Martin, weve been waiting five years. Five. The doctors say well never have children. But now…
Martin, look! I stood frozen at the garden gate, unable to trust my eyes.
My husband awkwardly stepped over the threshold, hunched under the weight of a bucket brimming with fish. The July morning chill clung to my bones, but what I saw upon the old bench made me forget the cold entirely.
What is it? Martin set down the bucket and came over, brow furrowed.
There, on the worn bench by the fence, sat a wicker basket. Inside, wrapped in a faded muslin cloth, lay a baby.
His enormous hazel eyes gazed right at me without fear, without curiosity. Just gazed.
Good heavens, Martin breathed, where on earth did he come from?
I gently traced his dark hair with my fingertip. The little one didnt flinch or cry just blinked slowly.
Clenched in his tiny fist was a slip of paper. I softly unfolded his fingers and read the note:
“Please help him. I cant. Im sorry.”
We must ring the police, Martin grumbled, scratching his head. And notify the village council.
But I had already swept the boy up in my arms, holding him close. He smelled of dusty roads and untamed hair. His dungarees were frayed, yet clean.
Hannah, Martin looked at me anxiously, we cant just take him in.
We can, I met his gaze. Martin, five years weve waited. Five. The doctors have said its impossible. But now…
But the law, the paperwork… What if his parents show up? he protested.
I shook my head: They wont. I can feel it.
The boy suddenly smiled wide at me, as though he understood our silent debate. That settled it. Through some acquaintances, we sorted out guardianship and all the documents. 1993 was no easy year.
Within a week, odd things surfaced. The child I named him Edwin did not react to sounds. At first we thought him simply lost in thought.
Then the neighbours tractor thundered past the window, yet Edwin didnt so much as twitch. My heart contracted.
Martin, he cant hear, I whispered while tucking him in the old cradle, handed down from my nephew.
Martin stared at the fire in the hearth a long while, then sighed: Well take him to the surgery in Barrow. Dr. Nicholas will know.
The doctor examined Edwin and spread his hands: Congenital deafness. Complete. Dont expect an operation this is not fixable.
I wept all the way home. Martin was silent, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened. That evening, after Edwin was asleep, he fetched a bottle from the cupboard.
Martin, please dont…
No, he poured half a glass, necked it. Were not giving him up.
Giving up who?
Him. Never. Well manage on our own.
How? How do we teach him? What if…
Martin silenced me with a gesture:
If you must, youll learn. Youre a teacher. Youll figure something out.
That night, I did not sleep at all. I stared at the ceiling, recalling lessons, while my mind wrestled:
“How do I teach a child who does not hear? How do I give him everything he needs?”
As dawn crept in, I knew: he has eyes, hands, heart. That is all you need.
Next day, I sat down with a notebook and began mapping a plan. Look for books. Invent ways to teach without sound. From that moment, our world changed forever.
By autumn, Edwin turned ten. He sat at the window painting sunflowers. In his sketchbook, they werent merely flowers they whirled and danced in their own peculiar ballet.
Martin, come see, I said, nudging my husband as I entered the room.
Sunflowers again. Hes happy today.
Over the years, Edwin and I learned to understand each other. I mastered the finger alphabet, then British Sign Language.
Martin picked things up slower, but the essentials “son”, “love”, “proud” hed long since learned.
There was no school for deaf children in our patch of countryside, so I tutored him myself. Reading came quickly: letters, syllables, words. Counting, even faster.
But above all, he painted. On everything at hand.
First, his finger traced on misted glass.
Then, on a plank Martin cobbled together just for him. Later, paints on paper and canvas.
I ordered paints by post from the city, pinching pennies to ensure Edwin had fine materials.
Your silent ones scribbling again? scoffed our neighbour, Simon, peering over the fence. What goodll come of that?
Martin straightened up from the vegetable beds:
And what useful thing do you do, Simon? Other than waggle your tongue?
It was rough with the locals. They couldnt grasp our ways. They teased Edwin, gave him names. Worst of all their children.
One day Edwin returned home, shirt torn and cheek scratched. Mutely, he pointed to the offenders Colin, the mayors son.
I cried as I cleaned the wound. Edwin wiped my tears away, smiling to tell me not to fret, all was well.
That evening, Martin headed out. Came back late without a word, sporting a shiner under his eye. After that, no one dared trouble Edwin.
