It was the sort of thing that drifts in on the fog of sleep.
The Whitfield family had been waiting for little George for years, but the pregnancy turned out to be a stormy one and the baby arrived early, tucked into a small incubator. His organs were undercooked, his lungs needed a machine, two surgeries stitched his eyes, and a retinal tear was mended with trembling hands.
Twice they were allowed to whisper goodbye, yet the tiny George clung to life.
Soon it became clear that his world was mute and dim. His body slowly caught uphe learned to sit, to grasp a plastic dinosaur, to shuffle along a railbut his mind stayed stuck in a swamp of stillness.
At first his parents clung to hope together; then his father, Tom, slipped away into a quiet corner of the house, leaving his wife, Julie, to fight the battle alone. When George was three and a half, a special NHS quota granted him hearing implants. He could hear the hum of the kettle, the rustle of newspapers, yet progress still crawled. Therapists, speechpathologists, psychologistsevery specialist in the valley of the Thames floated through their days. Julie brought George to my flat many evenings.
I suggested one thing, then another, then a third. Julie tried each, but nothing blossomed. Most of the time George sat motionless in his padded cot, turning a small metal ring, tapping it against the floor, gnawing his fingers, sometimes howling a single note, sometimes a wavering, feathered trilling. Julie swore he recognized her, that he called her with a peculiar coo, that he loved the scratch of her hand along his back and his tiny feet.
At last a grizzled psychiatrist, retired from the Royal London Hospital, looked at them and said, What diagnosis do you need now? Hes a walking vegetable. Decide what to do with him and move onhand him over to care or keep looking after him. Theres no point pinning hope on a miracle, nor on burying yourself beside his cot. He was the only adult who spoke plainly. Julie placed George in a special nursery and took a job at a textile mill.
Months later she bought a motorbikeshed always wanted one. She roamed the country lanes with a small band of riders, the roar of the engine washing away every worry. Tom paid child support, which Julie spent on weekend carers; Georges needs were modest once she learned his rhythm. One rider, a lanky bloke named Stan, confessed one evening, Theres something tragic yet fascinating about you, Julie.
Come, Ill show you, she said. He smiled, thinking shed invite him home. She led him to George, who was alert, emitting a modulated whine, a soft chirpperhaps hed sensed his mother, perhaps he was startled by a stranger.
What a marvel! Stan whispered.
What marvel did you think you were seeing? Julie snapped.
They soon rode together, then moved in together. Stan and Julie agreed that Stan would never sit too close to George (they had discussed it beforehand), and Julie kept her distance too. One night Stan, halfdrunk on the wind, blurted, Lets have a baby.
What if its another like him? Julie retorted.
Stan fell silent for nearly a year, then whispered, Alright, lets try.
Their son, Harry, arrived healthy and bright. Stan, eyes alight, suggested, Maybe we should enroll George now that we have a normal child.
Ill hand you over first, Julie snapped.
Stan recoiled, I was only asking
Nine months later, when George began to crawl, Harry, at six, took an immediate interest. Stan grew anxious, fearing Harry would be near George, but he was always at work or on his bike, while Julie let the boys play. When Harry crawled beside him, George didnt whine. Instead he seemed to listen, waiting. Harry would bring toys, demonstrate games, press Georges tiny fingers together, coaxing him.
One rainy weekend Stan fell ill and stayed home. He watched Harry wobble around the flat, murmuring plaintively, while George, who usually hid in a corner, now clung to Harrys side like a shadow. Stan erupted, demanding a fence around his son, a guard for his idiot, or constant supervision. Julie pointed silently to the door.
Fear seized him; he backed down, and they made peace. Julie later visited me and said, Hes a wooden block, but I love him.
Its natural to love your child, regardless of, I began.
I was talking about Stan, Julie clarified. George is dangerous for Harrywhat do you think?
I replied that Harry seemed the stronger anchor in the pair, but supervision was still necessary. That settled the matter.
At one and a half years old, Harry taught George to stack blocks by size. He himself spoke in simple sentences, sang nursery rhymes, and rattled nonsense verses about crows cooking porridge. Is he a prodigy? Julie asked me.
Stan ordered tests, I said. Hell burst with pride if the kids his age cant even speak.
It must be George, I suggested. Not many toddlers become the locomotive of anothers growth.
Julie laughed, Ill tell that logeyed block what I think.
The little familywalking vegetable, wooden block, motorriding mother, and a budding prodigysettled into a rhythm. After learning to use the potty, Harry spent six months coaxing his brother to sit, eat, drink from a mug, dress and undresstasks Julie had already assigned him.
At three and a half, Harry asked bluntly, Whats wrong with George?
First, he sees nothing, Harry answered.
He does see, Harry retorted. Just poorly. He can spot a light bulb above the bathroom mirror better than anything else.
An ophthalmologist, baffled by the explanation, examined George, listened to the threeyearolds description, ordered further scans, and prescribed thick, custom lenses.
Harrys nursery never clicked. He belongs in a proper school, a stern caretaker declared. Hes a genius, you see!
I argued fiercely for keeping Harry in his clubs, focusing on Georges development. To my surprise, Stan agreed, telling Julie, Stay with them until school. Whats a ridiculous nursery doing for him? And have you noticed your boy hasnt screamed in a year?
Six months later George announced, Mum, dad, Harry, give me milk, meowmeow. The boys entered secondary school together. Harry fretted, How will he cope without me? Will the special school understand him? Will they really get him? Now in Year5, he still does lessons alongside George before moving on to his own work.
George now strings together simple sentences, reads, types on a laptop, enjoys cooking and tidying (Harry or Julie oversee him), loves to sit on the garden bench and watch, listen, sniff. He knows every neighbour and greets them all. He shapes plastiline, builds and dismantles models.
But his favourite thing of all is when the whole family rides motorbikes down the country lanesGeorge beside Julie, Harry beside Stanshouting into the wind, a chorus of breath and steel, the world a fleeting tableau of impossible harmony.
