I’D FORGOTTEN HOW beautiful England could be in the spring. It had been thirteen years since I’d seen the lush green fields, the hedgerows, the daffodils and crocuses, and the blossom on the trees. Even walking through the airport had a completely different feel to it than doing the same in Spain. The arrivals lounge was covered with carpet rather than cold marble; the smells were different: the coffee, the reheated sausage rolls and pasties and the waft of newsprint as you passed WH Smith. There was a cosiness about England that Spain didn’t have. There was something so inviting about coming home and being back on British soil.
As I stepped through the sliding doors of Bristol airport in April 2008 and inhaled the fresh air outside, the Spanish scents of bougainvillea vines and citrus fruits had been replaced by dewy grass and green trees. I sucked that air deep into my lungs and then released it slowly, savouring every breath.
I turned to Darren, grinning from ear to ear: ‘We’re home.’
As soon as the judgement had come through, I’d put my Spanish house on the market and started looking for schools in the UK – and this visit home, an adults-only affair while Jaime looked after the boys for the weekend, was to select the school that would best suit Sam. I’d decided on Devon as the location for our new home because it was a part of the country that offered great facilities for children with autism. It was also where I’d spent many a happy holiday as a child and I could just see us living contentedly amid the rolling hills.
In advance, I’d cherry-picked the schools in the area that had a specialist teaching unit for children with Asperger’s and autism – what is known as a CAIRB (Communication and Interaction Resource Base). There were four such schools in the vicinity. Darren had offered to come with me while I visited each of them in turn and I was grateful to have him by my side as we picked up the hire car and started the drive to Devon.
I was determined to make the best possible choice for my son. As far as I was concerned, sending Sam to a school solely for children with special needs was never an option. The wonderful thing about CAIRBs is that, over time, the teachers introduce the autistic children into mainstream classes. I strongly believed that Sam stood a better chance of successfully integrating into society if he grew up around neurotypical children. That way, he wouldn’t get a rude shock if someone was mean to him, bullied him or looked at him strangely once he was an adult, because he would have already learnt the skills to cope with it. Though I was already worrying about whether he would be bullied – what mum wouldn’t? – I wouldn’t always be there to protect him, so I knew I needed Sam to learn how to become resilient. Life in a special-needs school would be much more sheltered, and I was concerned that Sam wouldn’t cope well when he left that secure environment.
Darren and I had a lot to get done. Timings had worked out in such a way that we had to visit all four schools in a single day – and, of course, the schools were scattered all over the county. Our schedule looked like this: Barnstaple at 9 a.m., Tiverton at 12 p.m., Ivybridge at 3 p.m. and Tavistock at 5.30 p.m. Time would be tight.
Yet despite the pressing schedule, I couldn’t help but feel like a child on holiday as we swooped along the country lanes that carved through the Devonshire hillside. I stared eagerly out of the window, pointing out every landmark to Darren and recalling my beach holidays in Woolacombe, where I’d learned how to surf. It all served to cement my certainty that Devon was the place for us.
The first school was in a village on the outskirts of Barnstaple, a farming town. The school was fabulous – I was blown away by the look and feel of the modern design and architecture. It was not your typical primary: it was futuristic-looking, kind of like a spaceship with lots of ‘pods’ where the children sat around in circles having stories read to them.
‘I want Sam to come here,’ I mouthed to Darren as the headmaster led us to the CAIRB, where we watched the children painting and doodling. My heart lifted as I imagined Sam joining in with all these students, making friends – finally being looked after.
But the headmaster explained that, as much as he would like to have Sam and understood my desperate situation, we had a wait on our hands. There were only seven CAIRB places available in the entire school – and they were all taken. Even if a space was to become available, there were more than a dozen children with autism on the waiting list before Sam. I felt so deflated.
The headmaster went on to explain some of the statistics behind such a long waiting list: one in every one hundred children was being diagnosed with autism each year and boys were five times more likely to have it than girls. Worryingly for me, he added that all schools with CAIRBs faced the same challenge – they only had the funds to offer help to seven children.
‘Sadly there is no fast-track system, you will be at the end of the waiting list,’ he said, frowning.
And I frowned too, feeling slightly sick. I knew early intervention was the key to my son leading a normal life so I couldn’t waste another second, nor hang about waiting for our names to reach the top of that very long list. I was so disappointed that this amazing school seemed out of our reach and could only hope that the other schools on our list would be able to help us. We thanked the head for his time and then it was back in the car and on to the next school.
On the way, Darren and I had an intense conversation. I’d already come so far on my quest to save Sam, but everything felt like a battle and it was hard to stay positive. What were we going to do if we couldn’t find a school place for Sam?
As usual, Darren helped me see things rationally.
‘It’s like going to view a house that you fall in love with but finding out someone else has already put an offer in,’ he reasoned. ‘You have to be clinical, not emotional about these things – accept it’s gone and move on to the next one.’
