me before you, 02.1

me before you, 2
2


I am not thick. I’d just like to get that out of the way at this point. But it’s quite
hard not to feel a bit deficient in the Department of Brain Cells, growing up next
to a younger sister who was not just moved up a year into my class, but then to
the year above.

Everything that is sensible, or smart, Katrina did first, despite being eighteen
months younger than me. Every book I ever read she had read first, every fact I
mentioned at the dinner table she already knew. She is the only person I know
who actually likes exams. Sometimes I think I dress the way I do because the
one thing Treena can’t do is put clothes together. She’s a pullover and jeans kind
of a girl. Her idea of smart is ironing the jeans first.

My father calls me a ‘character’, because I tend to say the first thing that pops
into my head. He says I’m like my Aunt Lily, who I never knew. It’s a bit weird,
constantly being compared to someone you’ve never met. I would come
downstairs in purple boots, and Dad would nod at Mum and say, ‘D’you
remember Aunt Lily and her purple boots, eh?’ and Mum would cluck and start
laughing as if at some secret joke. My mother calls me ‘individual’, which is her
polite way of not quite understanding the way I dress.

But apart from a brief period in my teens, I never wanted to look like Treena,
or any of the girls at school; I preferred boys’ clothes till I was about fourteen,
and now tend to please myself - depending on what mood I am in on the day.
There’s no point me trying to look conventional. I am small, dark-haired and,
according to my dad, have the face of an elf. That’s not as in ‘elfin beauty’. I am
not plain, but I don’t think anyone is ever going to call me beautiful. I don’t have
that graceful thing going on. Patrick calls me gorgeous when he wants to get his
leg over, but he’s fairly transparent like that. We’ve known each other for
coming up to seven years.



I was twenty-six years old and I wasn’t really sure what I was. Up until I lost
my job I hadn’t even given it any thought. I supposed I would probably marry
Patrick, knock out a few kids, live a few streets away from where I had always
lived. Apart from an exotic taste in clothes, and the fact that I’m a bit short,
there’s not a lot separating me from anyone you might pass in the street. You
probably wouldn’t look at me twice. An ordinary girl, leading an ordinary life. It
actually suited me fine.

‘You must wear a suit to an interview,’ Mum had insisted. ‘Everyone’s far too
casual these days.’

‘Because wearing pinstripes will be vital if I’m spoon-feeding a geriatric.’

‘Don’t be smart.’

‘I can’t afford to buy a suit. What if I don’t get the job?’

‘You can wear mine, and I’ll iron you a nice blouse, and just for once don’t
wear your hair up in those -’ she gestured to my hair, which was normally
twisted into two dark knots on each side of my head ‘- Princess Leia things. Just
try to look like a normal person.’

I knew better than to argue with my mother. And I could tell Dad had been
instructed not to comment on my outfit as I walked out of the house, my gait
awkward in the too-tight skirt.

‘Bye love,’ he said, the corners of his mouth twitching. ‘Good luck now. You
look very ... businesslike.’

The embarrassing thing was not that I was wearing my mother’s suit, or that it
was in a cut last fashionable in the late 1980s, but that it was actually a tiny bit
small for me. I felt the waistband cutting into my midriff, and pulled the double-
breasted jacket across. As Dad says of Mum, there’s more fat on a kirby grip.

I sat through the short bus journey feeling faintly sick. I had never had a
proper job interview. I had joined The Buttered Bun after Treena bet me that I
couldn’t get a job in a day. I had walked in and simply asked Frank if he needed
a spare pair of hands. It had been his first day open and he had looked almost
blinded by gratitude.

Now, looking back, I couldn’t even remember having a discussion with him
about money. He suggested a weekly wage, I agreed, and once a year he told me
he’d upped it a bit, usually by a little more than I would have asked for.



What did people ask in interviews anyway? And what if they asked me to do
something practical with this old man, to feed him or bath him or something?
Syed had said there was a male carer who covered his ‘intimate needs’ (I
shuddered at the phrase). The secondary carer’s job was, he said, ‘a little unclear
at this point’. I pictured myself wiping drool from the old man’s mouth, maybe
asking loudly, ‘DID HE WANT A CUP OF TEA?’

When Granddad had first begun his recovery from his strokes he hadn’t been
able to do anything for himself. Mum had done it all. ‘Your mother is a saint,’
Dad said, which I took to mean that she wiped his bum without running
screaming from the house. I was pretty sure nobody had ever described me as
such. I cut Granddad’s food up for him and made him cups of tea but as for
anything else, I wasn’t sure I was made of the right ingredients.

Granta House was on the other side of Stortfold Castle, close to the medieval
walls, on the long unpavemented stretch that comprised only four houses and the
National Trust shop, bang in the middle of the tourist area. I had passed this
house a million times in my life without ever actually properly seeing it. Now,
walking past the car park and the miniature railway, both of which were empty
and as bleak as only a summer attraction can look in February, I saw it was
bigger than I had imagined, red brick with a double front, the kind of house you
saw in old copies of Country Life while waiting at the doctor’s.

I walked up the long drive, trying not to think about whether anybody was
watching out of the window. Walking up a long drive puts you at a disadvantage;
it automatically makes you feel inferior. I was just contemplating whether to
actually tug at my forelock, when the door opened and I jumped.

A woman, not much older than me, stepped out into the porch. She was
wearing white slacks and a medical-looking tunic and carried a coat and a folder
under her arm. As she passed me she gave a polite smile.

‘And thank you so much for coming,’ a voice said, from inside. ‘We’ll be in
touch. Ah.’ A woman’s face appeared, middle-aged but beautiful, under
expensive precision-cut hair. She was wearing a trouser suit that I guessed cost
more than my dad earned in a month.

‘You must be Miss Clark.’

