me before you, 03.2

‘Will it help?’
I blinked, my mouth opening briefly. I closed it. Dad always said it made me
look more stupid than I actually was. ‘Well ... can I get you anything?’
He turned to look at me. His jaw was covered in several weeks of stubble, and
his eyes were unreadable. He turned away.
‘I’ll I cast around the room. ‘I’ll see if there’s any washing, then.’
I walked out of the room, my heart thumping. From the safety of the kitchen I
pulled out my mobile phone and thumped out a message to my sister.
This is awful. He hates me.
The reply came back within seconds.
You have only been there an hour,
you wuss! M & D really
worried about money. Just get a grip
& think of hourly rate. X
I snapped my mobile phone shut, and blew out my cheeks. I went through the
laundry basket in the bathroom, managing to raise a paltry quarter load of
washing, and spent some minutes checking the instructions to the machine. I
didn’t want to mis-programme it or do anything which might prompt Will or Mrs
Traynor to look at me like I was stupid again. I started the washing machine and
stood there, trying to work out what else I could legitimately do. I pulled the
vacuum cleaner from the hall cupboard and ran it up and down the corridor and
into the two bedrooms, thinking all the while that if my parents could see me
they would have insisted on taking a commemorative photograph. The spare
bedroom was almost empty, like a hotel room. I suspected Nathan did not stay
over often. I thought I probably couldn’t blame him.
I hesitated outside Will Traynor’s bedroom, then reasoned that it needed
vacuuming just like anywhere else. There was a built-in shelf unit along one
side, upon which sat around twenty framed photographs.
As I vacuumed around the bed, I allowed myself a quick peek at them. There
was a man bungee jumping from a cliff, his arms outstretched like a statue of
Christ. There was a man who might have been Will in what looked like jungle,
and him again in the midst of a group of drunken friends. The men wore bow
ties and dinner jackets and had their arms around each other’s shoulders.
There he was on a ski slope, beside a girl with dark glasses and long blonde
hair. I stooped, to get a better view of him in his ski goggles. He was clean¬
shaven in the photograph, and even in the bright light his face had that expensive
sheen to it that moneyed people get through going on holiday three times a year.
He had broad, muscular shoulders visible even through his ski jacket. I put the
photograph carefully back on the table and continued to vacuum around the back
of the bed. Finally, I turned the vacuum cleaner off, and began to wind the cord
up. As I reached down to unplug it, I caught a movement in the corner of my eye
and jumped, letting out a small shriek. Will Traynor was in the doorway,
watching me.
‘Courchevel. Two and a half years ago.’
I blushed. ‘I’m sorry. I was just -’
‘You were just looking at my photographs. Wondering how awful it must be to
live like that and then turn into a cripple.’
‘No.’ I blushed even more furiously.
‘The rest of my photographs are in the bottom drawer if you find yourself
overcome with curiosity again,’ he said.
And then with a low hum the wheelchair turned to the right, and he
disappeared.
The morning sagged and decided to last for several years. I couldn’t remember
the last time minutes and hours stretched so interminably. I tried to find as many
jobs to occupy myself as I could, and went into the living room as seldom as
possible, knowing I was being cowardly, but not really caring.
At eleven I brought Will Traynor a beaker of water and his anti-spasm
medication, as Nathan had requested. I placed the pill on his tongue and then
offered him the beaker, as Nathan had instructed me. It was pale, opaque plastic,
the kind of thing Thomas had used, except without Bob the Builder on the sides.
He swallowed with some effort, and then signalled to me that I should leave him
alone.
I dusted some shelves that didn’t really need dusting, and contemplated
cleaning some windows. Around me the annexe was silent, apart from the low
hum of the television in the living room where he sat. I didn’t feel confident
enough to put on a music station in the kitchen. I had a feeling he would have
something cutting to say about my choice in music.
At twelve thirty, Nathan arrived, bringing with him the cold air of outside, and
a raised eyebrow. ‘All okay?’ he said.
I had rarely been so happy to see someone in my life. ‘Fine.’
‘Great. You can take a half-hour now. Me and Mr T have a few things we
attend to at this point in the day.’
I almost ran for my coat. I hadn’t planned on going out for lunch, but I was
almost faint with relief at getting out of that house. I pulled up my collar, stuck
