Spectrum

They’d said it wasn’t far, just off Junction 9, then left at the pub and at the end of the road…Yeah, well, that’s when I switched off. It’s hard remembering directions when you’re lost. Actually it’s hard remembering directions when you’re not. The guy had funny eyes. You know the ones that veer off in different directions? I always struggle with those. My old math’s teacher had the very same pair and to this day I have blamed ‘them’ single-handedly for my academic failure. Harsh? You should’ve seen them. Thing is, truth be told, I failed every subject, so that argument never washed, especially with my dad come result’s day; last thing he wanted to hear was a quip about Mr Mangan’s ‘wandering pupils’.

So, you can see why I’m lost now, as I have the concentration of a gnat. Pete Wiggle (love that name!) once said I was on the spectrum. At the time I didn’t twig what he was on about, thought he was referring to the 80’s computer my dad and I used to play 'Daley Thompson’s decathlon' on.  But when he said it again while he was pinching my vinegar chips outside Our Price, I think I learned something more than school could give me.

I could phone him. Yeah I’ll do that. Ah, wait a minute. I have a phone - sat-nav. Put in the postcode and Bob’s ya uncle. Always loved that saying, because he is. Big Bob Sims, my dad’s brother. Bloody hell. I’ve lost count how many times I’ve mentioned it. These days it’s only mentioned for the benefit of other’s hearing it, whereas way back I would crack up laughing too. I never brought it up with Uncle Bob though. Must do that.

Jesus. Technology eh.

Grand entrances. They always had them. Reminded me of my old golf club right next to my school. What a place to put one. I mean, how’s a boy on the spectrum supposed to concentrate when some rooms overlooked the 9^th tee? Now you can see why there were wandering pupils in more ways than one.

‘Hello.’

‘Hi. I’ve come to see my dad, Phil, Philip Eves.’

‘Oh yes, he’s been looking forward to seeing you.’

‘Oh, has he? Good.’

She led me into a room where people sank into large armchairs huddled around a television. None of them noticed me.

‘Take a seat. I’ll get him.’

The programme on screen didn’t fit the viewers. It was one of those movies in which there are endless fistfights but no one gets hurt, gunshots that always miss and cars that always have the key in the ignition. Not even the loudest explosion moved them; not even a flicker from the eyelids.

There he was, the old fella, being helped in by the nurse. Santa jumper hanging over his wire coat hanger shoulders and a lunch paper hat still precariously balanced on his head. He always insisted on those hats at Christmas, sometimes getting quite upset if, that same evening, he noticed that you weren’t wearing yours anymore.

As he got closer, I realised that what I thought were reindeer antlers were in fact gravy slops from the plate from lunchtime.

He shuffled towards me grinning.

Dad. Bloody hell. Before he sat my mind got up, twisted around and fled. Fled away. Escaped. Call it what you want, I’m not ashamed. I then noticed my body hadn’t followed suit, and went back to join it.

‘Mark, son.’

‘Hiya dad. Yeah it’s me. Sorry I…

‘You came!’ He interrupted.

‘…Am late.’ I finished.

His hands were curled inwards, large knuckled and white. Frame thin. His eyes hung staring from his face, facial muscles a yesterday. But the hands, the fucking hands, I just couldn’t take my gaze from them as they fiddled anxiously with pincer like movements at the corners of the leg blanket.

He asked me why I had not been for so long, how were the children and Grace, the dog and house.

I couldn’t answer. I didn’t answer. ‘Dad, I am here’, I tried to say. ‘Don’t worry, dad.’ Nothing came. The spectrum, I thought, searching for answers. Yeah we're all on it, aren't we.

Before I headed for the door to leave, I held his hands, rubbed them warm, attempted to smooth away the protruding bones with my thumbs. Then he dropped his head towards mine and rested his Christmas crown on my nose. I had hoped this gesture was a conscious effort of affection; but his change in breathing and closed eyes told me otherwise; that this had been a rather busy day.

The nurse tilted her head back sharply as if to draw time on this night.

And at the front door she thanked me for coming every day. Said how sad it must be, how it must feel like I’ve lost him. Reminded me he said, ‘son’. To not to worry because he was in safe hands. Informed me 'Mark' was another patient, therefore an easy mistake for anyone.

I got back to the flat quicker than my journey there, to my lapcat Misty, vinegar chips and a TV. Same film, I thought. No one was feeling the pain still. Nobody was feeling the pain.