Mum was spooning potatoes on to Dad’s plate. She put two on, he parried, lifting a third and fourth from the serving dish. She blocked him, steering them back on to the serving dish, finally rapping him on the knuckles with the serving spoon when he made for them again. Around the little table sat my parents, my sister and Thomas, my granddad, and Patrick – who always came for dinner on Wednesdays.
‘Daddy,’ Mum said to Granddad. ‘Would you like someone to cut your meat? Treena, will you cut Daddy’s meat?’
Treena leant across and began slicing at Granddad’s plate with deft strokes. On the other side she had already done the same for Thomas.
‘So how messed up is this man, Lou?’
‘Can’t be up to much if they’re willing to let our daughter loose on him,’ Bernard remarked. Behind me, the television was on so that Dad and Patrick could watch the football. Every now and then they would stop, peering round me, their mouths stopping mid-chew as they watched some pass or near miss.
‘I think it’s a great opportunity. She’ll be working in one of the big houses. For a good family. Are they posh, love?’
In our street ‘posh’ could mean anyone who hadn’t got a family member in possession of an ASBO.
‘I suppose so.’
‘Hope you’ve practised your curtsy.’ Dad grinned.
‘Did you actually meet him?’ Treena leant across to stop Thomas elbowing his juice on to the floor. ‘The crippled man? What was he like?’
‘I meet him tomorrow.’
‘Weird, though. You’ll be spending all day every day with him. Nine hours. You’ll see him more than you see Patrick.’
‘That’s not hard,’ I said.
Patrick, across the table, pretended he couldn’t hear me.
‘Still, you won’t have to worry about the old sexual harassment, eh?’ Dad said.
‘Bernard!’ said my mother, sharply.
‘I’m only saying what everyone’s thinking. Probably the best boss you could find for your girlfriend, eh, Patrick?’
Across the table, Patrick smiled. He was busy refusing potatoes, despite Mum’s best efforts. He was having a non-carb month, ready for a marathon in early March.
‘You know, I was thinking, will you have to learn sign language? I mean, if he can’t communicate, how will you know what he wants?’
‘She didn’t say he couldn’t talk, Mum.’ I couldn’t actually remember what Mrs Traynor had said. I was still vaguely in shock at actually having been given a job.
‘Maybe he talks through one of those devices. Like that scientist bloke. The one on The Simpsons.’
‘Bugger,’ said Thomas.
‘Nope,’ said Bernard.
‘Stephen Hawking,’ said Patrick.
‘That’s you, that is,’ Mum said, looking accusingly from Thomas to Dad. She could cut steak with that look. ‘Teaching him bad language.’
‘It is not. I don’t know where he’s getting it from.’
‘Bugger,’ said Thomas, looking directly at his grandfather.
Treena made a face. ‘I think it would freak me out, if he talked through one of those voice boxes. Can you imagine? Get-me-a-drink-of-water,’ she mimicked.
Bright – but not bright enough not to get herself up the duff, as Dad occasionally muttered. She had been the first member of our family to go to university, until Thomas’s arrival had caused her to drop out during her final year. Mum and Dad still held out hopes that one day she would bring the family a fortune. Or possibly work in a place with a reception desk that didn’t have a security screen around it. Either would do.
‘Why would being in a wheelchair mean he had to speak like a Dalek?’ I said.
‘But you’re going to have to get up close and personal to him. At the very least you’ll have to wipe his mouth and give him drinks and stuff.’
‘So? It’s hardly rocket science.’
‘Says the woman who used to put Thomas’s nappy on inside out.’
‘That was once.’
‘Twice. And you only changed him three times.’
I helped myself to green beans, trying to look more sanguine than I felt.
But even as I had ridden the bus home, the same thoughts had already started buzzing around my head. What would we talk about? What if he just stared at me, head lolling, all day? Would I be freaked out? What if I couldn’t understand what it was he wanted? I was legendarily bad at caring for things; we no longer had houseplants at home, or pets, after the disasters that were the hamster, the stick insects and Randolph the goldfish. And how often was that stiff mother of his going to be around? I didn’t like the thought of being watched all the time. Mrs Traynor seemed like the kind of woman whose gaze turned capable hands into fingers and thumbs.
‘Patrick, what do you think of it all, then?’
Patrick took a long slug of water, and shrugged.
Outside, the rain beat on the windowpanes, just audible over the clatter of plates and cutlery.
‘It’s good money, Bernard. Better than working nights at the chicken factory, anyway.’
There was a general murmur of agreement around the table.
‘Well, it comes to something when the best you can all say about my new career is that it’s better than hauling chicken carcasses around the inside of an aircraft hangar,’ I said.
‘Well, you could always get fit in the meantime and go and do some of your personal training stuff with Patrick here.’
‘Get fit. Thanks, Dad.’ I had been about to reach for another potato, and now changed my mind.
‘Well, why not?’ Mum looked as if she might actually sit down – everyone paused briefly, but no, she was up again, helping Granddad to some gravy. ‘It might be worth bearing in mind for the future. You’ve certainly got the gift of the gab.’
‘She has the gift of the flab.’ Dad snorted.
