Saving Danny. Cathy Glass

      There was a small delay, as though he was processing or considering what I’d asked him to do, before he climbed onto his chair.

      Adrian arrived and said, ‘Hi, Danny,’ as he took his place at the table.

      Danny lifted his head slightly in Adrian’s direction but didn’t look at him.

      ‘This is my son Adrian,’ I said to Danny.

      ‘Hi, Danny,’ Adrian said again, but Danny still didn’t reply.

      ‘It’s bound to take Danny a while to get used to us all,’ I reassured everyone.

      I served dinner and then sat in my place at the end of the table. Danny and Paula sat next to each other, to my right, and Adrian and Lucy to my left. We all began eating except little Danny, who sat motionless with his hands in his lap, staring at the contents of his plate. I’d given him a spoon as well as a knife and fork, but he made no attempt to pick up any of them. ‘It’s chicken and vegetable casserole,’ I said. ‘Try some. I’m sure you’ll like it.’

      ‘It’s nice,’ Lucy encouraged.

      ‘Yummy,’ Paula said.

      Danny didn’t move or make any attempt to start eating.

      ‘Come on, love,’ I said. ‘You need to eat something,’ I picked up his spoon and placed it on the edge of his plate, ready for him to use.

      After a moment he slowly picked up the spoon, but instead of dipping it into his food to start eating he set it down again. He repositioned it precisely beside his plate and then picked it up again. Independent, or resenting my help? I didn’t know. My children had seen this, but they knew better than to comment. Nor did they say anything about what Danny did next. Having picked up his spoon, he didn’t use it to start eating but began separating out the various components of the casserole. He arranged them in little heaps around the edge of his plate so that after a while there was a little pile of chicken pieces, another of diced potatoes, another of sliced carrots, and a mound of peas. You couldn’t really call it ‘playing’ or ‘toying’ with his food – it was too exact and precise for that. My children and I watched mesmerised – surreptitiously, of course, so Danny didn’t notice.

      ‘Are you going to eat it now?’ I asked him eventually.

      Danny gave a small nod and then, using his spoon, began eating his food, one pile at a time. First the chicken, then the potatoes, carrots and peas. It wasn’t how one would normally eat a casserole, but the important thing was that Danny was eating. He finished it all and then spent some minutes scooping up the gravy until his plate was clear.

      ‘Good boy,’ I said.

      He was the last to finish, and I now stood and began gathering together the dirty dishes. As I did, Danny finally spoke. He said one word: ‘George.’

Chapter Three

       George

      We all looked at him. We couldn’t help it. Danny suddenly speaking had taken us all by surprise.

      ‘George?’ Paula and I chorused together.

      ‘Who’s George?’ Lucy asked.

      ‘George,’ Danny repeated. ‘George. George.’

      ‘Tell me who George is,’ I said, ‘and I can help you.’

      Danny stared around the room and then towards the kitchen as though he was looking for something or someone. ‘George,’ he said again, louder. ‘George!’

      ‘Danny, who is George?’ I asked, trying to make eye contact with him.

      But he didn’t look at me or reply. He was staring around searchingly, clearly looking for something, but what or who? He was also growing increasingly anxious in his demands for George. ‘George! George!’

      ‘Is George a person?’ I asked him.

      He didn’t reply.

      ‘A toy, maybe?’ I suggested. ‘Is George a toy in your holdall?’ I was envisaging a favourite toy packed by his mother that went everywhere with Danny and he couldn’t be separated from. But Danny shook his head vigorously.

      ‘George!’ he shouted again. Sliding off his chair, he ran into the kitchen and to the back door. I went after him.

      ‘Danny, who is George?’ I asked again.

      ‘George!’ he said, facing the back door as though George could be outside. ‘George! George!’ Danny was very agitated now and close to tears.

      ‘Danny, there’s no one out there, love,’ I said, going up to him. ‘George isn’t out there. Tell me who George is and I can help you.’

      Danny turned from the door and looked around him, bewildered. Then he threw himself onto the floor, face down, and began sobbing and beating the tiles with his fists and feet. I knelt beside him and placed my hand lightly on his arm, but he wriggled out of reach and sobbed louder. Adrian, Paula and Lucy had fallen silent at the table and were looking at him, very worried.

      ‘George!’ Danny cried at the top of his voice as if he thought George might be able to hear him. ‘George!’

      ‘Danny, calm down,’ I said, staying close to him. ‘I’ll do what I can to find George.’

      But he didn’t calm down; he continued sobbing loudly, crying out for George and beating the floor as his upset began to escalate into a tantrum. Sometimes, when a young child has a tantrum, holding them close and soothing them can ease them out of it, while older children often have to work through it before they can be held. Danny was so little and vulnerable my instinct was to pick him up, but given his resistance to physical contact I wasn’t sure this was the right thing to do.

      ‘Danny,’ I said, lightly touching his arm again, ‘can you tell me who George is?’

      There was a small pause before he cried, ‘No!’ and thrashed around on the floor even more.

      ‘I can’t help you unless I know what it is you want,’ I said more firmly.

      ‘George!’ Danny yelled at the top of his voice.

      At that moment Toscha, our rather lazy cat, perhaps intrigued by the commotion going on indoors, leapt in through the cat flap. Danny suddenly fell quiet – from shock, I think – and, sitting bolt upright, stared at Toscha. She threw him a disparaging glance and then sauntered over to her food bowl.

      ‘Not George!’ Danny cried, pointing to Toscha.

      ‘No. That’s Toscha, our cat,’ I said.

      ‘Not George!’ Danny cried again as though it was her fault.

      ‘No, our cat,’ I repeated. Danny got onto all fours and crawled to the cat flap and pushed it open.

      ‘Is there something you want to see outside?’ I asked.

      Danny nodded vigorously.

      ‘Can you bring me Danny’s coat and shoes, please?’ I called to Adrian, Lucy and Paula. I was wearing slippers, but Danny only had on his socks. Paula stood and went into the hall for Danny’s shoes while Lucy unhooked his coat from the chair and brought it to me.

      ‘Thank you,’ I said with a reassuring smile.

      Danny was calmer now he knew he was going outside, although what he expected to find out there I’d no idea – I could foresee another tantrum when he was disappointed.

      ‘Do you want me to get your coat, Mum?’ Paula asked, arriving with Danny’s shoes.

      ‘No thanks, love. We won’t be out there for long. It’s cold.’

      I