Born on a Blue Day: Inside the Extraordinary Mind of an Autistic Savant (16 page)

At the end of the interview the woman rose from her chair, shook my hand and told me I would be informed of their decision soon. After arriving home my mother asked me how the interview had gone but I did not know what to say because I had no idea. Several weeks later I received a letter in the post telling me that I had passed the interview stage and was required to attend a week of training the following month at a retreat centre in the Midlands. I was excited to have passed the interview, but very anxious too because I had never travelled on a train on my own before. There was a sheet of paper with the letter that gave directions to the centre for those coming by train and I memorised them word for word to reassure myself. When the first morning of the week arrived, my parents helped me finish packing and my father travelled with me to the train station and stood with me in the queue for the ticket. He made sure I got on at the right platform and waved me goodbye as I boarded.

It was a hot summer’s day and inside the train felt airless and uncomfortable. I quickly sat in a window seat that had no one nearby and put my bag on the floor and squeezed it tight between my legs. The seat felt spongy and no matter how much I fidgeted I could not sit comfortably. I did not like being on the train. It was dirty, with plastic sweet wrappers on the floor and a crumpled newspaper on the empty seat in front of me. As the train moved it made a lot of noise, which made it hard for me to concentrate on other things, like counting the scratches in the windowpane next to me. Gradually the train filled with people as it travelled between stations, and I became more and more anxious as the stream of commuters sitting and standing around me grew in numbers. The cacophony of different noises – magazine pages being flicked and Walkmans playing loud, thudding music and people coughing and sneezing and talking noisily – made me feel unwell and I pressed my fingers into my ears when it felt as though my head was about to shatter into a thousand pieces.

It was not a moment too soon when the train eventually reached my destination and the sense of relief I felt was palpable. But with my poor sense of direction I worried that I would end up getting terribly lost. Luckily I spotted a waiting taxi, climbed inside and gave the address to the driver. The short ride brought me to a large red and white building, dotted with windows and surrounded by trees, with a sign that read ‘Harborne Hall – Conference and Training Centre’. Inside, an information leaflet told visitors that the hall dated from the eighteenth century and was a former convent. The reception was gloomy with brown wooden pillars reaching up to the ceiling, dark brown leather chairs and a wooden bannister staircase opposite the desk. I was given a name badge to wear at all times while at the centre, as well as a key and the number of my room and a schedule for the week’s events.

Upstairs, my room was lighter and felt a lot fresher. There was a small sink in the corner, but toilets and showers were situated down the hall. The thought of having to use shared facilities to wash myself (I showered daily at home) was an unpleasant one for me, and I woke very early each morning during the week to be certain that I was in and out of the bathroom before anyone else was up.

On the first day at the centre I was told that I had been assigned an English-teaching placement in Lithuania. I had only previously heard of the name and that of its capital city – Vilnius – and was given books and leaflets to learn more about the country and its people. There was then a group introduction with a dozen other young people who were going to various volunteer placements across Eastern Europe. We sat in a circle and each of us had a minute to introduce ourselves. I was very nervous and tried not to forget to make eye contact with members of the group as I gave my name and that of the country I was going to. Of the other volunteers that I met, one was an Irishman with long, curly hair who was being posted to Russia. Another, a young woman, had received a placement working with children in Hungary.

There were long periods of unoccupied time that the other volunteers spent socialising in the games room, chatting and playing pool. I preferred to stay in my room and read, or visit the hall’s information room, filled with books and charts, and study in quiet. During meal breaks, I would rush down to get my food first and eat it as quickly as I could to avoid having lots of people around me. At the close of each day, I sat alone out on the grass in the secluded grounds outside the hall and stared up at the trees standing tall against the warm, fading colours of the evening sky, absorbed in my thoughts and feelings. There was anxiety, of course, about the trip and whether or not the placement would be successful. But there was something else as well: excitement that I was finally taking charge of my life and my destiny. Such a thought took my breath away.

The training consisted of three parts. The first was designed to encourage teamwork, participation and cooperation. The volunteers were divided into small groups and asked to devise a system between them for removing coloured plastic balls in particular sequences from a filled box given to each team. When I was given simple and clear instructions by my fellow team members I performed well and was happy enough to play my part for the purpose of the exercise. Exercises such as these could sometimes last for several hours, so the biggest challenge for me was to stay focused and maintain my levels of concentration throughout.

There was also a group discussion about cultural values and practices, which was meant to stimulate debate among the volunteers, challenge preconceptions and promote tolerance. At one point, after watching a video together about the exotic types of food eaten in different parts of the world, the discussion leader asked the group how we might feel about a country where people ate a lot of their food smeared in animal fat. Many of the volunteers in the room creased up their faces and said that it sounded disgusting. Realising that he was probably referring to butter (which he was), I replied that I did not mind at all that people ate it.

Towards the end of the week there was a lecture on the countries of Eastern Europe and their geography and social and political situations. The lecture lasted an hour and everyone was expected to take notes. I sat and listened but did not write anything down. At one point the lecturer asked me why I was not making notes and I answered that I could remember everything that he had said and was making the notes mentally, in my head. I had always made notes in this way; it had helped me a lot during my school exams. He asked me several questions in order to test me and I got each one right.

