13
Patrick stood on the edge of the track, jogging on the spot, his new Nike T-shirt
and shorts sticking slightly to his damp limbs. I had stopped by to say hello and
to tell him that I wouldn’t be at the Triathlon Terrors meeting at the pub that
evening. Nathan was off, and I had stepped in to take over the evening routine.
‘That’s three meetings you’ve missed.’
‘Is it?’ I counted back on my fingers. ‘I suppose it is.’
‘You’ll have to come next week. It’s all the travel plans for the Xtreme Viking.
And you haven’t told me what you want to do for your birthday.’ He began to do
his stretches, lifting his leg high and pressing his chest to his knee. ‘I thought
maybe the cinema? I don’t want to do a big meal, not while I’m training.’
‘Ah. Mum and Dad are planning a special dinner.’
He grabbed at his heel, pointing his knee to the ground.
I couldn’t help but notice that his leg was becoming weirdly sinewy.
‘It’s not exactly a night out, is it?’
‘Well, nor is the multiplex. Anyway, I feel like I should, Patrick. Mum’s been
a bit down.’
Treena had moved out the previous weekend (minus my lemons washbag - I
retrieved that the night before she went). Mum was devastated; it was actually
worse than when Treena had gone to university the first time around. She missed
Thomas like an amputated limb. His toys, which had littered the living-room
floor since babyhood, were boxed up and put away. There were no chocolate
fingers or small cartons of drink in the cupboard. She no longer had a reason to
walk to the school at 3.15pm, nobody to chat to on the short walk home. It had
been the only time Mum ever really spent outside the house. Now she went
nowhere at all, apart from the weekly supermarket shop with Dad.
She floated around the house looking a bit lost for three days, then she began
spring cleaning with a vigour that frightened even Granddad. He would mouth
gummy protests at her as she tried to vacuum under the chair that he was still
sitting in, or flick at his shoulders with her duster. Treena had said she wouldn’t
come home for the first few weeks, just to give Thomas a chance to settle. When
she rang each evening, Mum would speak to them and then cry for a full half-
hour in her bedroom afterwards.
‘You’re always working late these days. I feel like I hardly see you.’
‘Well, you’re always training. Anyway, it’s good money, Patrick. I’m hardly
going to say no to the overtime.’
He couldn’t argue with that.
I was earning more than I had ever earned in my life. I doubled the amount I
gave my parents, put some aside into a savings account every month, and I was
still left with more than I could spend. Part of it was, I worked so many hours
that I was never away from Granta House when the shops were open. The other
was, simply, that I didn’t really have an appetite for spending. The spare hours I
did have I had started to spend in the library, looking things up on the internet.
There was a whole world available to me from that PC, layer upon layer of it,
and it had begun to exert a siren call.
It had started with the thank-you letter. A couple of days after the concert, I
told Will I thought we should write and thank his friend, the violinist.
‘I bought a nice card on the way in,’ I said. ‘You tell me what you want to say,
and I’ll write it. I’ve even brought in my good pen.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Will said.
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
‘You don’t think so? That man gave us front of house seats. You said yourself
it was fantastic. The least you could do is thank him.’
Will’s jaw was fixed, immovable.
I put down my pen. ‘Or are you just so used to people giving you stuff that
you don’t feel you have to?’
‘You have no idea, Clark, how frustrating it is to rely on someone else to put
your words down for you. The phrase “written on behalf of” is ... humiliating.’
‘Yeah? Well it’s still better than a great big fat nothing,’ I grumbled. ‘I’m
going to thank him, anyway. I won’t mention your name, if you really want to be
an arse about it.’
I wrote the card, and posted it. I said nothing more about it. But that evening,
Will’s words still echoing around my head, I found myself diverting into the
library and, spying an unused computer, I logged on to the internet. I looked up
whether there were any devices that Will could use to do his own writing. Within
an hour, I had come up with three - a piece of voice recognition software,
another type of software which relied on the blinking of an eye, and, as my sister
had mentioned, a tapping device that Will could wear on his head.
He was predictably sniffy about the head device, but he conceded that the
voice recognition software might be useful, and within a week we managed, with
Nathan’s help, to install it on his computer, setting Will up so that with the
computer tray fixed to his chair, he no longer needed someone else to type for
him. He was a bit self-conscious about it initially, but after I instructed him to
begin everything with, ‘Take a letter, Miss Clark,’ he got over it.
Even Mrs Traynor couldn’t find anything to complain about. ‘If there is any
other equipment that you think might be useful,’ she said, her lips still pursed as
if she couldn’t quite believe this might have been a straightforwardly good thing,
‘do let us know.’ She eyed Will nervously, as if he might actually be about to
wrench it off with his jaw.
Three days later, just as I set off for work, the postman handed me a letter. I
opened it on the bus, thinking it might be an early birthday card from some
distant cousin. It read, in computerized text:
Dear Clark,
This is to show you that I am not an entirely selfish arse. And I do appreciate your efforts.
Thank you.
