Philly
Although I’ve only been here a few days, I’m detecting even more of a growing tension between Kendra and Dan.
They try and hide it from me, but this sailing camp he’s trying to organise seems to be at the root of it.
Although of course looking after Finn takes an awful lot of doing and must be a constant worry for them.
I can see how frustrating it must be, never being able to solve their son’s autism.
We humans are programmed for problem-solving.
Our brains are wired that way. There’s huge satisfaction to be gained from facing a challenge and resolving it, that’s why I love doing my daily crossword puzzles.
Come to think of it, I suppose that’s why I always found my career in cryptography so fulfilling.
But for Kendra and Dan, there is no resolution.
They try everything, hoping for a breakthrough that never comes.
And so I think they try to find other ways to be in control: tidying the house; serving up the perfect lunch; Kendra’s meticulously researched writing; Dan’s immaculately organised sailing camp.
I feel for them. They’ve both put their lives on hold, as Kendra said.
I suppose her writing is a good solution, giving her an income as well as the flexibility to help with Finn, while Dan manages the money and the day-to-day care of his son.
They’ve both sacrificed a lot though. I can see how much they love their son, how desperately they’re trying to help him navigate his way through a world that must seem to him so confusing and chaotic.
I notice the moments of fleeting suspension, just a heartbeat or two, when they would naturally reach out to touch their boy, to hug him or ruffle his hair or give him a pat on the back, and they have to hold back, folding their arms instead, suppressing the instinct.
I see how he never touches anyone, and how he can’t bear to be touched.
It must have been even harder for them when he was a baby – at least now he’s old enough to do most things for himself.
But how must it feel to have every sense on high alert in every waking moment?
To have no way of filtering the merciless bombardment of sights and sounds and smells the world throws at you?
It must be unrelentingly exhausting for him.
But it’s exhausting for his parents too.
It shows in their faces in unguarded moments.
‘Did you sleep well?’ Kendra asks me at breakfast the next morning.
‘Insofar as it goes,’ I reply. ‘It’s one of the curses of old age, not sleeping through the night.’
She laughs. ‘I think it can be a curse at any age. Dan and I know all about sleepless nights. And, as you know, Finn has his own routine too. He sleeps deeply at first, now we’ve got him on the melatonin to help him actually get to sleep at all.
But if he wakes, even in the wee small hours before the dawn, he needs to move.
As you’ve seen, the trampolining seems to help him.
It’s a distraction, I suppose, from a brain that’s on hyperdrive all his waking hours.
He prefers being outside in the dark to the daylight.
Less visual stimulation makes things a bit calmer for him.
So we let him go outside and jump. It gives us a few more hours before the day begins.
’ Her neutral tone is forced, a little wary.
Then she adds, more defensively, ‘I suppose you probably think that’s bad parenting.
But we’ve given up trying to parent Finn conventionally. ’
‘I don’t think anything of the sort,’ I reply evenly.
‘I’m sure an unconventional approach is entirely appropriate when Finn is an unconventional child.
There’s nothing wrong with moonlight trampolining.
If it weren’t for my missing leg, I’d probably be tempted to have a go myself – it looks rather liberating. ’
She looks relieved. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘It’s just that Dan and I are so used to the disapproving looks we get when we can’t control our child in public.
People always seem to assume we’re terrible parents.
As if we didn’t already feel inadequate enough as it is.
The trouble is, Finn looks normal to people, until suddenly he isn’t – it’s like walking on eggshells every waking moment.
But we’ve learned over the years to take the path of least resistance, for our own sanity as well as his – it’s less important to fulfil society’s expectations of you than it is to maintain a relationship with your child where you can help him. ’
I hear the tremor in her voice, see again the exhaustion that lies behind her eyes in spite of her resolutely cheerful demeanour. ‘It can’t be easy,’ I say levelly.
I feel bad that my presence here is another burden for Kendra and Dan.
She insists it’s no trouble at all having me to stay, but I can see the extra effort they’re going to on my behalf.
The over-rich cheeses and fancy patés they feel they have to buy for me play havoc with my digestion and give me terrible heartburn.
To be honest, I prefer the Marmite sandwiches. Finn and I have that in common.
I just hope she’s getting enough out of writing down my story to make all that extra effort worth her while.
‘Shall we continue?’ I say, nodding at her tape recorder and the notebooks she uses to jot down my story.
She looks grateful. ‘Yes, thank you, Philly. Whenever you’re ready ...’
I had loved my job as a ferry pilot, but Amy’s disappearance shook me to the core.
We all missed her most dreadfully. The world had been a better place for having her in it.
It certainly felt like a worse place without her.
The possibility that she’d been killed by friendly fire made it so much harder to bear.
I began having terrible nightmares, dreaming that the planes I was flying were being shot down in flames, my heart thumping with the sensation of plummeting out of control, hearing the sound of screeching metal as the aircraft was torn apart around me.
Amy’s face would flash before me, smiling just as she’d done on that last morning at the Blackpool aerodrome.
She seemed to be trying to tell me something, but at first I couldn’t make out the words.
Then her smile turned to a look of terror, and I realised she was begging me to come and find her.
I’d jolt awake, tears running down my cheeks and my chest constricting with helplessness.
I was exhausted by day, afraid to go to sleep by night in case the dreams came back.
I was struggling to do my job as well, and not just because of the lack of sleep.
I’d be flying some aircraft or other and suddenly I would find that I couldn’t breathe, overwhelmed by a sense of panic that came out of nowhere.
After one of these attacks of panic, I managed to regain control of my breathing only to find I’d pushed the joystick forward and put the plane into a nosedive, heading straight towards a cluster of houses beside the railway line I’d been following.
I pulled back, just managing to regain height in time to prevent a terrible accident.
It left me shaken, doubting myself. I never let it happen again, erring on the side of caution in all my deliveries, focusing all my attention on keeping my breathing under control, as well as whichever plane I was handling.
But the joy I’d once had for flying had become obscured by doubts and fears, grey clouds of depression and grief blanketing the elation of soaring into the blue.
I’m sure some of the other girls were struggling too, although we never shared how we were feeling with one another.
Compared with what people across the Channel in Europe were confronted with, day in, day out, the dangers we faced were nothing really.
About a year later, I was killing time in the mess on another damp January day, trying to distract myself by doing the crossword as usual, when Agnieszka brandished the newspaper she’d been reading at me from across the table.
‘Here’s a challenge for you, Philly,’ she said.
‘The Telegraph ’s going to run a puzzle-solving competition.
They’re setting one to be done under test conditions up in town.
Some chap’s offering ￡100 to be donated to charity, supporting the Services, if anyone can solve it in under twelve minutes.
You should go and do it.’ She pushed the paper over to me, tapping a finger on the relevant section.
Like mine, her nails held faint traces of engine oil from whichever machine she’d been tinkering with in the hangar earlier.
I read the article. Apparently, disgruntled Telegraph readers had been complaining that the puzzles they were printing were growing too easy, and so this challenge was being set to prove them wrong.
I checked the date they’d set for the test. I’d be off duty that day.
And it might make a nice change, going up to town again.
For the past year, since Amy’s death, I hadn’t joined in the other girls’ outings, despite their repeated efforts to cheer me up with invitations to join them for a jaunt to the club or a show. I decided to put my name down.
Agnieszka was off duty too that day, so we went up to town together and made our way to Fleet Street.
‘Show them how it’s done,’ she said, waving me through the doors of the Telegraph offices before I could change my mind and chicken out.
‘The honour of the Attagirls rests upon your shoulders! Powodzenia! Good luck!’