Me Before You (31 page)

Ha!
said Ritchie.
Welcome to our world, Bee
.

From the ensuing conversations I learnt that getting drunk in a wheelchair came with its own hazards, including catheter disasters, falling down kerbs, and being steered to the wrong home by other drunks. I learnt that there was no single place where non-quads were more or less helpful than anywhere else, but that Paris was singled out as the least wheelchair-friendly place on earth. This was disappointing, as some small, optimistic part of me had still hoped we might make it there.

I began to compile a new list – things you cannot do with a quadriplegic.

1. Go on a tube train (most underground stations don’t have lifts), which pretty much ruled out activities in half of London unless we wanted to pay for taxis.
   
2. Go swimming, without help, and unless the temperature was warm enough to stop involuntary shivering within minutes. Even disabled changing rooms are not much use without a pool hoist. Not that Will would have allowed himself into a pool hoist.
   
3. Go to the cinema, unless guaranteed a seat at the front, or unless Will’s spasms were low-grade that day. I had spent at least twenty minutes of
   Rear Window
   on my hands and knees picking up the popcorn that Will’s unexpected knee jerk had sent flying into the air.
   
4. Go on a beach, unless your chair had been adapted with ‘fat wheels’. Will’s hadn’t.
   
5. Fly on aircraft where the disabled ‘quota’ had already been used up.
   
6. Go shopping, unless all the shops had got their statutory ramps in place. Many around the castle used their listed building status to say they couldn’t fit them. Some were even telling the truth.
   
7. Go anywhere too hot, or too cold (temperature issues).
   
8. Go anywhere spontaneously (bags needed to be packed, routes to be double-checked for accessibility).
   
9. Go out to eat, if feeling self-conscious about being fed, or – depending on the catheter situation – if the restaurant’s bathroom was down a flight of stairs.
   
10. Go on long train journeys (exhausting, and too difficult to get heavy motorized chair on to train without help).
    
11. Get a haircut if it had been raining (all the hair stuck to Will’s wheels. Weirdly, this made both of us nauseous).
    
12. Go to friend’s houses, unless they had wheelchair ramps. Most houses have stairs. Most people do not have ramps. Our house was a rare exception. Will said there was nobody he wanted to see anyway.
    
13. Go down the hill from the castle in heavy rain (the brakes were not always safe, and that chair was too heavy for me to hold).
    
14. Go anywhere where there were likely to be drunks. Will was a magnet for drunks. They would crouch down, breathe fumes all over him, and make big, sympathetic eyes. Sometimes they would, indeed, try to wheel him off.
    
15. Go anywhere where there might be crowds. This meant that, as summer approached, outings around the castle were getting harder, and half the places I thought we might be able to go – fairs, outdoor theatre, concerts – were ruled out.
    

When, struggling for ideas, I asked the online quads what was the thing they would like to do most in all the world,
the answer nearly always came back as, ‘Have sex.’ I got quite a lot of unsolicited detail on that one.

But essentially it was not a huge help. There were eight weeks to go, and I had run out of ideas.

A couple of days after our discussion under the washing line, I returned home to find Dad standing in the hallway. This would have been unusual in itself (the last few weeks he seemed to have retreated to the sofa in the daytime, supposedly to keep Granddad company), but he was wearing an ironed shirt, had shaved, and the hallway was filled with the scent of Old Spice. I am pretty sure he’d had that bottle of aftershave since 1974.

‘There you are.’

I closed the door behind me. ‘Here I am.’

I was feeling tired and anxious. I had spent the whole bus journey home talking on my mobile phone to a travel agent about places to take Will, but we were both stumped. I needed to get him further away from home. But there didn’t seem to be a single place outside a five-mile radius of the castle that he actually wanted to visit.

‘Are you okay getting your own tea tonight?’

‘Sure. I can join Patrick at the pub later. Why?’ I hung up my coat on a free peg.

The rack was so much emptier with all Treena’s and Thomas’s coats gone.

‘I am taking your mother out for dinner.’

I did a quick mental calculation. ‘Did I miss her birthday?’

‘Nope. We’re celebrating.’ He lowered his voice, as if it were some kind of secret. ‘I got a job.’