As a teen, Edwins pictures changed. He found an uncanny style as if birthed from another realm.
He painted a world devoid of sound, but in every image, was a depth that stole ones breath. Soon, every wall in our cottage was adorned with his art.
One day, a committee came from the council to check my teaching. A stern-faced elderly woman walked in, caught sight of the paintings, and froze.
Who painted these? she asked, voice hushed.
My son, I answered, brimming with pride.
You must show these to the experts, she lowered her glasses. Your boy… possesses true talent.
But we were cautious. The world beyond the village felt vast and frightening for Edwin. How could he manage away from us, from the signs and gestures he knew?
Well go, I insisted, packing his things. Its an artists fair in the county. You must show your paintings.
Edwin was seventeen now. Tall, lean, long-fingered, and always observing, as though absorbing everything. He nodded reluctantly; he never won these debates.
At the fair, his works were hung in the furthest corner. Five small canvases fields, birds, hands holding the sun. Passers-by glanced, but continued on.
Then she appeared an elderly woman, ramrod straight, hawk-eyed. She paused, unmoving before the paintings. Then turned sharply to me:
Are these yours?
My sons, I gestured to Edwin, who stood off to the side, arms folded.
Hes deaf? she noticed our signs.
Yes, since birth.
She nodded:
Im Vera Smith. From the London Gallery. This piece… she stopped before the smallest, a sunset over a field. Artists spend years seeking what is already here. I wish to buy it.
Edwin stared at me, and I translated her words with my clumsy gestures. His fingers trembled, suspicion glinting in his eyes.
Are you really refusing to sell? there was professional persistence in her tone.
Weve never… I stammered, my cheeks aflame. Its never occurred to us. Its just his soul on canvas.
She produced a leather purse and counted out pounds a sum Martin would earn with six months in his woodshop.
A week later she returned and bought another the painting with hands holding morning sun.
By mid-autumn, the postman brought a letter.
“In your son’s work is rare sincerity. A silent understanding of depth what true art lovers seek.”
London met us with grey streets and cool stares. The gallery was little more than a room in some old building round the back. But every day, people came with attentive eyes.
They studied the canvases, discussed composition and colour. Edwin lingered at the edge, watching lips move, observing gestures.
Though he heard no words, expressions spoke for themselves: something remarkable was happening.
Then came grants, fellowships, articles in the magazines. They called him “The Artist of Silence.” His pictures like wordless cries of the spirit found an echo in each viewers heart.
Three years passed. Martin burst into tears as he saw Edwin off to his first solo exhibition. I tried to keep composure, but inside shook like a leaf.
Our son, grown. Independent. But one sunny day, he reappeared on our doorstep clutching a handful of wildflowers. Embracing us both, he took us hand-in-hand through the village, past curious eyes, to the distant field.
There stood a house. New, white, big windows, real balcony. The village had whispered for months: who is this wealthy man building here? Yet no one knew the owner.
What is this? I whispered, disbelief in my voice.
Edwin smiled and produced a set of keys. The house revealed spacious rooms, a studio, bookcases, new furniture.
Son, Martin murmured, dazed is this… your house?
Edwin shook his head, signed: “Ours. Yours and mine.”
He led us to the garden, where on the wall shone a huge painting: a basket by the gate, a smiling woman holding a child, and a message in signs: “Thank you, Mum.” I froze, unable to move. Tears streamed down my face and I didnt wipe them away.
Martin, ever reserved, unexpectedly stepped forward and hugged his son so tight, the boy could hardly breathe.
Edwin hugged back, then reached for me. So we all stood together, a trio in the field beside our new home.
Now Edwins paintings grace the most celebrated galleries in the world. He has founded a school for deaf children in the city and supports vital programmes.
The village is proud Edwin is ours, the boy who hears with his heart. Martin and I live in that same house. Each morning I step out onto the porch with a cup of tea and gaze upon the painting.
Sometimes, I ponder what if, that July morning, I hadnt gone outside? If I hadnt seen him, or had let fear prevail?
Edwin lives in the city now, in a grand flat, but comes home every weekend. He hugs me and all doubts fade away.
Hell never hear my voice. But he knows every word.
Hell never hear music, but he weaves his own through paints and lines. And as I watch him smile in pure happiness, I know the most vital moments in life may unfold in perfect silence.
