and shrieked in a high-pitched sing-song, ‘No, dear, not
there
! Wait, dear, the cloth’s not down! Oh, goodness gracious, help! Someone? Cloth someone, cloth please!’
Quick-footed Phil darted at once to the piano stool where the folded cloth lay, whipped it out across the piano lid, took the tray from Adele and placed it down carefully, smiling at her uncomprehending face.
‘No problem, see?’ he said, smiling gently.
‘It goes there,’ Adele said, looking back at him seriously and talking at rather than to him. ‘Tray goes there. That’s where I put it.’
‘But Mama puts down the cloth first, darling,’ Helene said. ‘Cloth then tray, only Mama forgot this once. Cloth then tray. Try to remember.’
Adele turned away and with her head tilted busied herself with pouring coffee, saying to no one in particular, ‘No problem see tray goes there. No problem see tray goes there.’
Helene smiled wanly round and her eyes settled on Poppy, who returned the look.
‘That’s autism for you,’ Helene said to the room. ‘Her routines, you see. Poppy and Cosmo are quite used to it now, aren’t you? And she’s much better than she was. It’s a matter of the right kind of environment for her. She must be in a caring group.’ To Poppy and Cosmo she continued, ‘As you know I really started the music group for her. I mean, of course it’s for everyone, but with her in mind. As I’ve explained, she needs the right group. But you wait till you hear her sing. She has my voice.’
‘Oh, how wonderful,’ breathed Poppy, nodding. ‘Wonderful for you. Isn’t it, Cosmo? That gift. You must feel so
blessed,
I mean, despite the er . . . handicap. I mean not that it’s, er . . . but the voice,
gosh
.’
While Phil took round the coffee, Adele sidled up silently with the biscuits. Arranged perfectly on an enormous plate were three circles, each made up of two different biscuits in an alternating and overlapping pattern. The outer one was of garibaldis and chocolate digestives, the next Jaffa cakes and lemon puffs, and the smallest, inner circle was fig rolls and jammy dodgers.
‘Six kinds, three circles, two kinds each circle, one round, one square. Twenty-six. You can have a biscuit,’ Adele intoned to Poppy. ‘You can have a biscuit. You’re allowed a biscuit.’
Poppy simperingly took a digestive and said, ‘Oooh, scrummy. Thank you, Adele.’
‘Adele doesn’t mind you breaking the pattern.’ Jim had risen and joined them. ‘She used to mind a lot if any of her nice arrangements were upset, but she doesn’t mind so much now. Do you, Adele?’
Adele looked up at Jim and offered him the plate. ‘You want one. You’re allowed a biscuit. Twenty-five now,’ she said solemnly.
‘Thank you, Adele,’ Jim said, and took a garibaldi next to the space left by Poppy’s digestive. Then he gently shoved the other biscuits in the circle round a little way, so that symmetry was restored. He gave Adele’s shoulder a kind little squeeze. ‘Well done,’ he said.
Adele turned away with the plate and with the same tilt of the head made her way over to Phil, who appeared to be waiting for his biscuit.
Helene suddenly clapped her hands and waved everyone back into chairs.
‘To the task in hand, everyone!’ she called.
Valerie made her way quietly round the edge of the group, fetched her coffee from the tray and sat down on the piano stool to watch Helene resume her grip on the gathering. She judged that Helene, in broaching the question of Adele with Cosmo and Poppy, would have recited the same script as she had when Valerie, a new member, had come to her flat one afternoon for an ‘informal little chat’ about the group. The once-great Helene Giraldi had sat her down and confided her private tribulations to her, mere Valerie Poole. She had been flattered. Helene’s only child was severely autistic. Years of useless treatments and regimes had been endured before the correct diagnosis was made, by which
there
! Wait, dear, the cloth’s not down! Oh, goodness gracious, help! Someone? Cloth someone, cloth please!’
Quick-footed Phil darted at once to the piano stool where the folded cloth lay, whipped it out across the piano lid, took the tray from Adele and placed it down carefully, smiling at her uncomprehending face.
‘No problem, see?’ he said, smiling gently.
‘It goes there,’ Adele said, looking back at him seriously and talking at rather than to him. ‘Tray goes there. That’s where I put it.’
‘But Mama puts down the cloth first, darling,’ Helene said. ‘Cloth then tray, only Mama forgot this once. Cloth then tray. Try to remember.’
Adele turned away and with her head tilted busied herself with pouring coffee, saying to no one in particular, ‘No problem see tray goes there. No problem see tray goes there.’
Helene smiled wanly round and her eyes settled on Poppy, who returned the look.
‘That’s autism for you,’ Helene said to the room. ‘Her routines, you see. Poppy and Cosmo are quite used to it now, aren’t you? And she’s much better than she was. It’s a matter of the right kind of environment for her. She must be in a caring group.’ To Poppy and Cosmo she continued, ‘As you know I really started the music group for her. I mean, of course it’s for everyone, but with her in mind. As I’ve explained, she needs the right group. But you wait till you hear her sing. She has my voice.’
‘Oh, how wonderful,’ breathed Poppy, nodding. ‘Wonderful for you. Isn’t it, Cosmo? That gift. You must feel so
blessed,
I mean, despite the er . . . handicap. I mean not that it’s, er . . . but the voice,
gosh
.’
While Phil took round the coffee, Adele sidled up silently with the biscuits. Arranged perfectly on an enormous plate were three circles, each made up of two different biscuits in an alternating and overlapping pattern. The outer one was of garibaldis and chocolate digestives, the next Jaffa cakes and lemon puffs, and the smallest, inner circle was fig rolls and jammy dodgers.
‘Six kinds, three circles, two kinds each circle, one round, one square. Twenty-six. You can have a biscuit,’ Adele intoned to Poppy. ‘You can have a biscuit. You’re allowed a biscuit.’
Poppy simperingly took a digestive and said, ‘Oooh, scrummy. Thank you, Adele.’
‘Adele doesn’t mind you breaking the pattern.’ Jim had risen and joined them. ‘She used to mind a lot if any of her nice arrangements were upset, but she doesn’t mind so much now. Do you, Adele?’
Adele looked up at Jim and offered him the plate. ‘You want one. You’re allowed a biscuit. Twenty-five now,’ she said solemnly.
‘Thank you, Adele,’ Jim said, and took a garibaldi next to the space left by Poppy’s digestive. Then he gently shoved the other biscuits in the circle round a little way, so that symmetry was restored. He gave Adele’s shoulder a kind little squeeze. ‘Well done,’ he said.
Adele turned away with the plate and with the same tilt of the head made her way over to Phil, who appeared to be waiting for his biscuit.
Helene suddenly clapped her hands and waved everyone back into chairs.
‘To the task in hand, everyone!’ she called.
Valerie made her way quietly round the edge of the group, fetched her coffee from the tray and sat down on the piano stool to watch Helene resume her grip on the gathering. She judged that Helene, in broaching the question of Adele with Cosmo and Poppy, would have recited the same script as she had when Valerie, a new member, had come to her flat one afternoon for an ‘informal little chat’ about the group. The once-great Helene Giraldi had sat her down and confided her private tribulations to her, mere Valerie Poole. She had been flattered. Helene’s only child was severely autistic. Years of useless treatments and regimes had been endured before the correct diagnosis was made, by which
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