Daily bread

One of my happiest childhood memories is of collecting the bread, with my sister on holiday in Portugal. It was an annual ritual, crossing the hot stony tarmac that separated our apartment from the little convenience shop opposite; tonging the little crusty rolls one by one into polythene bags; smiling, uncomprehendingly at the young shop lady who seemed to age far slower than we did,  year on year as we went from children to young adults, who would take our money and always make some remark about how blonde I was, bleached white in the sun. I could have lived on those rolls, soft with tough crusts smothered in cool unsalted butter, and frequently did for the two weeks we spent most summers at my mother’s timeshare in the Algarve. I went there last as a young first time mother, too exhausted to move much, missing the fact that I could no longer hop down the stairs and cross the road to pick up the bread like I once had so carelessly as a child.

So as I pressed Jonah to accompany Ava to get the bread from the bread lady who parks her little van outside the whitewashed Corsican block in which we’re staying, this is all I had on my mind – the beginning of a ritual, the chance for them both to practice basic French and the promise of a croissant as a reward for their troubles. I had forgotten, in the midst of my daydreaming, that Jonah is Aspergers, and the thought of conversing with strangers, particularly with the additional challenge of a language barrier, represents something of an surmountable task. Ava promised to do the talking, and at first they skipped down merrily enough, still in their pajamas where they had been playing a cat game on their iPad. But the bread lady wasn’t there, and Jonah returned mortified, glowering.

A queue had built up where the bread lady hadn’t yet arrived, and the overwhelming self consciousness of being eight in front of other children had consumed Jonah. Within five minutes, she had arrived but this time, Jonah wasn’t to be moved. I got a bit cross, reminded him what he had to say, but by now he was having hysterics, and a megatamtrum that lasted ten whole minutes of howling. In the meantime Tom and Ava had gone to pick up the bread, But I lost my cool, and had told Jonah that no croissant would be forthcoming. This did not alleviate the tantrum.

As Ava skipped around, scattering croissant crumbs over the balcony floor, I softened. The boy still sobbing had retreated to his room, and Harry Potter, currently working his way through the last in the series. I told him I was sorry, that I knew he found it difficult, but that he had to try to do these things, because we won’t always be there to do them for him, that there was a croissant for him, if he promised to try next time. He promised, still heaving, but I won’t wear my pajamas tomorrow, he compromised. And there, we had got to the crux of it. Today he picked up the bread, in his swimming shorts, a pain au chocolate his prize. Perhaps, now, the ritual is born, but for Jonah, it’s a much harder road to cross than it ever was for me.