Wisdom and stature

Edmund was born five and a half years ago.

He was born the much loved first child of two caring parents. He was an alert baby, interested in all that was around him. He did not sleep well, and he cried a lot, and it was not easy to soothe him: picking him up to comfort him only increased his distress. Anne and Peter quickly learned that he was much more content with a soft toy in his hands. If a toy did not settle him, quiet music usually did the trick. He fed well and seemed healthy.

Edmund’s first real smile came late, not in response to Anne’s face but in response to his favourite toy, a big red plastic rattle. He explored his world well and loved his toys. He took a great interest in his own hands; he would move his fingers into different patterns and seemed to be studying them intently.

Edmund’s first word came very early, at 8 months. And it wasn’t “Ma” or “Da”. It was a two‐syllable affair, “soosi”, in response to music on the radio. For he just adored music: music of any kind, soft or loud, slow or fast, Scottish bagpipes or Spanish guitar.

Anne and Peter had sensed early that Edmund’s verbal development was going to be exceptional. He had learned the meaning of “No!” at 7 months, and he obeyed it from the start. As soon as he had enough words – and soon he had them in abundance – he used them for reasoning. At 14 months the questions started. “Why, why, why?” Why do we go to sleep? What are birds for? Where is the man in the TV really? What am I made of?

Edmund’s cognitive development was rapid in other directions too. By 12 months he was matching objects by colour, shape and size. He loved to stack up building blocks, but could be inconsolable if they fell down. At 15 months he mastered one of those puzzles where different shapes are to be posted through corresponding slots. He did not have the manual skill to post the shapes through quickly, but he always seemed to know which shape belonged to which slot with no delay at all. On one occasion, as he succeeded in posting the last of the five shapes, a cube, he remarked almost casually, “There. That’s all five of them in now.” Peter and Anne were astonished: they knew he could recite his numbers up to 10, but they had never heard him use a number greater than 2 in context. He was to show a quite remarkable understanding of number before his second year was out.

Edmund’s first walking steps came late. His steps were restrained and unadventurous. He wanted to walk, but he seemed timid about it, frightened almost. For many weeks after he began to walk he would skirt round the furniture, not actually holding on to it, but always having it close at hand in case he needed it. Peter’s attempts to coax him across a room by taking his hand were invariably rejected, sometimes with tears. When at last Edmund did begin to cross a room on his own feet, it became clear that his movements were quite clumsy. He would often step into furniture, as though he did not know where his own feet were. And when that happened, he would seem to be hurt and become most upset, even when Anne was sure that the bump had been very gentle.

Over the next 18 months, Edmund, to borrow a Biblical phrase, “increased in wisdom and stature”. Ordinarily in stature, and extraordinarily in wisdom.

Numbers and shapes and music

It was around Edmund’s third birthday, to the best of Peter and Anne’s recollection, that his incessant questioning began to take a new tack. “Mummy,” he asked one day over tea, “where did I come from?” Anne embarked on the usual business about Mummy’s tummy, but Edmund made it clear that that wasn’t what he meant. He couldn’t find the right words just then, but he tried again a few days later. “Mummy, what’s the name of the place where I was before?” “What place, darling?” “You know, the happy place. The place with all the numbers and the shapes and the music. And all the stories about numbers and shapes and music.” Anne told him she was puzzled, as she knew of no such place where he had been. Had he been dreaming? “No Mummy, because dreams are just for a few minutes. I was in this place for a long time. Years and years.”

Anne and Peter rather hoped that these puzzling questions would stop, but they didn’t. They grew and grew. So one evening Anne sat down with Edmund. “Tell me more about this place where you were before, dear. What was it like?”

“It was a happy place,” began Edmund’s long and now lucid description. “The teachers were very kind and very clever.”

“Was I there with you, Edmund?”

“No, you weren’t there. And Daddy wasn’t there too.”

“Do you mean Sunday school, darling?” The family had attended their parish church for just a few weeks some months before.

“No, of course not, silly!” hissed Edmund in a manner that suggested that his mother was a total fool. “In Sunday school the teachers were very kind but not very clever. These teachers were much cleverer. They knew all about shapes and numbers and they taught us everything. And stories about shapes and numbers.”