‘I’ve just got myself a job,’ I said. ‘Paying more than the last one too, if you don’t mind.’
‘But it is only temporary,’ Patrick interjected. ‘Your Dad’s right. You might want to start getting in shape while you do it. You could be a good personal trainer, if you put in a bit of effort.’
‘I don’t want to be a personal trainer. I don’t fancy … all that … bouncing.’ I mouthed an insult at Patrick, who grinned.
‘What Lou wants is a job where she can put her feet up and watch daytime telly while feeding old Ironside there through a straw,’ said Treena.
‘Yes. Because rearranging limp dahlias into buckets of water requires so much physical and mental effort, doesn’t it, Treen?’
‘We’re teasing you, love.’ Dad raised his mug of tea. ‘It’s great that you’ve got a job. We’re proud of you already. And I bet you, once you slide those feet of yours under the table at the big house those buggers won’t want to get rid of you.’
‘Bugger,’ said Thomas.
‘Not me,’ said Dad, chewing, before Mum could say a thing.
3
‘This is the annexe. It used to be stables, but we realized it would suit Will rather better than the house as it’s all on one floor. This is the spare room so that Nathan can stay over if necessary. We needed someone quite often in the early days.’
Mrs Traynor walked briskly down the corridor, gesturing from one doorway to the other, without looking back, her high heels clacking on the flagstones. There seemed to be an expectation that I would keep up.
‘The keys to the car are here. I’ve put you on our insurance. I’m trusting the details you gave me were correct. Nathan should be able to show you how the ramp works. All you have to do is help Will position properly and the vehicle will do the rest. Although … he’s not desperately keen to go anywhere at the moment.’
‘It is a bit chilly out,’ I said.
Mrs Traynor didn’t seem to hear me.
‘You can make yourself tea and coffee in the kitchen. I keep the cupboards stocked. The bathroom is through here –’
She opened the door and I stared at the white metal and plastic hoist that crouched over the bath. There was an open wet area under the shower, with a folded wheelchair beside it. In the corner a glass-fronted cabinet revealed neat stacks of shrink-wrapped bales. I couldn’t see what they were from here, but it all gave off a faint scent of disinfectant.
Mrs Traynor closed the door, and turned briefly to face me. ‘I should reiterate, it is very important that Will has someone with him all the time. A previous carer disappeared for several hours once to get her car fixed, and Will … injured himself in her absence.’ She swallowed, as if still traumatized by the memory.
‘I won’t go anywhere.’
‘Of course you will need … comfort breaks. I just want to make it clear that he can’t be left for periods longer than, say, ten or fifteen minutes. If something unavoidable comes up either ring the intercom, as my husband, Steven, may be home, or call my mobile number. If you do need to take any time off, I would appreciate as much notice as possible. It is not always easy finding cover.’
‘No.’
Mrs Traynor opened the hall cupboard. She spoke like someone reciting a well-rehearsed speech.
I wondered briefly how many carers there had been before me.
‘If Will is occupied, then it would be helpful if you could do some basic housekeeping. Wash bedding, run a vacuum cleaner around, that sort of thing. The cleaning equipment is under the sink. He may not want you around him all the time. You and he will have to work out your level of interaction for yourselves.’
Mrs Traynor looked at my clothes, as if for the first time. I was wearing the very shaggy waistcoat thing that Dad says makes me look like an emu. I tried to smile. It seemed like an effort.
‘Obviously I would hope that you could … get on with each other. It would be nice if he could think of you as a friend rather than a paid professional.’
‘Right. What does he … um … like to do?’
‘He watches films. Sometimes he listens to the radio, or to music. He has one of those digital things. If you position it near his hand, he can usually manipulate it himself. He has some movement in his fingers, although he finds it hard to grip.’
I felt myself brightening. If he liked music and films, surely we could find some common ground? I had a sudden picture of myself and this man laughing at some Hollywood comedy, me running the Hoover around the bedroom while he listened to his music. Perhaps this was going to be okay. Perhaps we might end up as friends. I had never had a disabled friend before – only Treen’s friend David, who was deaf, but would put you in a headlock if you suggested that meant disabled.
‘Do you have any questions?’
‘No.’
‘Then let’s go and introduce you.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Nathan should have finished dressing him now.’
We hesitated outside the door and Mrs Traynor knocked. ‘Are you in there? I have Miss Clark to meet you, Will.’
There was no answer.
‘Will? Nathan?’
A broad New Zealand accent. ‘He’s decent, Mrs T.’
She pushed open the door. The annexe’s living room was deceptively large, and one wall consisted entirely of glass doors that looked out over open countryside. A wood burner glowed quietly in the corner, and a low beige sofa faced a huge flat-screen television, its seats covered by a wool throw. The mood of the room was tasteful, and peaceful – a Scandinavian bachelor pad.
In the centre of the room stood a black wheelchair, its seat and back cushioned by sheepskin. A solidly built man in white collarless scrubs was crouching down, adjusting a man’s feet on the footrests of the wheelchair. As we stepped into the room, the man in the wheelchair looked up from under shaggy, unkempt hair. His eyes met mine and after a pause, he let out a bloodcurdling groan. Then his mouth twisted, and he let out another unearthly cry.