‘Louisa.’ I shot out a hand, as my mother had impressed upon me to do. The
young people never offered up a hand these days, my parents had agreed. In the



old days you wouldn’t have dreamt of a ‘hiya’ or, worse, an air kiss. This woman
did not look like she would have welcomed an air kiss.

‘Right. Yes. Do come in.’ She withdrew her hand from mine as soon as
humanly possible, but I felt her eyes linger upon me, as if she were already
assessing me.

‘Would you like to come through? We’ll talk in the drawing room. My name
is Camilla Traynor.’ She seemed weary, as if she had uttered the same words
many times that day already.

I followed her through to a huge room with floor to ceiling French windows.
Heavy curtains draped elegantly from fat mahogany curtain poles, and the floors
were carpeted with intricately decorated Persian rugs. It smelt of beeswax and
antique furniture. There were little elegant side tables everywhere, their
burnished surfaces covered with ornamental boxes. I wondered briefly where on
earth the Traynors put their cups of tea.

‘So you have come via the Job Centre advertisement, is that right? Do sit
down.’

While she flicked through her folder of papers, I gazed surreptitiously around
the room. I had thought the house might be a bit like a care home, all hoists and
wipe-clean surfaces. But this was like one of those scarily expensive hotels,
steeped in old money, with well-loved things that looked valuable in their own
right. There were silver-framed photographs on a sideboard, but they were too
far away for me to make out the faces. As she scanned her pages, I shifted in my
seat, to try to get a better look.

And it was then that I heard it - the unmistakable sound of stitches ripping. I
glanced down to see the two pieces of material that joined at the side of my right
leg had torn apart, sending frayed pieces of silk thread shooting upwards in an
ungainly fringe. I felt my face flood with colour.

‘So ... Miss Clark ... do you have any experience with quadriplegia?’

I turned to face Mrs Traynor, wriggling so that my jacket covered as much of
the skirt as possible.

‘No.’

‘Have you been a carer for long?’

‘Um ... I’ve never actually done it,’ I said, adding, as if I could hear Syed’s
voice in my ear, ‘but I’m sure I could learn.’



‘Do you know what a quadriplegic is?’

I faltered. ‘When ... you’re stuck in a wheelchair?’

‘I suppose that’s one way of putting it. There are varying degrees, but in this
case we are talking about complete loss of use of the legs, and very limited use
of the hands and arms. Would that bother you?’

‘Well, not as much as it would bother him, obviously.’ I raised a smile, but
Mrs Traynor’s face was expressionless. ‘Sorry - I didn’t mean -’

‘Can you drive, Miss Clark?’

‘Yes.’

‘Clean licence?’

I nodded.

Camilla Traynor ticked something on her list.

The rip was growing. I could see it creeping inexorably up my thigh. At this
rate, by the time I stood up I would look like a Vegas showgirl.

‘Are you all right?’ Mrs Traynor was gazing at me.

‘I’m just a little warm. Do you mind if I take my jacket off?’ Before she could
say anything, I wrenched the jacket off in one fluid motion and tied it around my
waist, obscuring the split in the skirt. ‘So hot,’ I said, smiling at her, ‘coming in
from outside. You know.’

There was the faintest pause, and then Mrs Traynor looked back at her folder.
‘How old are you?’

‘I’m twenty-six.’

‘And you were in your previous job for six years.’

‘Yes. You should have a copy of my reference.’

‘Mm ... ’ Mrs Traynor held it up and squinted. ‘Your previous employer says
you are a “warm, chatty and life-enhancing presence”.’

‘Yes, I paid him.’

That poker face again.

Oh hell, I thought.

It was as if I were being studied. Not necessarily in a good way. My mother’s
shirt felt suddenly cheap, the synthetic threads shining in the thin light. I should
just have worn my plainest trousers and a shirt. Anything but this suit.

‘So why are you leaving this job, where you are clearly so well regarded?’



Trank - the owner - sold the cafe. It’s the one at the bottom of the castle. The
Buttered Bun. Was,’ I corrected myself. T would have been happy to stay.’

Mrs Traynor nodded, either because she didn’t feel the need to say anything
further about it, or because she too would have been happy for me to stay there.

‘And what exactly do you want to do with your life?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Do you have aspirations for a career? Would this be a stepping stone to
something else? Do you have a professional dream that you wish to pursue?’

I looked at her blankly.

Was this some kind of trick question?

‘I ... I haven’t really thought that far. Since I lost my job. I just -’ I
swallowed. ‘I just want to work again.’

It sounded feeble. What kind of person came to an interview without even
knowing what she wanted to do? Mrs Traynor’s expression suggested she
thought the same thing.

She put down her pen. ‘So, Miss Clark, why should I employ you instead of,
say, the previous candidate, who has several years’ experience with
quadriplegics?’

I looked at her. ‘Um ... honestly? I don’t know.’ This met with silence, so I
added, ‘I guess that would be your call.’

‘You can’t give me a single reason why I should employ you?’

My mother’s face suddenly swam into view. The thought of going home with
a ruined suit and another interview failure was beyond me. And this job paid
more than £9 an hour.

I sat up a bit. ‘Well ... I’m a fast learner, I’m never ill, I only live on the other
side of the castle, and I’m stronger than I look ... probably strong enough to help
move your husband around -’

‘My husband? It’s not my husband you’d be working with. It’s my son.’

‘Your son?’ I blinked. ‘Um ... I’m not afraid of hard work. I’m good at
dealing with all sorts of people and ... and I make a mean cup of tea.’ I began to
blather into the silence. The thought of it being her son had thrown me. ‘I mean,
my dad seems to think that’s not the greatest reference. But in my experience
there’s not much that can’t be fixed by a decent cup of tea ... ’