but not to the local authority's minibus, with its roundabout route as it col ected other children.
They had been lucky to get him into the school at al .
Jacob had been almost school age before he had final y been diagnosed, and it had taken letters, pleas and numerous phone cal s to the educational services to enrol him in time for the next term. But if nothing else it had given Sarah - and Ben as wel , he remembered - something to do to help ease the shock of the doctor's verdict.
The memory of the afternoon in the specialist's office had, until now, ranked along with his mother's death as being one of the worst moments of Ben's life. He had held Sarah's hand as the man had explained that, while Jacob wasn't mental y retarded, he had a disability which prevented him from communicating or relating to the people and world around him in the usual way. There were, he had said, wide-ranging degrees of severity, and, while Jacob didn't exhibit as extreme signs as some, he would stil need special education and care. They had listened, numb, as he told them about the behavioural problems they could expect, from an obsession with apparently senseless, repetitive activity, to the fact that Jacob would find it difficult to understand normal human interactions, or even ful y recognise how to use language to communicate. Ben had ' asked if there was a cure. No, the doctor had said.
Autism could be helped, improved, yes, but not cured. Sarah had looked over at where Jacob was playing with a toy abacus on the floor, sliding the beads around on it as though he knew exactly what he was doing.
What causes it? she had asked. The doctor had spoken at length about brain development before, during and after birth, about genetic traits and childhood il nesses, and in the end shrugged his shoulders and confessed that no one real y knew. And Sarah had stared at Jacob with a look in her eyes that Ben hadn't been able to fathom, but which now, he thought, he was beginning to understand. That night, as they lay sleepless in bed, she had stared up at the ceiling and said, 'It's a judgment.'
'Oh, come on!' Ben had been disturbed by the way she had withdrawn into herself since leaving the specialist's office.
She kept her gaze on the ceiling. 'It is. It's my fault.' The matter-of-fact way she said it had frightened him.
'How is it your fault?' She didn't answer. "Thinking like that it isn't going to help,' he persisted. 'I know it's hard, but it's just something we're going to have to come to terms with. It's no good blaming yourself.' For a long moment she didn't reply. Then tears had run out of her eyes, trickling sideways towards her ears as she lay on her back, and she had turned to him and sobbed until, at some point, they had both drifted into an exhausted sleep.
Next morning Sarah had begun determinedly telephoning
5° i.
OWNING JACOB around autistic schools. She had never mentioned judgment or responsibility again.
Ben thought about what she had said as he parked the dusty VW Golf outside the school gates. He turned to where Jacob was belted into the back seat. The little boy had one hand close to his face, moving it from side to side as he stared out of the window through his spread fingers.
"We're here, Jacob. Are you going to undo the seat belt, or shal I?' There was a momentary hiatus in the swinging hand, then Jacob carried on as before. Suppressing his anger, Ben climbed out of the car and opened the back door. Jacob peered up at him through his fingers, and continued to do so as Ben unbuckled him from the seat belt. Holding his free hand, Ben led him towards the school gates, and it wasn't until Jacob gave a grunt and began tugging at him that he realised he had forgotten the routine.
'Okay, okay, I'm sorry.' Ben let the boy pul him towards an old postbox set low in the wal surrounding the school.
He waited while Jacob stood on tiptoe and inserted both hands, first his right, then his left, into its slot. Jacob had seen
They had been lucky to get him into the school at al .
Jacob had been almost school age before he had final y been diagnosed, and it had taken letters, pleas and numerous phone cal s to the educational services to enrol him in time for the next term. But if nothing else it had given Sarah - and Ben as wel , he remembered - something to do to help ease the shock of the doctor's verdict.
The memory of the afternoon in the specialist's office had, until now, ranked along with his mother's death as being one of the worst moments of Ben's life. He had held Sarah's hand as the man had explained that, while Jacob wasn't mental y retarded, he had a disability which prevented him from communicating or relating to the people and world around him in the usual way. There were, he had said, wide-ranging degrees of severity, and, while Jacob didn't exhibit as extreme signs as some, he would stil need special education and care. They had listened, numb, as he told them about the behavioural problems they could expect, from an obsession with apparently senseless, repetitive activity, to the fact that Jacob would find it difficult to understand normal human interactions, or even ful y recognise how to use language to communicate. Ben had ' asked if there was a cure. No, the doctor had said.
Autism could be helped, improved, yes, but not cured. Sarah had looked over at where Jacob was playing with a toy abacus on the floor, sliding the beads around on it as though he knew exactly what he was doing.
What causes it? she had asked. The doctor had spoken at length about brain development before, during and after birth, about genetic traits and childhood il nesses, and in the end shrugged his shoulders and confessed that no one real y knew. And Sarah had stared at Jacob with a look in her eyes that Ben hadn't been able to fathom, but which now, he thought, he was beginning to understand. That night, as they lay sleepless in bed, she had stared up at the ceiling and said, 'It's a judgment.'
'Oh, come on!' Ben had been disturbed by the way she had withdrawn into herself since leaving the specialist's office.
She kept her gaze on the ceiling. 'It is. It's my fault.' The matter-of-fact way she said it had frightened him.
'How is it your fault?' She didn't answer. "Thinking like that it isn't going to help,' he persisted. 'I know it's hard, but it's just something we're going to have to come to terms with. It's no good blaming yourself.' For a long moment she didn't reply. Then tears had run out of her eyes, trickling sideways towards her ears as she lay on her back, and she had turned to him and sobbed until, at some point, they had both drifted into an exhausted sleep.
Next morning Sarah had begun determinedly telephoning
5° i.
OWNING JACOB around autistic schools. She had never mentioned judgment or responsibility again.
Ben thought about what she had said as he parked the dusty VW Golf outside the school gates. He turned to where Jacob was belted into the back seat. The little boy had one hand close to his face, moving it from side to side as he stared out of the window through his spread fingers.
"We're here, Jacob. Are you going to undo the seat belt, or shal I?' There was a momentary hiatus in the swinging hand, then Jacob carried on as before. Suppressing his anger, Ben climbed out of the car and opened the back door. Jacob peered up at him through his fingers, and continued to do so as Ben unbuckled him from the seat belt. Holding his free hand, Ben led him towards the school gates, and it wasn't until Jacob gave a grunt and began tugging at him that he realised he had forgotten the routine.
'Okay, okay, I'm sorry.' Ben let the boy pul him towards an old postbox set low in the wal surrounding the school.
He waited while Jacob stood on tiptoe and inserted both hands, first his right, then his left, into its slot. Jacob had seen
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