my handbag on my shoulder, and set off at a brisk walk down the drive, as if I
had somewhere I actually wanted to go. In fact, I just walked around the
surrounding streets for half an hour, breathing hot clouds of breath into my
tightly wrapped scarf.
There were no cafes at this end of town, now that The Buttered Bun was
closed. The castle was deserted. The nearest eating place was a gastropub, the
kind of place where I doubted I could afford a drink, let alone a quick lunch. All
the cars in the car park were huge and expensive with recent number plates.
I stood in the castle car park, making sure I was out of view of Granta House,
and dialled my sister’s number. ‘Hey.’
‘You know I can’t talk at work. You haven’t walked out, have you?’
‘No. I just needed to hear a friendly voice.’
‘Is he that bad?’
‘Treen, he hates me. He looks at me like I’m something the cat dragged in.
And he doesn’t even drink tea. I’m hiding from him.’
‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’
‘What?’
‘Just talk to him, for crying out loud. Of course he’s miserable. He’s stuck in a
bloody wheelchair. And you’re probably being useless. Just talk to him. Get to
know him. What’s the worst that can happen?’
‘I don’t know ... I don’t know if I can stick it.’
‘I’m not telling Mum you’re giving up your job after half a day. They won’t
give you any benefits, Lou. You can’t do this. We can’t afford for you to do this.’
She was right. I realized I hated my sister.
There was a brief silence. Treen’s voice turned uncharacteristically
conciliatory. This was really worrying. It meant she knew I did actually have the
worst job in the world. 'Look/ she said. ‘It’s just six months. Just do the six
months, have something useful on your CV and you can get a job you actually
like. And hey - look at it this way, at least it’s not working nights at the chicken
factory, right?’
‘Nights at the chicken factory would feel like a holiday compared with -’
‘I’m going now, Lou. I’ll see you later.’
‘So would you like to go somewhere this afternoon? We could drive somewhere
if you like.’
Nathan had been gone for almost half an hour. I had spun out the washing of
the tea mugs as long as humanly possible, and I thought that if I spent one more
hour in this silent house my head might explode.
He turned his head towards me. ‘Where did you have in mind?’
‘I don’t know. Just a drive in the country?’ I was doing this thing I sometimes
do of pretending I’m Treena. She is one of those people who are completely
calm and competent, and as a result no one ever messes with her. I sounded, to
my own ears, professional and upbeat.
‘The country,’ he said, as if considering it. ‘And what would we see. Some
trees? Some sky?’
‘I don’t know. What do you normally do?’
‘I don’t do anything, Miss Clark. I can’t do anything any more. I sit. I just
about exist.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I was told that you have a car that’s adapted for wheelchair
use?’
‘And you’re worried that it will stop working if it doesn’t get used every day?’
‘No, but I -’
‘Are you telling me I should go out?’
‘I just thought -’
‘You thought a little drive would be good for me? A breath of fresh air?’
‘I’m just trying to -’
‘Miss Clark, my life is not going to be significantly improved by a drive
around Stortfold’s country lanes.’ He turned away.
His head had sunk into his shoulders and I wondered whether he was
comfortable. It didn’t seem to be the time to ask him. We sat in silence.
‘Do you want me to bring you your computer?’
‘Why, have you thought of a good quadriplegic support group I could join?
Quads R Us? The Tin Wheel Club?’
I took a deep breath, trying to make my voice sound confident.
‘Okay ... well ... seeing as we’re going to spend all this time in each other’s
company perhaps we could get to know something about each other -’
There was something about his face then that made me falter. He was staring
straight ahead at the wall, a tic moving in his jaw.
‘It’s just ... it’s quite a long time to spend with someone. All day,’ I continued.
‘Perhaps if you could tell me a little of what you want to do, what you like, then
I can ... make sure things are as you like them?’
This time the silence was painful. I heard my voice slowly swallowed by it,
and couldn’t work out what to do with my hands. Treena and her competent
manner had evaporated.
Finally, the wheelchair hummed and he turned slowly to face me.
‘Here’s what I know about you, Miss Clark. My mother says you’re chatty.’
He said it like it was an affliction. ‘Can we strike a deal? Whereby you are very
un-chatty around me?’
I swallowed, feeling my face flame.
‘Fine,’ I said, when I could speak again. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen. If you want
anything just call me.’
‘You can’t give up already.’
I was lying sideways on my bed with my legs stretched up the wall, like I did
