There was something a bit strange about the way Mrs Traynor was looking at
me.
‘Sorry/ I spluttered, as I realized what I had said. ‘I’m not suggesting the
thing ... the paraplegia ... quadriplegia ... with ... your son ... could be solved
by a cup of tea/
‘I should tell you, Miss Clark, that this is not a permanent contract. It would
be for a maximum of six months. That is why the salary is ... commensurate. We
wanted to attract the right person/
‘Believe me, when you’ve done shifts at a chicken processing factory,
working in Guantanamo Bay for six months looks attractive.’ Oh, shut up,
Louisa. I bit my lip.
But Mrs Traynor seemed oblivious. She closed her file. ‘My son - Will - was
injured in a road accident almost two years ago. He requires twenty-four-hour
care, the majority of which is provided by a trained nurse. I have recently
returned to work, and the carer would be required to be here throughout the day
to keep him company, help him with food and drink, generally provide an extra
pair of hands, and make sure that he comes to no harm.’ Camilla Traynor looked
down at her lap. ‘It is of the utmost importance that Will has someone here who
understands that responsibility.’
Everything she said, even the way she emphasized her words, seemed to hint
at some stupidity on my part.
‘I can see that.’ I began to gather up my bag.
‘So would you like the job?’
It was so unexpected that at first I thought I had heard her wrong. ‘Sorry?’
‘We would need you to start as soon as possible. Payment will be weekly.’
I was briefly lost for words. ‘You’d rather have me instead of -’ I began.
‘The hours are quite lengthy - 8am till 5pm, sometimes later. There is no
lunch break as such, although when Nathan, his daily nurse, comes in at
lunchtime to attend to him, there should be a free half an hour.’
‘You wouldn’t need anything ... medical?’
‘Will has all the medical care we can offer him. What we want for him is
somebody robust ... and upbeat. His life is ... complicated, and it is important
that he is encouraged to -’ She broke off, her gaze fixed on something outside
the French windows. Finally, she turned back to me. ‘Well, let’s just say that his
mental welfare is as important to us as his physical welfare. Do you understand?’
‘I think so. Would I ... wear a uniform?’
‘No. Definitely no uniform.’ She glanced at my legs. ‘Although you might
want to wear ... something a bit less revealing.’
I glanced down to where my jacket had shifted, revealing a generous expanse
of bare thigh. ‘It... I’m sorry. It ripped. It’s not actually mine.’
But Mrs Traynor no longer appeared to be listening. ‘I’ll explain what needs
doing when you start. Will is not the easiest person to be around at the moment,
Miss Clark. This job is going to be about mental attitude as much as
any ... professional skills you might have. So. We will see you tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow? You don’t want... you don’t want me to meet him?’
‘Will is not having a good day. I think it’s best that we start afresh then.’
I stood up, realizing Mrs Traynor was already waiting to see me out.
‘Yes,’ I said, tugging Mum’s jacket across me. ‘Um. Thank you. I’ll see you at
eight o’clock tomorrow.’
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.
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