“James, we’ve waited five years. Five. Doctors say theres no chance of children for us. And suddenly
James, look! I stopped at the garden gate, absolutely frozen, not able to trust my own eyes.
James lumbered up the path, bent under the weight of a bucket filled with fish. It was one of those chilling July mornings that gets right into your bones, but what I saw on the wooden bench made me forget the cold completely.
Whats going on? James put down the bucket and came over.
On our old bench beside the fence was a wicker basket. Inside, wrapped in a faded baby blanket, was a tiny child.
His big brown eyes stared straight at meno fear, not even curiosity, just watched.
Good grief, James breathed out, where did he come from?
I gently brushed my fingers through his dark hair. He didnt wriggle or cryjust blinked.
In his little fist was a crumpled note. Carefully, I eased it open and read:
Please help him. I cant. Im sorry.
We should call the police, James frowned and scratched his head, and let the council know.
But Id already scooped the child into my arms, holding him close. He smelled of long roads and unwashed hair, but his little dungarees were wornstill clean.
Hannah, James looked at me, worry all over his face, we cant just keep him.
We can, I said, locking eyes with him. James, weve waited five years. Five. Doctors say we wont have children. Andhes here.
But the paperwork, lawshis parents could come back for him, he argued.
I shook my head. They wont. I just know.
Suddenly, the boy gave me a huge smile, as if he understood every word we were saying. That was it. With a bit of help from friends, we sorted the formalities and became his guardians. 1993 wasnt an easy year for any of this.
A week passed before we noticed. He didnt respond to soundsnot the kettle shrieking, nor Jamess hammering. Thought he was just deeply thoughtful at first.
Then, our neighbours tractor rumbled past outside the windowand he didnt even flinch. My heart sank.
James, he cant hear, I whispered while tucking him into the old cradle my nephew outgrew.
James stared at the fire for a very long time, then sighed. Well take him to see Dr. Henry in the next town.
The doctor examined him, frowned, and shook his head. It’s congenital, complete deafness. Surgery isn’t an optionI’m sorry.
I cried all the way home. James didnt speak, his grip on the wheel so tight his knuckles went white. That night, after the boy was tucked up asleep, James found the whisky bottle in the cupboard.
James, please
No, he drank half a glass in one go. Were not giving him up.
Who?
Him. Were not sending him away, he said firmly. Well figure it out ourselves.
But how? How do we teach himhow does he
James cut me off. Youll learn if you have to, Hannah. Youre a teacher. You can think of something.
I didnt sleep that night. Just lay there, staring up, thinking, How do you teach a child who cant hear? How do you give him everything he needs?
By dawn, something clicked. He had eyes, hands, a heart. Thats all anyone really needs.
The next day, I grabbed a notebook and started planning. Finding books, inventing ways to teach without sound. From then on, life wasnt quite the same.
By autumn, he was ten. Sat by the window, painting sunflowers in his sketchbook. Not just flowershis sunflowers seemed to dance and swirl in their own special way.
James, have a look, I said, nudging my husband.
All that yellow again. Hes in a good mood today.
Over the years, we learned to understand each other. I taught myself finger-spelling and then British Sign Language. James took longer but learned the essentialsson, love, proudearly on.
There were no local schools for deaf children, so I taught him everything myself. He learned to read quickly: alphabet, syllables, words. He picked up maths even faster.
But what he loved most was drawinganywhere he could get away with it. Started with his finger on foggy glass.
Then on the chalkboard James built for him from leftover planks. Laterpainting with watercolours on paper and canvas.
I ordered art supplies from London through the post, scrimped on myself just so our boy could have the best brushes.
Your silent lad scribbling again? grumbled our neighbour Sam, peering over the fence. Whats the use?
James barely looked up from his vegetable patch. And what do you do thats so useful, Sam? Besides gossiping?
It wasnt easy with the village folk. They didnt get it. They teased him, called names. The kids could be the worst.
Once, he came home with a ripped shirt and a scratch on his cheek. In silence, he showed meCharlie, the headmans son, did it.
I sat in the kitchen, tears rolling, cleaning his cut. He wiped my tears away and smiled, like: Dont bother worrying, Im fine.
