‘It has been shown beyond any doubt’ – and please, the eyes seemed to say, do not take issue here – ‘that we use but a fraction of this limitless intellectual, emotional, intuitive resource. Only recently a case has come to light of a young man who did outstandingly well in a university degree course, and was discovered to have virtually no brain at all, merely a wafer-thin band of neocortex lining the skull. It is clear we get by on very little, and the consequence of this under-use is that we are divided, deeply divided from ourselves, from nature and its myriad processes, from our universe. Members of the committee, we have undernourished our capacity for empathic and magical participation in creation, we are both alienated and stunted by abstraction, removed from the profound and immediate apprehension, which is the hallmark of a whole person, of the dancing interpenetration of the physical and the psychic, their ultimate inseparability.’
The man who resembled an ape paused and surveyed his listeners with bright eyes. He fondled his earlobe. ‘If these are the punitive consequences, what then is the cause, what prevents the growing mind from achieving wholeness? As we have seen, the brain as a physical organ has its own quite definable pattern of development. In just the way that molar teeth and secondary sexual characteristics make their appearances at roughly the same times in the lives of individuals, so the brain has its spurts of growth, and there can be no doubt that these in turn are associated with quite definable surges in mental development and capability. By forcing literacy on to children between the ages of five and seven, we introduce a degree of abstraction which shatters the unity of the child’s world view, drives a fatal wedge between the word and the thing that the word names. For as we have seen, the human brain at that age has simply not developed the higher logical abilities to deal easily and happily with the self-enclosed system of written language. Literacy should not be introduced to a child until it has made of its own accord, in line with the genetic programming of the brain’s growth, the vital separation of the self from the world. It is for this reason, Mr Chairman, I urge that children should not begin to learn to read until they are eleven or twelve, when their brains and minds undergo the important surge of growth which makes this separation possible.’
Stephen straightened his back, an ancient mammalian ploy perhaps to make himself larger. He was expected to justify himself as a writer of children’s books, a shatterer of tiny worlds.
The speaker had clasped his hands again, the knuckles showed white. ‘Dance and movement of all kinds,’ he said, ‘the sensual exploration of the world, music – for, surprisingly enough, musical symbols are not abstractions so much as precise instructions for physical movements – painting, discovering through manipulation how things work, mathematics, which is more logical than abstract, and all forms of intelligent play – these are the appropriate, essential activities of the younger child, enabling its mind to remain in harmony with, to flow with, the forces of creation. To inflict literacy at this stage, to dissolve the enchanted identification of word and thing and, through that, self and world, is to bring about a premature self-consciousness, a harsh isolation which we like to explain away to ourselves as individuality.
‘It is in effect, Mr Chairman, nothing less than a banishment from the Garden, for its effects are lifelong. Premature literacy makes for adults in whom an unforced, intelligent empathy with the natural world, with their fellow beings, with social processes, is stunted; adults for whom the apprehension of the unity of creation will remain a difficult, elusive concept, understood dimly, if at all, through the study of mystical texts. Whereas,’ and here the stranger dropped his voice and settled his gaze again on Stephen, ‘whereas this apprehension is a gift to us in childhood. We must not wrench it from our children with our anxious, competitive education, with our busy, intrusive books.’
Towards the end of these remarks there were smiles around the table. The committee was enjoying the presence of what it had decided was a crank. Canham, who was responsible for vetting the credentials of those who made representations, was looking uncomfortable as he scribbled on a pad. One of the academics, not Morley, was wiping his nose with a tissue to conceal laughter. Colonel Jack Tackle had folded his arms across his chest and bowed his head. He was vibrating slightly. These furtive signs aroused Stephen’s sympathy for the speaker. Now that he had delivered his talk, he seemed to regret his refusal of a chair. He stood awkwardly at the head of the table, arms dangling, waiting to be questioned or dismissed. He was not to know that the government did not intend a magical citizenry. His eyes had lost their challenge and he was staring at a point several feet above the chairman’s head. Stephen wanted to shake the man’s hand. In the spirit of contrariness, he wanted to lend support. But he had his own corner to fight now. Lord Parmenter had inquisitively gargled his surname.
‘Only cynics,’ Stephen said, glaring round the room, ‘would dispute the desirability of being whole in the way it has been described, or of realising whatever potential we have. The issue is surely the means.’
He paused, hoping for another thought, then began again, unsure of what it was he was going to say. ‘I’m not a philosopher, but it seems to me … that there are some problems to be considered.’
He stopped again, and then proceeded quickly through a sigh of relief. ‘You could describe writing in much the same way as you’re just described musical symbols – in this case a set of instructions on what to do with lips, tongue, throat and voice. It’s only later that children learn to read quietly to themselves. But I’m not sure that either description, of musical notation or writing, is correct. Both activities seem highly abstract, and perhaps abstraction of a certain kind is precisely what we’re good at from our earliest days. The problems come when we try to reflect on the process and define it. Atune has a kind of meaning. It’s hard to say what it is, but a child has no difficulty understanding it. Reading and writing are abstract activities, but only to the extent that language speaking is. The two-year-old who is beginning to speak whole sentences is making use of a fabulously complex set of grammatical rules.
