Shortly after Daniel’s arrival, I had dared venture with him to Andrea’s house. Andrea was the solid sort of friend that everyone should have, and appeared to take most things in her stride. The visit appeared to go well, helped along by Andrea’s two very capable daughters keeping a practised eye on Daniel. Difficulties ensued when I informed Daniel that it was time to go home because it was nearly bedtime.
‘I’m not going to bed when I get home’, he informed me sullenly. The familiar scowl had appeared, his eyes had narrowed and his fists had already begun to clench.
‘It will be bedtime though, Daniel!’ I replied calmly, knowing full well what was going to come next.
Daniel’s mouth opened wide as the screaming began. He did not appear to need to stop for breath in what had been five years of well-rehearsed yelling in order to get his way. Everyone else’s mouths opened simultaneously in horror as the kicking and screaming started and Daniel clung on fiercely to any object within his reach in an attempt to prevent his return home. It must have taken us a good half hour to get him out of Andrea’s house and through the gate, which he clung onto with all his might. His fingers were clawed and his knuckles etched white with the sheer effort required gripping the solid concrete post. For a five-year-old, he possessed a great deal of strength which, when combined with sheer frustration, was a formidable force. I almost breathed a sigh of relief as we passed through the iron gate flaked with time and Daniel’s anger, but this soon turned to dismay when Daniel wrapped his legs around my left leg tightly in a bid to stop me from walking. They felt like a vice gripping my limb. There was no way I would be able to get him off me without fear of the whole pattern repeating itself, for no sooner was one limb unclasped from what it was anchored to, than another of Daniel’s limbs would bind to something else. At that rate, it would be doubtful whether Daniel would be in bed by midnight and I was determined that this child would not get his own way throughout life in this manner.
Like Quasimodo on a bad day - and dragging my left leg - I staggered up the uneven and unfriendly path, with Daniel still attached. He clung on like a dead weight, still heaving with anger and frustration as his screams rattled and raged around me. House-curtains twitched ever so slightly, so as I staggered forward I knew I was being watched by unseen eyes. At any moment I felt that a police car would screech up and demand to know why I was kidnapping this child. It was half a mile home and I had an angry child attached to my leg like a limpet, wailing his head off. The heat radiating from the pavement and the clouds of dry choking dust being swept upwards by this turmoil did nothing to help progress as I staggered and dragged, staggered and dragged………..
What would normally have been a pleasant five minute walk across the wild flower meadow from Fernside Avenue to Southfield Road took a memorable forty minutes. Throughout that time, Daniel continued to express his rage out loud whilst still wrapped around my left leg like some alien parasite. As we approached the gate leading from the meadow into our back garden, his tiny fists tried to grab onto the gate post yet again whilst his ranting became more enraged. Thankfully, because this gatepost was wider and rougher than Andrea’s, Daniel’s attempt was rendered impossible.
I was tired by now, very tired, and the narrow garden path - flanked by summer flowers - looked longer and less inviting than usual. I wasn’t sure how much longer I would last before I collapsed into a chaotic heap and yet I knew I would still have to deal with this defiant and destructive child, who appeared to have as much energy now as he had before we had left Andrea’s house. This wasn’t surprising, given that my leg had unwillingly carried him all the way home. I lurched over the door-threshold in a final act of desperation.
Silence immediately descended so clearly that I shook my head in disbelief at the contrast. The chirping of the birds seemed amplified; the faint ‘burr’ of a late grasshopper responding could be clearly heard. Daniel had unwound his legs from mine and he dropped quietly to the floor. He stood uncertainly next to me, spent rage still mottling his cheeks. His tiny hands had gentled again, the fingers curved inwards slightly as they are meant to be when not fuelled by seething paroxysms of rage. He looked small and vulnerable, hovering between needing to know that he could be loved and not daring to believe that he could be. I hugged him gently and he stood there woodenly, looking into the distance, neither accepting me nor pushing me away. I had six weeks, six weeks only, to make a difference to this little boy’s life, but now it was time for bed and this time, thankfully, Daniel did not put up too much of a fight.