“What do you mean by a story about shapes?” asked Anne, by now intrigued and beginning to lose her fear of this strange topic of conversation. “Tell me a story about shapes so that I know the sort of thing you’re talking about.”

Edmund felt frustrated at his inability to express himself and cried a little. Anne put an arm round him and Edmund angrily pushed it away. Then he brightened and said, “Mummy, do you remember when I was a baby and I had a plastic box and I had to push the right pieces through the right holes? The holes and the pieces, they told stories about shapes.”

“I see,” said a bemused Anne. “And can you tell me a story about numbers?”

“That’s hard,” said Edmund, but his mother could see his resolve: she had set him a task, and he was determined to see it through. “I don’t really remember them. I’m not big enough yet. I know I’ll remember them when I’m older.” He sat and concentrated with an intensity Anne had not known he was capable of. “I know,” he said suddenly and excitedly. “If you’ve got a star in the sky … two, no, three stars in the sky and…” – he spoke loudly, and more and more rapidly – “if there’s three stars in one bit of the sky and three more stars in another bit of the sky that’s three stars in two bits that’s six stars and there’s two more stars and there’s another two more stars and that’s ten stars and Oh Mummy I’m all confused,” and he broke down in tears again.

“Don’t worry,” said Anne calmly. “You can tell me about it some other time. Would you like a glass of water?”

“Yes, thank you” said Edmund politely, as he took the glass. He had recovered his composure quickly. Then he changed his mind, put the glass down and said, “I don’t want to tell you about it some other time. I want to tell you about it now.”

“Ok,” said Anne quietly, as she took a sheet of paper from the computer printing tray. “Stars and bits of sky can be confusing. Let’s see if we can make it work with cows and fields.” She drew a circle for a field and invited Edmund to draw three cows in it, which he did. “Now do we want another field?” Edmund nodded. He drew the circle and added three squiggles that would pass for cows. “Good,” said Anne. “How many cows altogether?” Edmund answered correctly. “Now we’ll draw a big line across the middle of the page, and we can draw something else on the other side of the line. Can you tell me what you want to draw on the other side of the line to balance it and finish the story?”

Without a word, and completely calm, Edmund drew a field with two cows, and another field with two cows, and another. “There,” he announced proudly. “Three fields with two cows, that’s six cows. And two fields with three cows, that’s six cows too. And that’s a story about numbers.”

“And now it’s time for bed,” said Anne.

Edmund prepared for bed contentedly and without a word. He brushed his teeth and tucked himself in. “Goodnight, Mummy,” he said quietly. “You’re a good teacher.”

Order and rules

Anne and Peter rejoiced in Edmund’s high intellect, but other aspects of his development troubled them. He could be very fussy, and intolerant of anything that was not exactly as he thought it ought to be. He hated when music on the radio was faded out, and would complain angrily that “the man should have let it play right to the end”. Tea time was five o’clock and he would become impatient if tea was five minutes late. One evening he refused to settle into bed on the grounds that a tiny piece of wallpaper in his room was peeling away, and the matter was resolved only when Anne stuck it down again. Any change to his routine upset him. He would spend a lot of time in his own room looking at books, with a ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door, and if either parent intruded he would be furious. Most worrying of all, he never adapted to nursery school and made no friends there, unless you count the teachers. He said he found the games silly and the other children stupid, “especially the girls”. He had no herd instinct, and if the class were on an outing then it was quite possible for three teachers and the entire class to move off and leave Edmund standing, if the teachers were not careful. His never‐ending questions at home had long since become tiresome: they were also deep, and he was persistent, and never satisfied with trite or conventional answers. One evening the topic of conversation was saying “thank you”.

“Mummy, why do we say ‘thank you’ when somebody gives us something?”

“It shows we’re grateful.”

“But I’m supposed to say ‘thank you’ even if I don’t feel grateful.”

“That’s right, Edmund, because it’s polite. And you’re very good at remembering to say ‘thank you’.”

“But if I always say ‘thank you’, even when I’m not grateful, then saying ‘thank you’ doesn’t mean I’m grateful at all: it only means I remembered to say ‘thank you’.”

“I suppose so, Edmund, but it doesn’t cost anything to say ‘thank you’, and it does no harm to let the other person think you’re grateful.”

