THERE WAS NO AUTISM IN MY DAY, OR WAS THERE?

The year was 1998 and the translated works of a despicable Austrian physician had long since been translated by Dr. Lorna Wing, and Margaret Jones, the 40-year-old daughter of Ernest Wallcott, had her son diagnosed with autism. “He just needs a good smack!” groaned Ernest. “He does NOT!” retorted Margaret, “and if you ever even thought about doing so, you wouldn’t be allowed near him!”

“What do you mean? I’m his grandfather!”

“The doctor asked if there was any autism in the family.”

“Well, of course, there wasn’t!”

Margaret recalled the one time when she had gone to visit her Uncle Bert, who was six years younger than her father. Her father had been born in 1919 and her Uncle Bert in 1925. Unlike her father, Uncle Bert had neither married nor had children, but both had served in the Second World War. Margaret’s father reacted with disgust when her son began to like some Japanese cartoons, as he had fought in New Guinea. Uncle Bert didn’t see so much active service, and to Margaret’s father’s disgust, had actually volunteered to be part of BCOF, and spent three years in Japan.

Margaret had stayed with Uncle Bert for a week and recalled his routine. He woke at 7 o’clock each morning and had a bowl of corn flakes with milk and two slices of toast spread with marmalade jam. He was a farmer, and at 10:30, he stopped for a cup of tea. At lunchtime, he had two sandwiches: one with roast beef and tomato sauce and one with peanut butter, honey and a banana inside it. For tea, he had meat and vegetables. He always ate the same food.

In one room of his house, he had a display cabinet which contained a metal tin that had stamps that he’d saved from the letters that his friends in Japan had sent him. He would let you look at them but not touch them. In one picture frame, he had a Japanese summer kimono, a yukata, that had been given to him. He liked everything just so.

Ernest could not abide him, always claiming that he was weird. When Margaret told the doctor about Uncle Bert, she was quiet for a moment and then said, “Well, it’s possible that the uncle that your father referred to with contempt was autistic.”