That evening, James left the house. Came back very late, said nothingexcept he had a bruise under his eye. Nobody bothered our lad again after that.
By the time he was a teenager, his paintings developed a completely distinct styleunusual, almost from another world.
He depicted his silent world with such depth it took your breath away. All our walls were covered with his canvases.
One day, an inspector from the county came to check my homeschooling. Stern old lady froze as soon as she saw the paintings.
Who did these? she whispered.
My son, I said, heart bursting with pride.
You must show these to an expert, she took off her glasses. That boy of yourshes got something truly special.
But we were nervous. The world outside the village felt huge and daunting for him. How would he manage without us, without the signs and gestures he depends on?
Well go, I insisted, packing up his things. Theres an art fair in townpeople need to see your work.
He was seventeen by then. Tall, lean, those long fingers, always with a gaze that missed nothing. He noddedhe knew arguing with me was pointless.
At the fair, his paintings were hung right at the far endfive small canvases: fields, birds, hands holding the sun. People walked past, glanced, but didnt stop.
Then she turned upa silver-haired lady with sharp eyes and perfect posture. Stood for ages, not moving, before turning suddenly to me:
Are these yours?
My sons, I said, pointing to him standing, arms folded.
Hes deaf, isnt he? she noticed us signing.
Yes, since birth.
She nodded. Im Catherine Wallace, curator from Londons gallery. This painting she paused over a tiny sunset, theres something here most artists chase for years. Id like to buy it.
He froze, waiting for me to translate her words in my clumsy sign language. His hands trembled, eyes wary.
Youre really not considering selling? Her voice had the conviction of someone who knows arts worth.
We neverwell, honestly, we never even thought of it. Its his soul on canvas.
She pulled out a leather purse and counted outwithout hagglinga sum thatd take James half a years work in his workshop.
A week later, she returned for another piecethe one with hands holding the morning sun.
Come the middle of autumn, the postman delivered a letter.
In your sons art there is rare honesty. An understanding of depth without words. Collectors are searching for that now.
London itself was intimidatinggrey streets, cool glances. The gallery was a tiny room in an old building on the edge of town. Still, people came every day, eyes full of focus.
They stood before his paintings, discussed them, debated colours and composition. He lingered by the doorway, watching their lips move, their gestures.
No words reached him, but the faces spoke volumessomething powerful was happening.
After that came grants, mentorships, magazines featuring his work. Soon, he was called The Silent Artist. His paintingssilent cries of the soulspoke to absolutely everyone who saw them.
Three years went by. James couldnt hide his tears at our sons first solo exhibition. I held it together, but inside, I was all nerves.
Our boygrown up, out there on his own. But then he came back. One sunny afternoon, he showed up with a massive bouquet of wildflowers. He hugged us both, took our hands, and led us through the villagepast all those nosy neighboursout to a distant field.
There stood a house. New, white, with a huge balcony and big windows. The village had long guessed about the wealthy man building out here, but no one knew him.
What on earth I whispered, dazed.
Smiling, he held out a set of keys. Insidespacious rooms, a studio, bookshelves, brand-new furniture.
Son, James was gobsmacked, looking around, this isyour house?
He shook his head and signed: Ours. Yours and mine.
Then he led us into the garden, where on the outside wall was a giant painting: a basket by the gate, a woman with a glowing face holding a child, and above them, in signed writing: Thank you, Mum. I stood there, just crying, unable to move.
James, usually so reserved, stepped forward and hugged him so tightly he nearly lifted the lad off his feet.
He squeezed back, then reached for my hand. So, there we were, three of us, in the field by our new home.
Today, his paintings hang in the best galleries around the world. Hes opened a school for deaf children in the county and funds support programmes.
The village is proudthey call him their own, the boy who hears with his heart. And we live in that same white house. Every morning, I stand on the porch with my cup of tea and look at that painting on the wall.
Sometimes I wonderwhat if we hadnt gone out that July morning? What if Id missed him? What if fear had held me back?
Now he lives in the city, in a large flat, but every weekend he comes home. Gives me a hugand all that doubt disappears.
Hell never hear my voice. But he knows every word.
Hell never hear music, but he creates his ownwith colours and lines. Looking at his joyful smile, I realisesometimes the most important moments in life happen in absolute silence.