“But Mummy, you’re always telling me to try to understand what other people think. Daddy knows I’m good at saying ‘thank you’. So if Daddy gives me something and I say ‘thank you’, it doesn’t just not mean I’m grateful. It doesn’t even make Daddy think I’m grateful, because he knows I’ll say it anyway!”

“Oh Edmund, stop your incessant arguing, will you!”

Tears followed. “Mummy, I didn’t mean to make you angry: I just want to understand it.” And scenes like that were frequent.

Edmund was interested in all things scientific, and he explained this by saying he liked things that work by rules because he could understand them. He was fascinated by Peter’s diabetes, and understood the necessary balance between the sugar and the insulin in Peter’s body, and asked many questions about it. “Why does Daddy keep his insulin pen all locked up?” Anne explained that if he didn’t, someone who didn’t know what it was might use it by accident. “What happens if Daddy loses the key?” Then he could quickly get an emergency supply from his doctor. “What happens if the doctor is out?” “Oh Edmund, he would phone another doctor. And that’s enough questions for now.”

The trouble with Edmund and his rules was that he needed to know in the most minute detail what were rules and what were not. Bedtime was eight o’clock, and that was a rule. But teatime was five o’clock, and following a recent scene he had been told in no uncertain terms that that wasn’t a rule, and wasn’t to be treated as one.

“So Mummy, why do you say that tea is at five o’clock as a rule?”

“As a rule just means ‘usually’, Edmund.”

“Why is bedtime at eight o’clock a rule but teatime at five o’clock isn’t a rule?”

“Oh honestly Edmund, you and your rules. Rules will be the death of you, Edmund.”

Edmund never liked this kind of criticism, and he was very quiet for fif‌teen minutes.

Learning and remembering

Edmund continued to love music. He was spellbound when Peter took him to a classical concert, and he sang several of the main themes in the car on the way home. On his fourth birthday when Peter and Anne suggested to him that he might have violin lessons, he jumped at the chance. He quickly bonded with Hugh his violin teacher, and was heard to say that Hugh was the only person who understood him. He made excellent progress with the violin for a child of his age, and Hugh always said he had a superb ear.

Peter and Anne regretted not teaching Edmund his alphabet earlier, for when they did teach him it he read well almost immediately and began to write within days. He would sometimes write little notes for his parents, enjoying the game of expecting written replies, and tickled pink that he could communicate in that way.

Edmund’s numerical ability continued to be his strongest suit. Mike, a friend of the family who was a mathematics student at university, would show him little tricks with numbers. Edmund loved Mike, and soon Mike was coming round for an hour each week to teach him.

When Edmund turned five, Mike introduced him to chess. Edmund had been reluctant to try this, protesting that he didn’t like games. But at the end of his first lesson, he was ecstatic. “Daddy, do you know what? Chess is cool. It isn’t a game at all. It’s a big, big, BIG story about numbers! Numbers and shapes: all the shapes move in different ways. And you have to think very, very hard, and if you watch what pieces the other person moves, it’s amazing, you can work out what they’re thinking!” One lesson, and he was hooked.

One evening Mike decided to intro­duce Edmund to some­thing a bit more advanced, just to find out where lay the limit of the under­standing of this unusual boy. Mike drew a large right‐angled triangle, and high­lighted the right angle, “like a floor and a wall”. Mike drew a square on each of the three sides. “Show me the biggest square, Edmund. Good. And the smallest one. Good. Now, which do you think is bigger, the biggest square, or the two others put together?” Edmund’s alert little face grew more solemn as he gazed and pondered. Then he said, very slowly and with a puzzled expression:

“I… remember… this. Somebody showed me this… a long… time… ago. Are they… Are they the same size?”

“So who’s been teaching you High School geometry, kiddo?” asked a shocked Mike.

Edmund sat stock‐still, his face glazed. “It… was… in Happyland!” he exclaimed. “My teacher in Happyland showed me it. I’d quite forgotten it until you drew the shapes.” And Mike listened to Edmund’s story intently.

Afterwards Edmund shared this all with Anne and Peter. They tried not to let him see just how scary they were beginning to find it. “Edmund, who else have you told about Happyland, besides us?”

“Just Mike and Hugh,” said Edmund. “Nobody else would understand.”