I was glad Darren had come along; I would have struggled alone. By now, he was very much my partner and whatever new life I was going to make for my family, he would be part of it.
We snaked our way through more country lanes, over cattle grids and through picturesque villages with medieval churches. As the countryside flew by, I regained my positive outlook and rejoiced once more in visiting this little corner of England that I would soon call home.
‘Look, there’s a little cafe selling cream teas!’ I exclaimed as we whizzed by it.
Oh my, I thought, it’s been an eternity since I’ve tasted clotted cream and jam on scones. My mouth almost watered. I couldn’t wait to introduce my boys to all the treats I’d grown up on – British institutions like fish and chips and pasties. The more I saw of Devon, the more I wanted it for our new life.
Tiverton was the next location on our list. The school was also fantastic but couldn’t have been more different from the one we’d just seen: it was an old Victorian building in the centre of town with a high ceiling and a grand sweeping staircase.
The experience couldn’t have been further from what we’d just had either. We were shown into a reception area and asked to take a seat on miniature plastic stools that looked like they were meant for the children’s classroom. How could I keep a straight face watching Darren contort his legs like a pretzel? I burst out laughing.
Suddenly, the door flew open and a man wearing a snorkel, flippers and a wetsuit charged in.
‘Hello!’ he announced. It was the headmaster.
He proceeded to join us on one of the tiny chairs and chatted away merrily. Darren and I glanced at each other sideways, thinking, What the hell?
It transpired that the school was having a charity day and the head had to wear the baking-hot wetsuit all day long. What a great school, this is so much fun, I thought.
He led us in his flippers to the CAIRB and, again, it was completely different to the one we had just seen. This one was quiet and quite stark. Luckily – amazingly – there was no waiting list. I’d pretty much decided that this was the school we’d go for, even as we raced across Devon to Ivybridge to make it to our next appointment on time.
Manor Primary was located in a street that had sentimental significance for me – my grandmother, who shared the same birthday as Sam, had lived on a street called Manor Way – so even though I thought Tiverton was the one, I had a warm feeling as Darren and I walked up to the school and entered it. The head of the CAIRB, Lynda Russell, met us this time. She looked exactly like her picture on the school website – in her fifties with blonde, shoulder-length hair.
Suddenly, I had a flashback to me sitting in my office in Spain, feeling desperate and at my wits’ end as I tentatively investigated UK schools while I waited for my divorce judgement to come through. There was one particular email correspondence I’d had with Lynda that now came to mind. I’d opened my heart up about how much I needed to help Sam and wanted to visit her school. Her reply had conjured up a heavenly image: ‘Spring is such a lovely time to come to Devon, the hedgerows are full of primroses.’
This woman, who had shown me a beacon of hope at a very dark moment in my life, was now holding out her hand for me to shake and I unexpectedly felt almost overwhelmed with gratitude.
Lynda took us down to the CAIRB. The room was bursting with colour. It was really busy, with stuff everywhere – paint pots, crayons, building blocks, even a sandpit. It was chaotic but had a joyful, happy feel to it that almost bounced off the walls. There were no children around because we’d arrived just after school had finished for the day, but I could just imagine how much they must love it.
Lynda told me that they had space for Sam at Manor Primary, but that it would be the decision of the County Council as to whether he would get a place at the CAIRB. Manor Primary also had a preschool next door, so Will, who had just turned four, would be able to start there. It seemed almost too good to be true.
There was a pub in the village, called The Old Smithy, which Darren and I decided to pop into for some much-needed food before we headed to our final appointment in Tavistock. The bittersweet smell of ale and cider, engrained in the wooden floors and on the tables from a hundred spillages, hit my nostrils as soon as we went inside. It was that wonderful, cosy smell that only country pubs have. A Golden Labrador, just like the one a great-aunt of mine had owned, came over and sat next to us. He rested his big soppy head on Darren’s knee.
I nipped to the loo while we waited for our food to arrive and there, covering the walls, was the exact same blue-and-white flowery wallpaper that my sister had had in her bedroom in our childhood home in Essex.
I’m not the least bit superstitious but it seemed to me to be a sign – and one of many pointing to Ivybridge. The name of the street, the Labrador, the wallpaper, Lynda Russell’s kind email . . .
I decided to follow my heart.
Darren looked at me strangely as I emerged from the loo. I’m not sure what expression was on my face, but I smiled at him shyly as I said, ‘Don’t you think we should absolutely go with Manor Primary . . . ?’
‘We’ve still got Tavistock to go yet,’ he reminded me, glancing at his watch.
But I knew I didn’t need to see any more schools: something was telling me this was the one. As Darren and I talked it over, I found he completely agreed.
And so I held up my glass and toasted Darren. Finally, we were on the way to getting Sam the help he needed. It felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. Now, our future could begin.