‘You didn’t!’ And now I could see it; his whole body
had lightened. He was standing straighter again, his face wreathed in smiles. He looked years younger.

‘Dad, that’s fantastic.’

‘I know. Your mother’s over the moon. And, you know, she’s had a tough few months what with Treena going and Granddad and all. So I want to take her out tonight, treat her a bit.’

‘So what’s the job?’

‘I’m going to be head of maintenance. Up at the castle.’

I blinked. ‘But that’s –’

‘Mr Traynor. That’s right. He rang me and said he was looking for someone, and your man, Will there, had told him that I was available. I went this afternoon and showed him what I could do, and I’m on a month’s trial. Beginning Saturday.’

‘You’re going to work for Will’s dad?’

‘Well, he said they have to do a month’s trial, to go through the proper procedures and all, but he said he couldn’t think of any reason why I shouldn’t get it.’

‘That – that’s great,’ I said. I felt weirdly unbalanced by the news. ‘I didn’t even know there was a job going.’

‘Nor me. It’s great, though. He’s a man who understands quality, Lou. I talked to him about green oak, and he showed me some of the work done by the previous man. You wouldn’t believe it. Shocking. He said he was very impressed by my work.’

He was animated, more so than I had seen him for months.

Mum had appeared beside him. She was wearing lipstick, and her good pair of heels. ‘There’s a van. He gets his own van. And the pay is good, Lou. It’s even a bit
more than your dad was getting at the furniture factory.’

She was looking up at him like he was some kind of all-conquering hero. Her face, when she turned to me, told me I should do the same. It could contain a million messages, my mother’s face, and this one told me Dad should be allowed his moment.

‘That’s great, Dad. Really.’ I stepped forward and gave him a hug.

‘Well, it’s really Will you should thank. What a smashing bloke. I’m just bloody grateful that he thought of me.’

I listened to them leave the house, the sound of Mum fussing in the hall mirror, Dad’s repeated reassurances that she looked lovely, that she was just fine as she was. I heard him patting his pockets for keys, wallet, loose change, followed by a brief burst of laughter. And then the door slammed, I heard the hum of the car pulling away and then there was just the distant sound of the television in Granddad’s room. I sat on the stairs. And then I pulled out my phone and rang Will’s number.

It took him a while to answer. I pictured him heading to the hands-free device, depressing the button with his thumb.

‘Hello?’

‘Is this your doing?’

There was a brief pause. ‘Is that you, Clark?’

‘Did you get my dad a job?’

He sounded a little breathless. I wondered, absently, whether he was sitting up okay.

‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

‘I am pleased. It’s just … I don’t know. I feel weird.’

‘You shouldn’t do. Your dad needed a job. Mine needed a skilled maintenance man.’

‘Really?’ I couldn’t keep the scepticism from my voice.

‘What?’

‘This has nothing to do with what you asked me the other day? About him and the other woman?’

There was a long pause. I could see him there, in his living room, looking out through the French windows.

His voice, when it came, was careful. ‘You think I’d blackmail my father into giving yours a job?’

Put like that it did sound far-fetched.

I sat down again. ‘Sorry. I don’t know. It’s just weird. The timing. It’s all a bit convenient.’

‘Then be pleased, Clark. It’s good news. Your dad will be great. And it means … ’ He hesitated.

‘It means what?’

‘ … that one day you can go off and spread your wings without worrying about how your parents are going to be able to support themselves.’

It was as if he had punched me. I felt the air disappear from my lungs.

‘Lou?’

‘Yes?’

‘You’re awfully quiet.’

‘I’m … ’ I swallowed. ‘Sorry. Distracted by something. Granddad’s calling me. But yes. Thanks for – for putting a word in for him.’ I had to get off the phone. Because out of nowhere a huge lump had lodged itself somewhere in my throat and I wasn’t sure I could say anything else.

I walked to the pub. The air was thick with the smell of blossom, and people smiled as they passed me on the street. I couldn’t raise a single greeting in return. I just knew I couldn’t stay in that house, alone with my thoughts. I found the Triathlon Terrors all in the beer garden, their two tables pushed together in a dappled corner, arms and legs spilling off the ends in sinewy pink angles. I got a few polite nods (none from the women) and Patrick stood, creating a small space for me beside him. I realized I really wished Treena was around.