‘I remember Kate, my daughter … but no … the written word can be the very means by which the self and the world connect, which is why the very best writing for children has about it the quality of invisibility, of taking you right through to the things it names, and through metaphors and imagery can evoke feelings, smells, impressions for which there are no words at all.Anine-year-old can experience this intensely. The written word is no less a part of what it names than the spoken word – think of the spells written round the rim of the necromancer’s bowl, the prayers chiselled on the tombs of the dead, the impulse some people have to write obscenities in public places, and that others have to ban books which contain obscenities, of always spelling God with a capital G, of the special importance of a written signature. Why keep children from all this?’
Stephen held the standing man’s eyes in his. Lord Parmenter had closed his eyes again. Canham was on his feet talking in a murmur through the open door to someone in the corridor.
‘The written word is a part of the world into which you wish to dissolve the childlike self. Even though it describes the world, it’s not something separate from it. Think of the delight with which a five-year-old picks out street signs, or the total surrender of a ten-year-old to an adventure novel. It’s not words he sees, or punctuation or rules of grammar, it’s the boat, the island, the suspicious figure behind the palm tree.’
He blinked to repulse an image of his daughter, older than he had ever known her, sitting up in bed engrossed in a novel. She turned a page, frowned, turned back. It could have been a book he had written for her. He formed a resolution, then it faded and he continued.
‘The literate child reads and hears a voice in her head. It’s immediate, intimate, it nourishes her fantasy life, it frees her from the whims and inclinations of grown-ups who might or might not have time to read to her.’ He was sitting on the edge of Kate’s bed reading to her. He was not sure w
hich of the two images he preferred. He was not even sure – in fact it might be a rather fine thing, to pass the first eleven years of life playing the accordion, dancing, taking old clocks apart, listening to stories. In the end, it probably made no difference either way, nor was there any way of telling. It was that old business of theorising, taking up a position, planting the flag of identity and self-esteem, then fighting all comers to the end. When there was no evidence to be had, it was all down to mental agility, perseverance.
And there was no richer field for speculation assertively dressed as fact than childcare. He had read the background material, the extracts compiled by Canham’s department. For three centuries, generations of experts, priests, moralists, social scientists, doctors – mostly men – had been pouring out instructions and ever-mutating facts for the benefit of mothers. No one doubted the absolute truth of his judgements, and each generation knew itself to stand on the pinnacle of common sense and scientific insight to which its predecessors had merely aspired.
He had read solemn pronouncements on the necessity of binding the newborn baby’s limbs to a board to prevent movement and self-inflicted damage; of the dangers of breastfeeding or, elsewhere, its physical necessity and moral superiority; how affection or stimulation corrupts a young child; the importance of purges and enemas, severe physical punishment, cold baths and, earlier in this century, of constant fresh air, however inconvenient; the desirability of scientifically controlled intervals between feeds, and, conversely, of feeding the baby whenever it is hungry; the perils of picking a baby up whenever it cries – that makes it feel dangerously powerful – and of not picking it up when it cries – dangerously impotent; the importance of regular bowel movements, of potty training a child by three months, of constant mothering all day and night, all year, and, elsewhere, the necessity of wet-nurses, nursery maids, twenty-four-hour state nurseries; the grave consequences of mouth-breathing, nose-picking, thumb-sucking and maternal deprivation, of not having your child expertly delivered under bright lights, of lacking the courage to have it at home in the bath, of failing to have it circumcised or its tonsils removed; and, later, the contemptuous destruction of all these fashions; how children should be allowed to do whatever they want so that their divine natures can blossom, and how it is never too soon to break a child’s will; the dementia and blindness caused by masturbation, and the pleasure and comfort it affords the growing child; how sex can be taught by reference to tadpoles, storks, flower fairies and acorns, or not mentioned at all, or only with lurid, painstaking frankness; the trauma imparted to the child who sees its parents naked, the chronic disturbance nourished by strange suspicions if it only ever sees them clothed; how to give your nine-month-old baby a head-start by teaching it maths.
Here was Stephen now, a foot soldier in this army of experts, asserting, as energetically as he knew how, that the proper time for children to become literate was between the ages of five and seven. Why did he believe this? Because it had long been standard practice, and because his livelihood depended on ten-year-olds reading books. He was arguing like a politician, a Government Minister, passionately, seemingly innocent of self-interest. The stranger was listening, head politely cocked, the tips of the fingers of his right hand brushing the table’s surface.
‘The young child who can read,’ Stephen said, ‘has power, and through that acquires confidence.’