“I think you’re right about that, Edmund. Best to keep it that way.”

At his next violin lesson, Edmund shared with Hugh the joy that he had found with Mike in that latest story of shapes and numbers, “the story with the special triangle and the three squares”. And he had remembered something else, too. “That story,” he confided. “My teacher in Happyland told me he found it himself. He was the first person in the whole universe to know it, apart from God. He was one of the best teachers in Happyland, and I was given to him as one of his pupils because I was one of the best pupils in Happyland.”

Hugh pondered. “Edmund, can you remember your teacher’s name?”

“People didn’t have names. Happyland was different from here. You just recognised a person from what he knew.” He paused. “Actually, a person sort of was what he knew.”

“Did your teacher tell you if he had discovered anything else?”

Edmund thought brief‌ly, and then replied with increasing confidence. “Yes. I’m remembering more and more now. He said he discovered two big things, and lots of small things. The story about the special triangle was one of the two big things. I don’t remember what the other big thing was. Perhaps I’m not ready to remember it yet.”

The violin lesson was now ten minutes old and not a note played. The two got down to business, and they began with Edmund’s favourite piece, Highland Cathedral. Edmund came to an open G, which he played with gusto. He stopped abruptly. He bowed the open string again, and watched it closely. He bowed it again. He was deep in thought.

“Yes, Edmund?”

“Why does the open string bulge out like that when I bow it strongly?”

“It doesn’t really bulge, but it vibrates very wide and it looks as if it’s bulging.” Hugh’s heart was in his mouth as he willed, willed the child to remember.

“Does it always bulge in the same shape?”

“What do you think, Edmund?”

“How do I make it bulge in two halves, like my teacher showed me in Happyland?”

“Go on, Edmund.”

“If it bulged in two halves, it would make a higher note, would it?”

“Indeed it would. How much higher do you think it would be?”

“Would it be an octave higher?”

“That’s exactly right, Edmund. Who taught you that?”

“Very, very nearly an octave higher,” corrected Edmund, and his words now flowed out in an easy, wide river. “I remember it all now. It’s one of the happiest stories and it’s about numbers, and shapes, and music, all together. It’s such a happy story because the music and the shapes and the numbers all understand each other so well. You can make it bulge in two halves, or in three bits, or four bits, or any number you want of bits, and my teacher knew all the shapes it made and all the notes it made when it bulged like that. That was the other big thing he discovered. He said in Happyland it’s exactly an octave, but when I came here the octave would be spoiled a little because the strings are too thick and not bendy enough. I think that’s sad.”

Hugh lowered his face and covered his eyes, which were wet with emotion. How was he to take Edmund’s words, if not at face value? And if at face value, was he to understand that this child had visited the World of Pure Forms, and that the teacher he spoke of was none other than Pythagoras? He conducted the rest of the lesson on autopilot.

At the end of the lesson, Edmund said, “You can tell Mummy and Daddy what I’ve told you about Happyland, but you won’t tell anyone else, will you, Hugh? I don’t think they would understand.”

“No, I won’t, Edmund. I won’t.”

“You still haven’t shown me how to make the G string bulge out in two halves.”

Hugh showed Edmund how to play a G harmonic. “Thank you; see you next week” said Edmund happily, as he put his fiddle back into its case. “Sounds like an octave to me.”

A silence and a wall

The following evening, Edmund was quizzing his parents about Willowdale Primary School where he was due to start in two months. What would it be like? How many would be in his class? Would it be better than nursery school?

“How long will I be going there?” he asked.

“We’ve spoken before about this, Edmund. Remember, it’s just like nursery school. You don’t go at weekends, and the school holidays are quite long. But apart from weekends and school holidays, you’ll be going every day.”

“Yes, but for how many years?”

“Seven years, Edmund, and then after that you’ll go to High School for six years.”

Edmund looked dismayed. “Then… then when do I go back to Happyland?”

Peter and Anne looked at each other and there was a long and shocked silence, which Peter broke as kindly as he knew how. “Edmund, darling. You’re here now. You live with us. You’re part of our family. We love you, and we want you to be happy here. Your future is here, with us. You don’t go back to Happyland.”

This was too sudden for Edmund. His face went white; he froze.