Will
I laughed so hard the bus driver asked me if my lottery numbers had come up.
After years spent in that box room, my clothes perched on a rail in the hallway
outside, Treena’s bedroom felt palatial. The first night I spent in it I spun round
with my arms outstretched, just luxuriating in the fact that I couldn’t touch both
walls simultaneously. I went to the DIY store and bought paint and new blinds,
as well as a new bedside light and some shelves, which I assembled myself. It’s
not that I’m good at that stuff; I guess I just wanted to see if I could do it.
I set about redecorating, painting for an hour a night after I came home from
work, and at the end of the week even Dad had to admit I’d done a really good
job. He stared for a bit at my cutting in, fingered the blinds that I had put up
myself, and put a hand on my shoulder. ‘This job has been the making of you,
Lou.’
I bought a new duvet cover, a rug and some oversized cushions - just in case
anyone ever stopped by, and fancied lounging. Not that anyone did. The calendar
went on the back of the new door. Nobody saw it except for me. Nobody else
would have known what it meant, anyway.
I did feel a bit bad about the fact that once we had put Thomas’s camp bed up
next to Treena’s in the box room, there wasn’t actually any floor space left, but
then I rationalized - they didn’t even really live here any more. And the box
room was somewhere they were only going to sleep. There was no point in the
larger room being empty for weeks on end.
I went to work each day, thinking about other places I could take Will. I didn’t
have any overall plan, I just focused each day on getting him out and about and
trying to keep him happy. There were some days - days when his limbs burnt, or
when infection claimed him and he lay miserable and feverish in bed - that were
harder than others. But on the good days I had managed several times to get him
out into the spring sunshine. I knew now that one of the things Will hated most
was the pity of strangers, so I drove him to local beauty spots, where for an hour
or so it could be just the two of us. I made picnics and we sat out on the edges of
fields, just enjoying the breeze and being away from the annexe.
‘My boyfriend wants to meet you,’ I told him one afternoon, breaking off
pieces of cheese and pickle sandwich for him.
I had driven several miles out of town, up on to a hill, and we could see the
castle, across the valley opposite, separated from us by fields of lambs.
‘Why?’
‘He wants to know who I’m spending all these late nights with.’
Oddly, I could see he found this quite cheering.
‘Running Man.’
‘I think my parents do too.’
‘I get nervous when a girl says she wants me to meet her parents. How is your
mum, anyway?’
The same.’
‘Your dad’s job? Any news?’
‘No. Next week, they’re telling him now. Anyway, they said did I want to
invite you to my birthday dinner on Friday? All very relaxed. Just family, really.
But it’s fine ... I said you wouldn’t want to.’
‘Who says I wouldn’t want to?’
‘You hate strangers. You don’t like eating in front of people. And you don’t
like the sound of my boyfriend. It seems like a no-brainer to me.’
I had worked him out now. The best way to get Will to do anything was to tell
him you knew he wouldn’t want to. Some obstinate, contrary part of him still
couldn’t bear it.
Will chewed for a minute. ‘No. I’ll come to your birthday. It’ll give your
mother something to focus on, if nothing else.’
‘Really? Oh God, if I tell her she’ll start polishing and dusting this evening.’
‘Are you sure she’s your biological mother? Isn’t there supposed to be some
kind of genetic similarity there? Sandwich please, Clark. And more pickle on the
next bit.’
I had been only half joking. Mum went into a complete tailspin at the thought
of hosting a quadriplegic. Her hands flew to her face, and then she started
rearranging stuff on the dresser, as if he were going to arrive within minutes of
me telling her.
‘But what if he needs to go to the loo? We don’t have a downstairs bathroom.
I don’t think Daddy would be able to carry him upstairs. I could help ... but I’d
feel a bit worried about where to put my hands. Would Patrick do it?’
‘You don’t need to worry about that side of things. Really.’
‘And what about his food? Will he need his pureed? Is there anything he can’t
eat?’
‘No, he just needs help picking it up.’
‘Who’s going to do that?’
‘I will. Relax, Mum. He’s nice. You’ll like him.’
And so it was arranged. Nathan would pick Will up and drive him over, and
would come by two hours later to take him home again and run through the
night-time routine. I had offered, but they both insisted I should 'let my hair
down’ on my birthday. They plainly hadn’t met my parents.
At half past seven on the dot, I opened the door to find Will and Nathan in the
front porch. Will was wearing his smart shirt and jacket. I didn’t know whether
to be pleased that he had made the effort, or worried that my mum would now
spend the first two hours of the night worrying that she hadn’t dressed smartly
enough.
‘Hey, you.’
My dad emerged into the hallway behind me. ‘Aha. Was the ramp okay, lads?’
He had spent all afternoon making the particle-board ramp for the outside steps.
Nathan carefully negotiated Will’s chair up and into our narrow hallway.
‘Nice,’ Nathan said, as I closed the door behind him. ‘Very nice. I’ve seen worse
in hospitals.’
