2 April

Daniel and his dog are both possessed of dark, limpid eyes, devotion and loyalty. In earlier times, Daniel may have been said to be possessed, full stop. The middle child of three boys, he came into this world turning his head away, seemingly horrified by the world in which he found himself, finding no comfort in his mother’s arms or at her breast. Since then, it is as if he has refused to fully enter our world. Nine now, he is distanced, disconnected, often distraught. His parents, like so many others, have never had a clear diagnosis or explanation for their son’s condition. “Somewhere on the autistic spectrum” is as close as they can get. His mother and I met when her youngest and my eldest were babies, and she was slowly recognising that her withdrawn, obsessive toddler would always remain behind a barrier, would never embrace our world, or indeed, embrace her. Seven years on, he still avoids eye contact, is uneasy around others, and meeting anyone new causes him to gallop away like a frightened colt, stamping the ground as he flees.

I have known him for the bulk of his short life, and can sometimes have a glimpse, the tiniest fraction of understanding, of the frustration and sorrow of his parents, of the devastation his condition has wrought on the family. My friend copes admirably on the outside, but inside a part of her is slowly withering away. Not her love for her boy, never that, she loves him with the same fierce pride that she shows for her other sons, but I sometimes think that faith and hope are dying inside her. Even though I’ve changed names, I feel protective of their privacy and shouldn’t document the family breakdown that has sometimes overshadowed them, but it will suffice to say that she has known some dark nights of the soul.

Daniel and his Mum and brothers are coming for tea today. It probably wasn’t the best day I could have chosen, this first day of the Easter holidays, for my children are tired and not at their most robust after a late night driving back from Kent last night, but if their old friends won’t invite them, who will? Close as they are to the rest of the family, my two are often scared of Daniel, who can fly into silent rages, push others away with force, ruin games, frustration leading to destruction. Regular contact with him helps, though; long absences turn a troubled child into a monster, in their memories, whereas frequent visits shrink the spectre back to ‘just Daniel’.
My friends aren’t wealthy, but by most people’s standards they are comfortably off, and lucky enough to have a big garden behind their cottage, running down to water meadows. The natural world has been Daniel’s salvation, the one thing that calms him. He rarely shows emotion beyond rage and frustration, but if he is outside, whatever the weather, he becomes absorbed. He is a child of fields and woods, hedgerows and streams (though interestingly, not the sea; this overwhelms him; his senses overloaded, he screams and screams on seeing it). He turns into a Pan figure, communicating silently with trees and birds, alone but never lonely. He is an awkward, gangly boy, having left the sweetness of early childhood behind, ill at ease with his limbs and uncoordinated. Yet running through the trees, he is full of grace. Sometimes, I think he may have found his niche more readily in an earlier age, had he been accepted in his community. I could see him as a shepherd, or a hermit, perhaps, living deep in the woods. Perhaps I’m just being romantic; but a life outdoors would suit him so much more than an institution which surely beckons.

My friends bought a dog, last year; it was a gamble, with Daniel around, but they had a hunch that a dog might help. It was spectacularly successful. Charlie, their English setter, has provided Daniel with the friend that he has never had. It sounds sentimental, too perfect, and it’s true that he still won’t integrate with other people, but Charlie has brought hope to this family, and an element of relaxation, and, dare I say it, happiness to Daniel. They roam the woods together, curl up on the mat together (and this a child who hates to be touched). Daniel takes care of him, grooming him, feeding him, crooning to him, seeking him out each early morning and disappearing into the garden with him for hours on end. As Charlie’s natural owner, Daniel has gained status amongst other children; they look forward to seeing Charlie, if not Daniel himself, and Daniel basks, shyly, secretively, in the reflected glory, an indication that he may crave human contact, after all.

Even if dogs were a solution for every child like this, it’s hardly a practical answer. So many children like Daniel aren’t lucky enough to live in the country, with a big garden, and to have a dog. What do I know, anyway, about the education and support for autistic children? Nothing, really, but I remember last summer, when Charlie was a new addition to the family, and we were visiting. Daniel and Charlie were among the trees at the edge of the water meadows, boy and dog hazily outlined in the summer light, seeming to merge into the water and the leaves. Daniel, the boy who hates water, who can’t have a bath, got his feet wet, following Charlie into the marshy shallows, and when Charlie turned and shook, droplets of water flying off him like sparks of light, showering him, he laughed and hugged his dog.