“Let’s all have a cuppa,” said Anne.

And Edmund let out the scream and the wail of a wounded animal. His fists beat on the floor and his head shook as if it would come off its moorings. Through anguished tears he spluttered, “I thought I was going back to Happyland – I want to go back to Happyland – I’m meant to go back to Happyland…” He rose and fled for the door, lost his bearings and ran straight into the wall, which felled him with a loud thud. He seemed not to notice. He picked himself up, ran to his room still howling about Happyland, and buried his head in the blankets.

A visitor and a big question

By morning Edmund was his usual rational self, and feeling fine apart from a sore head. At breakfast he raised the topic of Happyland again with Anne. “I’ve been thinking. When I get old and die, is that when I go back to Happyland?”

“I’m not sure, but I don’t think so, Edmund. When people die, they go to heaven. That’s if they’ve been good.”

“Tell me about heaven.”

“Edmund, I really don’t know. These are difficult questions, and I don’t know the answers.”

“Does Daddy know the answers?”

“I don’t think so, darling.”

“Somebody must know the answers. Can I ask somebody who knows the answers?”

So Anne phoned their parish church minister, Mr Williams, and he agreed to this unusual request for an audience with a five‐year‐old. They invited him round for a coffee. After the introductions, Edmund came straight to the point. “Mr Williams, can you teach me about heaven, please?”

“Edmund, what do you think is the most important thing in the whole world?”

“Do you mean the world, or the universe, Mr Williams? Sometimes Mummy and Daddy say the world when they mean the universe.”

“The whole universe, Edmund.”

“The perfection of God,” replied Edmund, evidently without having to think about it.

“Who told you that?”

“Mummy, may I tell Mr Williams about Happyland?”

“You may, Edmund; I’ve mentioned it to him.”

“I learned about God in Happyland.”

“Tell me about Happyland, Edmund.”

Which Edmund did. At length. At great length.

“And what did people in Happyland say about God?”

“My teacher told me that God made Happyland. God is perfect, and so he made Happyland perfect. In Happyland all the stories are true, and the numbers and the shapes and the music get on perfectly together. We used to thank God, every day, that he kept it perfect, and that he never let anything go wrong with it.”

“Would you say that the numbers and the shapes and the music loved each other, Edmund?”

“Loved each other? Loved each other? I don’t think so… No. Definitely no. They’re not the sort of things that love. But they understand each other perfectly, and that’s why they get on together perfectly. Why didn’t God make here perfect too?”

“He made it very good, Edmund. And he tries to keep it very good by loving us, just as your parents love you, and by asking us to love him and to love one another, just as you love your parents. We don’t talk so much about the perfection of God here. But we do talk about the love of God.”

“When I get old and die, where will I go?”

“That’s a difficult question, Edmund. Even ministers don’t know the whole answer. We do know that God will look after you. People talk about going to heaven, but perhaps that’s just a way of speaking.”

“I remember something else my teacher said. He said I was coming here because I had to learn about things that aren’t perfect. And then I would go back to Happyland. Do you think he was right?”

“About coming here to learn about things that aren’t perfect? I have a feeling he could be right, Edmund. Yes, in your case I do believe he may very well be right.”

“And about going back to Happyland when I get old and die?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know. You’re a very deep thinker, young man. But I do think you should look forward to all the good things in this life, and not worry about the next life. And remember that God loves you, and he wants you to be happy.”

As soon as Mr Williams had left, Edmund gave Anne his verdict. “Mr Williams is very kind and very clever,” he said. “And he loves the sort of truth that doesn’t change.” He nodded sagely. “There are lots of teachers like Mr Williams in Happyland.”

A new school and a momentous week

At last the big day arrived when Edmund started at Willowdale Primary School. The first two weeks were to be mornings only. The new intake, 11 boys and 14 girls, all arrived with their parent or carer around nine o’clock on the Monday morning, and the adults were invited to stay for the first morning to help the children settle in. The children were welcomed by the Head of Lower Primary, shown to their classroom, and introduced to their young class teacher Miss Davies. She took the register and said she was delighted that all the expected children were present. She explained to children and adults that part of the first morning would be spent introducing the children to school procedures: the structure of the day, the buddy system, where the toilets are, and so on.

