The doctor spoke in a quiet, mechanical voice that Bannerman found irritating. The children might almost have been bacteria seen through a microscope, arousing only a professional interest. And yet it was possible that his clinical detachment, his cold professionalism, was simply a manifestation of his caring. It was too easy to judge people too quickly.
‘As you can see, Tania has not adapted to her environment in any way. Of course, this is to be expected to a certain extent. And there is the language barrier. We do not know how much French, if any, she understands. Naturally, the other children and the staff... well, French or perhaps Flemish is the native tongue. We cannot upset the routine for one child, though several of our nurses do speak English very well and have spent some time with the child. Individual attention. But, I’m afraid... there is really very little we can do for her here.’
Bannerman was looking at Sally who seemed intent on the children. He wondered again at her interest in Tania. It had not occurred to him that her feeling for the child might be more than that of an occasional minder. Had she been more than once? It was odd, he thought, how the child had affected them both in some ways.
‘...and the sooner she can be taken back to Scotland the better it will be for her,’ Mascoulin was saying. ‘I understand your paper is trying to get her placed in the Doctor George Brook Clinic in Edinburgh.’
‘Yes,’ Bannerman said. He had not known.
‘Doctor Brook has some interesting, if rather unusual, approaches in the treatment of autism. Of course, there is no general agreement on the treatment of autistic children...’
Bannerman had turned his gaze back to the child. She had not moved, nor, it seemed, had she even so much as blinked. Her eyes were dark, mysterious pools that gave no hint of what was going on behind them. Bannerman felt again the touch of her cold fingers on his cheek and he was disturbed by the affection that stirred in him. ‘What kind of future does a child like that have?’ he heard himself asking. And he turned to look at Mascoulin’s square, ugly face.
‘It is difficult to say. Only time will really tell. But there is a great danger in such cases that lack of response to treatment will lead eventually to confinement in a mental institution. There they tend to resort to drugs to maintain some sort of equilibrium. Many cases like this will eventually become schizophrenic.’ He scratched his head thoughtfully. ‘You see, autistic children grow up to become autistic adults. In bad cases, and where there is no-one else to look after them, they are unable to look after themselves. They are unpredictable and sometimes violent. There is little else that can be done. But only in extreme cases, of course.’
The session in the playroom was coming to a close. Another nurse came in and the children were led away. Tania was the last to go. The second nurse took her by the arm and the child followed, at first reluctantly, and then with that passive serenity that Bannerman had seen in her before. ‘She has a room of her own. She seems to like to be left by herself. Sometimes she draws, but never in the playroom, although we always provide pencils and paper there. She regards our attentions as... well, as an intrusion, I suppose.’
‘I’d like to see her,’ Bannerman said.
‘She might react.’
‘I know, I’ve seen it.’
Mascoulin shrugged. ‘There is no harm, I suppose. One just never knows. But only one of you. The mademoiselle can see her another time.’
Bannerman looked at Sally. She had said nothing since their arrival and now she seemed morose, moody. She nodded. ‘That’s okay,’ she said quietly.
The child’s head snapped round abruptly when the door opened. She was sitting at a small desk pushed up against the wall. It was covered with sheets of paper, and a small pencil was clutched in her hand. The weary, pained face of Christ looked down at her from a crucifix pinned to the naked white wall. The sheets on the bed were rumpled and untidy. An old darkwood dresser was pushed against the opposite wall. A faded and threadbare square of carpet covered blackpainted floorboards. It was an austere, functional room, like a cell.
The first thing that Bannerman noticed was the barred window that looked out from the first floor onto the driveway below and the city spread out beyond. Then he was drawn by her eyes.
In the first moment, before she recognised him, her eyebrows were puckered in towards the bridge of her nose and her eyes flared with anger. Almost immediately her forehead unfurrowed and her eyes again became those dark, placid pools. Mascoulin glanced at her to satisfy himself that there would be no tantrums. ‘I’ll leave you for a moment.’ He closed the door softly and Bannerman stood awkwardly, looking at the child. The silence was crushing, and he could hear his own breathing like the scraping of chalk on a blackboard.
The child remained motionless, half-turned in her chair, staring back at him. The seconds dragged interminably. ‘Hullo,’ he said at last, and his voice sounded weak and ineffectual. Still she made no movement, and he took two or three steps towards her and looked at the drawings spread on the table. Even though he had seen her drawing of the man in the house, he was startled by their excellence. Seldom had he seen so much expression conveyed in such simple lines, such movement or perspective, such accurately observed yet simply constructed detail. There were horses and riders, a dog, a bird in flight. ‘They’re beautiful,’ he said, and that, too, sounded inadequate, patronising.
She had turned her head so that she could watch him. What was she thinking? He crouched down suddenly, on an impulse, so that his eyes were on a level with hers, and took one of her hands. For a moment there was something on the tip of his tongue, something he had been going to say. But it vanished as quickly and he lost his grasp of what it was. Everything he felt about her, all the strange feelings that she awakened in him, were so elusive, so indefinable. He was at a loss, foundering in a sea of some unknown emotion, and he felt a sudden urge to take her in his arms and crush her to him. But he was hesitant and again the moment passed, leaving him confused.
He felt embarrassed without knowing why and lowered his head. He sighed lightly and felt the soft warmth of her small fingers in his hand. How could he explain it to her when he could not explain it to himself? He wanted to protect her, to keep her safe always from harm, like a father might feel for his daughter. An instinct foreign to him and yet so natural. But he was not equal to it. He raised his eyes and saw that she was smiling, a slight smile that showed in her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. There was a great serenity in her face that made its plainness almost beautiful. He squeezed her hand and stood up, still touched by embarrassment, but a little easier within himself. ‘I’ll come and see you again.’ But her hand clung obstinately to his and he felt her distress. ‘I must go.’