While he was talking on in this manner, and while a complicating voice was telling him that his agnosticism was only another aspect of his own parched emotional state, Canham hurried across and whispered into the ear of the chairman. At the gargling sound, Stephen broke off mid-sentence and turned to see Lord Parmenter raise a weary finger. ‘The Prime Minister will be passing down the corridor in less than a minute and wants to step in and meet the committee. Any objections?’
Canham shifted from one foot to the other while keeping his left hand on his tie knot. He made a few steps into the room as if to re-arrange the furniture, then changed his mind and returned to the door. Finally there was a stir of muffled ‘no’s around the table. Of course there were no objections. Committee members were making small adjustments to dress, tucking in shirts, patting hair, fiddling with make-up. Colonel Tackle was putting his tweed jacket back on.
Two men in blue blazers shouldered into the room, scanning faces with a neutral glare as they made their way to the windows. Here they took up positions with their backs to the room, scowling out at a couple of lounging off-duty chauffeurs who turned away unconcernedly and went on smoking. Thirty seconds passed before three tired men in rumpled suits came in and nodded at the committee. Immediately after them came the Prime Minister, and behind, more aides, some of whom could not find enough space and remained in the doorway. There was a stir round the table to rise which Lord Parmenter quelled with a movement of his hand. Canham was silently, earnestly offering a chair, but he was ignored. The Prime Minister preferred to stand, and took up a position just to one side of the chairman, deftly usurping him.
Directly opposite, at the far end of the table, stood the man who resembled an ape, whose gaze expressed friendly curiosity. His disposition represented to Canham a violation of protocol. He was waving and mouthing at the stranger to stand aside or sit down, but again he was ignored, and now Lord Parmenter was beginning the introductions.
Stephen had heard that there was a convention in the higher reaches of the Civil Service never to reveal, by the use of personal pronouns or other means, any opinion as to the gender of the Prime Minister. The convention undoubtedly had its origins in insult, but over many years it had passed into a mark of respect, as well as being a test of verbal dexterity and a display of good taste. It was his impression now that Lord Parmenter was following form in his impeccable welcoming remarks in which he paid tribute to the fact that the current examination of childcare practices by numerous expert committees was due entirely to the personal interest taken in these matters by their distinguished visitor to whom generations of parents and children were certain to be grateful.
He then introduced the members in turn, never faltering for a moment in his recall of Christian and surnames, titles or background. At each name the Prime Minister inclined minimally. Stephen was the last to be introduced and had time to notice how Rachael Murray blushed when her name was spoken. Colonel Jack Tackle snapped to attention in his seat. Stephen discovered that the stranger’s name was Professor Brody from the Institute of Development, and that one member, Mrs Hermione Sleep, had been introduced before but was not remembered. The fan of tendons round the neck of Emma Carew, a cheerful, anorexic headmistress, tightened like umbrella struts when her name was remembered and spoken aloud.
Every member of the committee, however worldly-wise, was a little awed. For years, Stephen had dealt only scathing or derisive words, imputed only the most cynical intentions, and had declared on a number of occasions feelings of pure hatred. But the figure standing before him now, unlit by studio lights, unframed by a television set, was neither institution nor legend, and bore little resemblance to the caricatures of political cartoonists. Even the nose was much like any other. This was a neat, stooped, sixty-five-year-old with a collapsing face and filmy stare, a courteous rather than an authoritative presence, disconcertingly vulnerable. Stephen wanted to disguise himself. His impulse was to be civil, to be liked, to protect the Prime Minister from his critical opinions. This was the nation’s parent, after all, a repository of collective fantasy. And so when the time came for Parmenter to announce his name, he found himself bobbing and even smiling eagerly, like an attendant lord in a Shakespeare play. Because he was last to be introduced he was honoured with a question.
‘Are you the writer of children’s books?’
Speechless, he nodded.
‘The Foreign Secretary’s grandchildren are avid readers.’
He said thank you before he had time to appreciate that no compliment had been paid. The Prime Minister addressed a few expressionless remarks to the commi
ttee, reminding it of the importance of the undertaking and to keep up the good work.
The men in blue blazers were stepping back from the windows, and the aides and two of the men in creased suits were moving towards the door which was held wide open. The committee heard coughing and shuffling in the corridors from those who had been waiting outside. The third man was edging his way round the chairs with a message for Stephen. The envoy’s breath smelled of chocolate. ‘The Prime Minister would like a word with you in the corridor, if you wouldn’t mind.’
Watched by his colleagues, Stephen followed the man out. Most of the retinue were moving away in the direction of the stairs at the far end of the corridor. Those remaining stood in a huddle several feet away, waiting. A senior-looking civil servant who was offering a document for signature received a set of instructions. He made a humming noise at each one. Finally the document was signed and he withdrew. The chocolate eater pushed Stephen forwards. There was no handshake or introductory remark.
‘I understand you are a close personal friend of Charles Darke’s.’
Stephen said, ‘That’s right.’ Because his words sounded too direct, he added, ‘I’ve known him since he was in publishing.’
They had turned and were moving along the corridor at a ruminative pace. The tread of the two bodyguards was close behind.