Back at home after the training, I waited to receive final confirmation of the placement in Lithuania. It came by post: a large package of printed notes with maps, names and contact numbers, accommodation and work details and plane ticket. My parents were very nervous for me and worried whether I would be able to cope being away from home for so long, but I was just excited to be taking what I considered to be a big step forward in my life. I could hardly believe it but, at nearly twenty, I was finally moving out, eight hundred miles away.

The republic of Lithuania is one of the three Baltic States, sharing borders with Latvia to the north, Belarus to the southeast, Poland to the south and the Kaliningrad Oblast of Russia to the south-west. In 1940, during the Second World War, Lithuania was annexed by the Soviet Union. It later came under German occupation and fell again to the Soviet Union in 1945. Lithuania was the first Soviet republic to declare its independence, on Sunday 11 March 1990. Soviet forces tried to suppress the accession – notably during an incident at the capital’s TV Tower, which resulted in the deaths of several civilians – but were unsuccessful. In 2004, Lithuania became a full member of NATO and the European Union.

In the taxi to the airport I watched the other cars driving past and counted them. My head was pounding and I felt sick. I could not believe that I would not see my family again until the following year. Before I left, I promised my mother I would phone home every week with a progress report and would make sure I was eating enough. At check-in, it was surprisingly quiet – it was October and the summer holidays were long over – and I had little trouble checking my luggage in and going through security to the departures area. After a long wait, when I walked up and down over and over again and made very regular checks of the departures screen, my flight was finally announced and I ran to the gate and boarded the plane. It was half empty and I felt huge relief at having no one sitting next to me. I sunk into my seat and read the notes I had been sent about the centre I was being posted to, practising under my breath the pronunciation of the different names of people and places. I was undisturbed by the attendants during the flight and as the plane came in to land at Vilnius International Airport I checked that I had my camera with me; it was nearing winter and I was looking forward to taking lots of photos of the snow.

At immigration, there were short queues and policemen dressed from head to toe in black, observing the people as they came past. My passport was checked and then stamped in red with the words
Lietuvos Respublika
(Republic of Lithuania) and I was waved through. After collecting my bags, I was met by the volunteers’ coordinator for the Baltic States and driven to my apartment in Kaunas, Lithuania’s second largest city, which is located in the centre of the country.

The apartment block was made of concrete and metal, with a vegetable garden at the front tended by its elderly occupants who were all in their seventies and eighties. It was a quiet area, away from main roads and traffic. I was introduced to the landlord, a silver-haired man named Jonas, who explained in broken English the rules of the block and how to do such basic things as turn the heating on and off. He gave me his telephone number to ring in case of an emergency. The coordinator confirmed the address of the centre where I was to perform my volunteer work and gave me written directions to reach there by trolley bus. It was a Friday, so I would have the weekend to settle in before starting my first day at work.

Inside, my apartment was surprisingly spacious and consisted of a kitchen, living room, bathroom and bedroom. The interior was decorated in heavy, dark fabrics and was often gloomy on overcast days. The kitchen had an old oven, cupboards and a refrigerator. There were white tiles, some of them chipped, running up the sides of the walls. In the living room there was a large wall-unit with photos and ornaments belonging to Jonas’s family. There was also a small table, sofa and television. The bathroom came with a shower and a washing machine, a luxury at the time in Lithuania. My bedroom was a good size, with a large wardrobe, table and chair, bed and telephone. This was to be my home for the next nine months.

I was too nervous to leave the apartment and explore the area outside during that first weekend in Kaunas. Instead, I busied myself by unpacking and working out how to use the various items around my new home. I watched some television and soon realised that many of the programmes were American imports with Lithuanian subtitles. Jonas had left essentials, like milk and bread and cereal, in the kitchen for me. I hadn’t ever had to cook for myself before and made do at first with eating lots of sandwiches and bowls of cornflakes. I would soon have to summon up all my courage to make my first journey to the centre.

On Monday morning I woke early, showered and dressed in a thick coat and scarf. It was already very cold, even though winter had not yet arrived. A short walk from the apartment brought me to the main road. I had been told in the instructions given to me by the coordinator that trolley bus tickets could be purchased at any of the many newspaper stands that were dotted along Lithuania’s larger streets. Having memorised the contents of the Lithuanian phrasebook that had been included in my volunteer kit, I asked for
vien
troleibus
biliet
(one trolley bus ticket) and was given a small, rectangular ticket in exchange for a few
litas
(the Lithuanian currency). The bus crawled up the long, steep road, stopping almost every minute to let more and more people aboard. There were men in caps and heavy fur coats, young women with children under each arm and small, elderly women with scarf-covered heads and myriad plastic bags by their feet. With few seats and little standing space, the bus quickly became crammed full and I started to feel sick and dizzy, gasping for air as though I was drowning in a sea of people. As the bus inched to the next stop I stood up suddenly from my seat, almost knocking over a man standing next to it, and with my head down I pushed and squeezed my way out into the fresh, open air. I was sweating and trembling and it took several minutes for me to feel calm again.