‘Bernard Clark.’ Dad reached out and shook Nathan’s hand. He held it out
towards Will, before snatching it away again with a sudden flush of
embarrassment. ‘Bernard. Sorry, um ... I don’t know how to greet a ... I can’t
shake your -’ He began to stutter.
‘A curtsy will be fine.’
Dad stared at him and then, when he realized Will was joking, he let out a
great laugh of relief. ‘Hah!’ he said, and clapped Will on the shoulder. ‘Yes.
Curtsy. Nice one. Hah!
It broke the ice. Nathan left with a wave and a wink, and I wheeled Will
through to the kitchen. Mum, luckily, was holding a casserole dish, which
absolved her of the same anxiety.
‘Mum, this is Will. Will, Josephine.’
‘Josie, please.’ She beamed at him, her oven gloves up to her elbows. ‘Lovely
to meet you finally, Will.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said. ‘Don’t let me interrupt.’
She put down the dish and her hand went to her hair, always a good sign with
my mother. It was a shame she hadn’t remembered to take an oven glove off
first.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Roast dinner. It’s all in the timing, you know.’
‘Not really,’ Will said. ‘I’m not a cook. But I love good food. It’s why I have
been looking forward to tonight.’
‘So ... 5 Dad opened the fridge. ‘How do we do this? Do you have a special
beer ... cup, Will?’
If it was Dad, I told Will, he would have had an adapted beer cup before he
had a wheelchair.
‘Got to get your priorities right,’ Dad said. I rummaged in Will’s bag until I
found his beaker.
‘Beer will be fine. Thank you.’
He took a sip and I stood in the kitchen, suddenly conscious of our tiny,
shabby house with its 1980s wallpaper and dented kitchen cupboards. Will’s
home was elegantly furnished, its things sparse and beautiful. Our house looked
as if 90 per cent of its contents came from the local pound shop. Thomas’s dog¬
eared paintings covered every spare surface of wall. But if he had noticed, Will
said nothing. He and Dad had quickly found a shared point of reference, which
turned out to be my general uselessness. I didn’t mind. It kept them both happy.
‘Did you know, she once drove backwards into a bollard and swore it was the
bollard’s fault... ’
‘You want to see her lowering my ramp. It’s like Ski Sunday coming out of
that car sometimes ... ’
Dad burst out laughing.
I left them to it. Mum followed me out, fretting. She put a tray of glasses on to
the dining table, then glanced up at the clock. ‘Where’s Patrick?’
‘He was coming straight from training,’ I said. ‘Perhaps he’s been held up.’
‘He couldn’t put it off just for your birthday? This chicken is going to be
spoilt if he’s much longer.’
‘Mum, it will be fine.’
I waited until she had put the tray down, and then I slid my arms around her
and gave her a hug. She was rigid with anxiety. I felt a sudden wave of sympathy
for her. It couldn’t be easy being my mother.
‘Really. It will be fine.’
She let go of me, kissed the top of my head, and brushed her hands down her
apron. ‘I wish your sister was here. It seems wrong to have a celebration without
her.’
Not to me it didn’t. Just for once, I was quite enjoying being the focus of
attention. It might sound childish, but it was true. I loved having Will and Dad
laughing about me. I loved the fact that every element of supper - from roast
chicken to chocolate mousse - was my favourite. I liked the fact that I could be
who I wanted to be without my sister’s voice reminding me of who I had been.
The doorbell rang, and Mum flapped her hands. There he is. Lou, why don’t
you start serving?’
Patrick was still flushed from his exertions at the track. ‘Happy birthday,
babe,’ he said, stooping to kiss me. He smelt of aftershave and deodorant and
warm, recently showered skin.
‘Best go straight through.’ I nodded towards the living room. ‘Mum’s having a
timing meltdown.’
‘Oh.’ He glanced down at his watch. ‘Sorry. Must have lost track of time.’
‘Not your time, though, eh?’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
Dad had moved the big gateleg table into the living room. He had also, on my
instruction, moved one of the sofas to the other wall so that Will would be able
to enter the room unobstructed. He manoeuvred his wheelchair to the placing I
pointed to, and then elevated himself a little so that he would be the same height
as everyone else. I sat on his left, and Patrick sat opposite. He and Will and
Granddad nodded their hellos. I had already warned Patrick not to try to shake
his hand. Even as I sat down I could feel Will studying Patrick, and I wondered,
briefly, whether he would be as charming to my boyfriend as he had been to my
parents.
Will inclined his head towards me. ‘If you look in the back of the chair, there’s
a little something for the dinner.’
I leant back and reached my hand downwards into his bag. I pulled it up
again, retrieving a bottle of Laurent-Perrier champagne.
‘You should always have champagne on your birthday,’ he said.
‘Oh, look at that,’ Mum said, bringing in the plates. ‘How lovely! But we have
no champagne glasses.’
‘These will be fine,’ Will said.
‘I’ll open it.’ Patrick reached for it, unwound the wire, and placed his thumbs
under the cork. He kept glancing over at Will, as if he were not what he had
expected at all.
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