bit by bit: he sat up, grasped a plush lion, and eventually found his feet as he wobbled by the old wooden bookshelf. His mind, however, drifted somewhere far beyond. At first, his parents fought for himshoulder to shoulderuntil his father melted quietly away into the citys anonymous crowds, leaving his mother, Sarah, to wage the battle alone. Sarah found a grant, and at three and a half, Harry had procedures in London for cochlear implants. He seemed to hear nowat least, it looked that waybut the rest of him stayed adrift. She brought him to specialists, therapists, speech and language experts, endless mazes of cheery rooms and patient voices.
Sarah brought Harry to see me, too, again and again. I suggested this and that and the other thing, and she did it all. Nothing shifted. Most afternoons, Harry would simply sit in his playpen, spinning a wooden ring, thumping it on the polished floorboards. Sometimes he gnawed his own knuckles, sometimes he howled, a single, unwavering note. Occasionally, the howls wandered up and down, like searching for a tune. Sarah insisted he knew her; called to her with a bubbling sound all his own and delighted when she tickled his back and feet.
At last, it was an old psychiatrist in a battered corduroy jacket who uttered what none had dared. Theres no diagnosis left to give, he said. Hes but a walking turnip. Make your peace with it, and move on. Place him somewhere, or keep tending to him yourself. You know how by now, dont you? Theres little hope for change. Dont bury yourself next to his cot. Theres no sense in that.
He was the only person in Harrys mothers long years that gave an answer. Sarah placed Harry into a special nursery, and, for the first time in years, returned to her old job. She took his fathers maintenancepounds sterling paid with detached frequencyand spent it entirely on weekend carers. After all, Harry was not hard to manage, if you could bear the howling.
Some months later, Sarah bought herself a motorbike and whirled through the winding lanes of the Cotswolds, wind in her hair, her heart beating with the engine, her troubles lost behind her in the rush of the ride. She found a kind of freedom there, amongst a ragtag of fellow bikers. One evening, as dusk pinked the sky, one of them, Mark, sidled up to her. You know, theres something fantastically tragic about you, he said, his voice soft as motorway rain.
Come along then, let me show you, Sarah replied.
He grinned, assuming an invitation to her narrow Oxford terrace, maybe something more. But Sarah introduced him to Harry, who was for once wide awake, humming a modulating wail that buzzed the air.
Bloody hell, Mark gaped.
What did you expect? she shot back.
Nevertheless, eventually, not only did they ride together across green rolling fields, but they lived side by side. Mark kept to his word and his distance from Harryan agreement Sarah never questioned.
Then one rainy night, Mark said: Lets have a baby.
Sarah bristled. And what if its like Harry?
Mark was silent for almost a year, but then asked again, and this time she agreed. Into their world came Tom, red-cheeked and healthy as summer apples. Mark asked, Shouldnt we send Harry off now, since Toms all right?
Sarah replied, If anyones being sent off, itll be you.
Mark retreated, I was only asking…
When Tom was nine months old, crawling like a clockwork beetle, he discovered Harry at the end of the corridor. He was entranced. Mark fretted. Dont let him near, its not safe! But Mark was never homeoff riding the A-roads. Sarah allowed Tom to crawl near. When Tom was there, Harry never howled. Sometimes he even seemed to listen, to wait.
Tom would bring him toys, show him how to stack them, fold Harrys fingers around the blocks. One weekend when Mark was home sick, he saw Tom, not yet steady on his feet, shuffling through the sitting room, calling out. Behind him trailed Harry, who until then never left the corner.
Mark erupted, demanded, Keep my boy away from your idiot, or watch them every second! Sarah just pointed to the front door. Mark, spooked, backed down. They patched things up.
Sarah came to me.
Hes a wooden dummy, but I love him, she confessed. Terrible, isnt it?
Its the most natural thing in the world.
To love your child anyway.
I meant Mark, actually, I clarified. Sarah then asked if Harry was a danger to Tom.
I answered, Tom is the leader, but do supervise. That seemed enough.
By a year and a half, Tom had Harry stacking cups from biggest to smallest. Tom spoke full sentences, sang silly songs, and demonstrated hand rhymes like This Little Piggy.
Is he a prodigy, or what? Sarah asked me on Marks orders.
Mark nearly burst with pridehis mates kids were barely saying Mum and Dad.
I think its Harry. Not every child learns to pull someone else along.
Thats what Ill tell that log with eyes, Sarah laughed.
What a household, I thoughtwalking turnip, log with eyes, biker mother and child prodigy.
Tom, once trained for the potty, took six months to train his brother. Helping Harry to spoon food, drink from a cup, dress and undressSarah tasked Tom with it all. At three and a half, Tom asked straight out:
So whats wrong with Harry?
Well, he cant see, for starters.
He can, Tom insisted. Just not well. He can see this, but not that. Depends on the light. The bulb above the bathroom mirror is besthe can see so much there.
When the eye doctor learned his patients vision was being described by a toddler, he was baffled but listened. He ordered new tests, resulting in treatment and difficult lenses.
Nursery for Tom did not go well.
He should be in school, the teacher grumbled. Knows more than everyone.
I put my foot downno early school; let Tom attend activities and keep helping Harry.
Surprisingly, Mark agreed: Let him stay home. Hes not missing out on anything by skipping that daft nursery. Besides, have you noticed Harry hasnt howled in nearly a year?
Six months later, Harry spoke: Mum, Dad, Tom, please, drink, meow-meow.
The boys started school together. Tom worried over Harrys welfarewould his brother be understood in a special school? To this day, in year five, Tom helps Harry with homework before his own. Harry can form sentences. He reads and uses the family laptop. He adores cooking and tidying (with guidance from Tom or Sarah), loves to sit in the front garden, taking in the sights, smells, and sounds. He knows all the neighbours, greets them with a nod. Harry spends hours modelling plasticine, assembling and dismantling Lego sets.
But above all, he treasures their odd, joyful family outings: both boys and both parents, thundering down country lanes on motorbikes, faces to the wind, all shouting something wild and wordless together into the sprawling English sky.
