greeting him like a great old friend he hadn’t seen for six months, when in fact theyhad of course been together just the previous day. A couple of people were bent and twisting in their seats and making involuntary movements, jerky and uncontrolled.
I found myself looking hard at one man in particular. From the neck upwards he could have been a bank clerk or a stockbroker – groomed hair, smooth skin, passive face. However from the neck down he seemed to be nothing less than a person possessed, apparently locked in a perpetual battle with some malevolent demon which was wrestling him from the inside out. Like an innocent man in a full-body straitjacket, struggling for freedom against ungiving leather straps. It was a shock.
Another young man sat and rocked backwards and forwards, seemingly oblivious to any adverse consequences arising from the fact that he was banging his head against the back of the seat with alarming force.
I was struck by the contrast between all these other people and the appearance and behaviour of Roger, but was brought back to reality when the bus driver opened the door and shouted what seemed to be a sincere welcome, but at the volume you usually reserve for an idiot. I found myself feeling grateful to the driver and cross with him at the same time. He nodded to me in the way that two white strangers might acknowledge each other if passing in a street in the Congo.
Roger’s demeanour when he got on the bus was one of great enthusiasm, not looking back at me as he departed, and immediately he was absorbed with the undiluted joy ofseeing his friends. I stood and watched as the old bus headed for the horizon, belching out black fumes as it did so. I was ready to wave goodbye to Roger, but he did not glance round.
Back at the house, I waited for a few minutes, making tea for Mum and Dad and perching on the edge of the kitchen table before I spoke.
“I was a bit amazed at the state of some of the people on the bus.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, most of them seem so much more damaged or troubled than Roger is. I know that Roger has lots of problems, but it can’t be too good for him to be hanging out with people with bigger problems than he has.”
My father said nothing for a little while, obviously weighing carefully how to put what he wanted to get across. When he spoke, it was with a weariness which had the instant effect of making me feel guilty for even having raised the subject.
“I think Roger is a bit more damaged, as you put it, than we think of him as being. Because he is so used to us, his behaviour when he’s here can be much more predictable than when he is with people or in situations he finds unfamiliar. There have been a few problems…” I could see him hesitating, trying to work out what was the best way to express the next bit to the younger brother of the “damaged” person. “But basically we’re bloody grateful for it because it gives us a bit of a break.”
I don’t think he intended it to cause me to experience an enormous wave of guilt, but that was what happened. I glanced at my mother, whose eyes were watering. She took a few steps to the kitchen table to tear off a piece of kitchen roll.
“What your father is saying is that neither he nor I are getting any younger. You have reservations about Roger going into a place like that, and we have reservations about it too. But Roger is Roger, and he’s always going to need some support of that kind, and we aren’t going to be able to provide it for him for ever.”
“I know that, but obviously when that time comes, I’ll take care of him.”
I have no idea where the words came from. I had never really given serious thought to what I was now saying. I think I must have assumed that I would take care of Roger when my parents could not, but had never spelt it out, either to myself or to them.
“It’s nice to hear you say so, Jonathan,” said my dad, “but realistically you won’t be able to do
I found myself looking hard at one man in particular. From the neck upwards he could have been a bank clerk or a stockbroker – groomed hair, smooth skin, passive face. However from the neck down he seemed to be nothing less than a person possessed, apparently locked in a perpetual battle with some malevolent demon which was wrestling him from the inside out. Like an innocent man in a full-body straitjacket, struggling for freedom against ungiving leather straps. It was a shock.
Another young man sat and rocked backwards and forwards, seemingly oblivious to any adverse consequences arising from the fact that he was banging his head against the back of the seat with alarming force.
I was struck by the contrast between all these other people and the appearance and behaviour of Roger, but was brought back to reality when the bus driver opened the door and shouted what seemed to be a sincere welcome, but at the volume you usually reserve for an idiot. I found myself feeling grateful to the driver and cross with him at the same time. He nodded to me in the way that two white strangers might acknowledge each other if passing in a street in the Congo.
Roger’s demeanour when he got on the bus was one of great enthusiasm, not looking back at me as he departed, and immediately he was absorbed with the undiluted joy ofseeing his friends. I stood and watched as the old bus headed for the horizon, belching out black fumes as it did so. I was ready to wave goodbye to Roger, but he did not glance round.
Back at the house, I waited for a few minutes, making tea for Mum and Dad and perching on the edge of the kitchen table before I spoke.
“I was a bit amazed at the state of some of the people on the bus.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, most of them seem so much more damaged or troubled than Roger is. I know that Roger has lots of problems, but it can’t be too good for him to be hanging out with people with bigger problems than he has.”
My father said nothing for a little while, obviously weighing carefully how to put what he wanted to get across. When he spoke, it was with a weariness which had the instant effect of making me feel guilty for even having raised the subject.
“I think Roger is a bit more damaged, as you put it, than we think of him as being. Because he is so used to us, his behaviour when he’s here can be much more predictable than when he is with people or in situations he finds unfamiliar. There have been a few problems…” I could see him hesitating, trying to work out what was the best way to express the next bit to the younger brother of the “damaged” person. “But basically we’re bloody grateful for it because it gives us a bit of a break.”
I don’t think he intended it to cause me to experience an enormous wave of guilt, but that was what happened. I glanced at my mother, whose eyes were watering. She took a few steps to the kitchen table to tear off a piece of kitchen roll.
“What your father is saying is that neither he nor I are getting any younger. You have reservations about Roger going into a place like that, and we have reservations about it too. But Roger is Roger, and he’s always going to need some support of that kind, and we aren’t going to be able to provide it for him for ever.”
“I know that, but obviously when that time comes, I’ll take care of him.”
I have no idea where the words came from. I had never really given serious thought to what I was now saying. I think I must have assumed that I would take care of Roger when my parents could not, but had never spelt it out, either to myself or to them.
“It’s nice to hear you say so, Jonathan,” said my dad, “but realistically you won’t be able to do
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