The pub garden was full, with that peculiarly English mix of braying students and post-work salesmen in their shirtsleeves. This pub was a favourite with tourists, and among the English voices were a variety of other accents – Italian, French, American. From the west wall they could see the castle, and – just as they did every summer – the tourists were lining up for photographs with it behind them in the distance.

‘I wasn’t expecting you. Do you want a drink?’

‘In a minute.’ I just wanted to sit there, to let my head rest against Patrick. I wanted to feel like I used to feel – normal, untroubled. I wanted not to think about death.

‘I broke my best time today. Fifteen miles in just 79.2 minutes.’

‘Great.’

‘Cooking with gas now, eh, Pat?’ someone said.

Patrick bunched both his fists and made a revving noise with his mouth.

‘That’s great. Really.’ I tried to look pleased for him.

I had a drink, and then another. I listened to their talk of mileage, of the skinned knees and hypothermic
swimming bouts. I tuned out, and watched the other people in the pub, wondering about their lives. Each of them would have huge events in their own families – babies loved and lost, dark secrets, great joys and tragedies. If they could put it into perspective, if they could just enjoy a sunny evening in a pub garden, then surely I should too.

And then I told Patrick about Dad’s job. His face looked a little like I imagine mine had. I had to repeat it, just so he could be sure he had heard me right.

‘That’s … very cosy. You both working for him.’

I wanted to tell him then, I really did. I wanted to explain that so much of everything was tied up in my battle to keep Will alive. I wanted to tell him how afraid I was that Will seemed to be trying to buy me my freedom. But I knew I could say nothing. I might as well get the rest of it over while I could.

‘Um … that’s not the only thing. He says I can stay there when I want, in the spare room. To get past the whole bed problem at home.’

Patrick looked at me. ‘You’re going to live at his house?’

‘I might. It’s a nice offer, Pat. You know what it’s been like at home. And you’re never here. I like coming to your house, but … well, if I’m honest, it doesn’t feel like home.’

He was still staring at me. ‘Then make it home.’

‘What?’

‘Move in. Make it home. Put your stuff up. Bring your clothes. It’s about time we moved in together.’

It was only afterwards, when I thought about it, that I realized he had actually looked really unhappy as he said this. Not like a man who had finally worked out he could not live without his girlfriend close by him, and wanted to
make a joyous union of our two lives. He looked like someone who felt outmanoeuvred.

‘You really want me to move in?’

‘Yes. Sure.’ He rubbed at his ear. ‘I mean, I’m not saying let’s get married or anything. But it does make sense, right?’

‘You old romantic.’

‘I mean it, Lou. It’s time. It’s probably been time for ages, but I guess I’ve just been wrapped up in one thing and another. Move in. It’ll be good.’ He hugged me. ‘It will be really good.’

Around us the Triathlon Terrors had diplomatically resumed their chatter. A small cheer went up as a group of Japanese tourists got the photograph they had wanted. Birds sang, the sun dipped, the world turned. I wanted to be part of it, not stuck in a silent room, worrying about a man in a wheelchair.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It will be good.’

The worst thing about working as a carer is not what you might think. It’s not the lifting and cleaning, the medicines and wipes and the distant but somehow always perceptible smell of disinfectant. It’s not even the fact that most people assume you’re only doing it because you really aren’t smart enough to do anything else. It’s the fact that when you spend all day in really close proximity to someone, there is no escape from their moods. Or your own.

Will had been distant with me all morning, since I had first told him my plans. It was nothing an outsider could have put their finger on, but there were fewer jokes, perhaps less casual conversation. He asked me nothing about the contents of the day’s newspapers.

‘That’s … what you want to do?’ His eyes had flickered, but his face betrayed nothing.

I shrugged. Then I nodded more emphatically. I felt there was something childishly non-committal about my response. ‘It’s about time, really,’ I said. ‘I mean, I
am
twenty-seven.’

He studied my face. Something tightened in his jaw.

I felt suddenly, unbearably tired. I felt this peculiar urge to say sorry, and I wasn’t sure what for.

He gave a little nod, raised a smile. ‘Glad you’ve got it all sorted out,’ he said, and wheeled himself into the kitchen.