At this point Edmund complained to Anne that he felt sick and had to go outside. Anne took him into the playground. He became very pale, and he threw up a little vomit. Anne explained to Miss Davies that she needed to take Edmund home. Back home Edmund recovered quickly, and Anne was unsure whether to put his sickness down to a bug or to anxiety. He seemed relaxed however, and said he was looking forward to school the next day.

Tuesday was not a happy day for Edmund. Anne took him to the school and delivered him to the door of his classroom. But Miss Davies was off sick, and the class was taken by an older, sterner woman Mrs Crumm. She took the register, and saw from it that all the children had been present the previous day, and had therefore, she presumed, received the necessary inductions. At playtime Edmund got separated from his classmates – he could be a bit dopey about things like that – and found himself in the wrong playground, getting in the way of older boys playing football. He was accidentally knocked to the ground by a boy from Primary 5, who was apologetic, checked that Edmund was not hurt, and kindly rejoined him with his classmates. Back home at lunchtime, Edmund told Anne all about his morning, and it was clear that the football incident had dominated the day in his mind. For Edmund, Tuesday was not a happy day.

Edmund seemed bright enough at the start of his school day on Wednesday. Mrs Crumm took the class again. At playtime he found the right playground. He asked a classmate where the toilet was, as the playground supervisor was otherwise busy, and he went on his own. Unfortunately he used the girls’ toilets and found himself the laughing stock of an unkind group of older boys. Otherwise his day went well. But, back home, it was again evident that his mind represented his one little mistake out of all proportion.

At breakfast on Thursday morning, Edmund said he did not want to go to school. Anne put it to him that he really had no choice, and within that constraint she was as reassuring as she could be. Edmund went with her reluctantly. Again Mrs Crumm took the class. Edmund’s day went well until, as he left the school at lunchtime, he fell and skinned his knee. Mr Timms, the Primary 7 teacher, came to his aid, offered a hand and asked him to come with him to get the knee washed and dressed.

This was a scenario that Edmund had been carefully prepared for at home. Here was a man he didn’t know, who was trying to take him away. Edmund screamed and punched and kicked. Mr Timms stepped back smartly. “Steady on, young fellow. Calm down. Nothing to be afraid of. But we’ve got to get this knee of yours patched up. Come along with me please.”

This was the stuff that nightmares are made of. Edmund’s screaming and punching and kicking had not deterred this stranger in his bid to abduct. Edmund had been taught what to do next. He bit. He bit hard. His teeth were sharp and drew blood. Mr Timms in pure self‐defence wrenched Edmund away from him and deposited him on the ground with a brusqueness that verged on the unprofessional. “You must never, never bite,” he admonished stiff‌ly. Edmund saw his chance and fled. He found Anne in her car at the school gate. He was terrified and dumbstruck. The pursuing Mr Timms arrived just too late. Anne took him home and attended to his knee.

Edmund took no lunch and Anne could not get a word out of him. She wanted to drive back to the school to find out what had happened and asked Edmund to come with her, but he refused to leave the house. She phoned Peter, but Peter was in an important meeting, and by the time he could get home the school had closed for the day. Meantime Edmund had gone to his room, put up his ‘do not disturb’ sign and stayed there for well over an hour. Then he went outside and ran round and round the garden, which he sometimes did for five minutes when he was feeling out of sorts, but on this occasion he was still running half an hour later, and when he came back inside he looked exhausted. He took no tea and still refused to speak. All evening he was silent and afraid. Anne explained to him that he would not be going to the school the next day, that Peter would take time off work to mind him, and that she would go to the school to find out what on earth had happened. She told him he really ought to eat something before going to bed as he had had nothing since breakfast, but he refused. Anne read him a bedtime story, still with no response, and settled him down for the night. She checked him at 9 pm and he was sound asleep. She hoped that a good night’s sleep would soothe his fear and allow him to talk in the morning.

But, for Edmund, morning never came. When Anne went to rouse him at 7.30 he was white. And cold. And dead.

Anne and Peter did not find his letter. It was the police who found it. It was in his bedroom and the dictionary was beside it. The handwriting was the scrawl of a five‐year‐old, but the spelling was perfect:

Epilogue

The funeral is next Wednesday.