when I was a teenager. I had been up here since supper, which was unusual for
me. Since Thomas was born, he and Treena had moved into the bigger room, and
I was in the box room, which was small enough to make you feel claustrophobic
should you sit in it for more than half an hour at a time.
But I didn’t want to sit downstairs with Mum and Granddad because Mum
kept looking at me anxiously and saying things like ‘It will get better, love’ and
‘No job is great on the first day’ - as if she’d had a ruddy job in the last twenty
years. It was making me feel guilty. And I hadn’t even done anything.
‘I didn’t say I was giving up.’
Treena had barged in without knocking, as she did every day, even though I
always had to knock quietly on her room, in case Thomas was sleeping.
‘And I could have been naked. You could at least shout first.’
‘I’ve seen worse. Mum thinks you’re going to hand in your notice.’
I slid my legs sideways down the wall and pushed myself up to a seated
position.
‘Oh God, Treen. It’s worse than I thought. He is so miserable.’
‘He can’t move. Of course he’s miserable.’
‘No, but he’s sarcastic and mean with it. Every time I say something or
suggest something he looks at me like I’m stupid, or says something that makes
me feel about two years old.’
‘You probably did say something stupid. You just need to get used to each
other.’
‘I really didn’t. I was so careful. I hardly said anything except “Would you
like to go out for a drive?” or “Would you like a cup of tea?”.’
‘Well, maybe he’s like that with everyone at the start, until he knows whether
you’re going to stick around. I bet they get through loads of helpers.’
‘He didn’t even want me in the same room as him. I don’t think I can stick it,
Katrina. I really don’t. Honest - if you’d been there you would understand.’
Treena said nothing then, just looked at me for a while. She got up and
glanced out of the door, as if checking whether there was anybody on the
landing.
‘I’m thinking of going back to college,’ she said, finally.
It took my brain a few seconds to register this change of tack.
‘Oh my God,’ I said. ‘But -’
‘I’m going to take a loan to pay for the fees. But I can get some special grant
too, because of having Thomas, and the university is offering me reduced rates
because they ... ’ She shrugged, a little embarrassed. ‘They say they think I
could excel. Someone’s dropped out of the business studies course, so they can
take me for the beginning of the next term.’
‘What about Thomas?’
‘There’s a nursery on campus. We can stay there in a subsidized flat in halls in
the week, and come back here most weekends.’
‘Oh.’
I could feel her watching me. I didn’t know what to do with my face.
‘I’m really desperate to use my brain again. Doing the flowers is doing my
head in. I want to learn. I want to improve myself. And I’m sick of my hands
always being freezing cold from the water.’
We both stared at her hands, which were pink tinged, even in the tropical
warmth of our house.
‘But -’
‘Yup. I won’t be working, Lou. I won’t be able to give Mum anything. I
might... I might even need a bit of help from them.’ This time she looked quite
uncomfortable. Her expression, when she glanced up at me, was almost
apologetic.
Downstairs Mum was laughing at something on the television. We could hear
her exclaiming to Granddad. She often explained the plot of the show to him,
even though we told her all the time she didn’t need to. I couldn’t speak. The
significance of my sister’s words sank in slowly but inexorably. I felt like a
Mafia victim must do, watching the concrete setting slowly around their ankles.
‘I really need to do this, Lou. I want more for Thomas, more for both of us.
The only way I’ll get anywhere is by going back to college. I haven’t got a
Patrick. I’m not sure I’ll ever have a Patrick, given that nobody’s been remotely
interested since I had Thomas. I need to do the best I can by myself.’
When I didn’t say anything, she added, ‘For me and Thomas.’
I nodded.
‘Lou? Please?’
I had never seen my sister look like that before. It made me feel really
uncomfortable. I lifted my head, and raised a smile. My voice, when it emerged,
didn’t even sound like my own.
‘Well, like you say. It’s just a matter of getting used to him. It’s bound to be
difficult in the first few days, isn’t it?’

me before you, 03.1

me before you, 03

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.’

£ 0f 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?’
Abroad 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.
I felt his mother stiffen.
‘Will, stop it!’
He didn’t even glance towards her. Another prehistoric sound emerged from
somewhere near his chest. It was a terrible, agonizing noise. I tried not to flinch.
The man was grimacing, his head tilted and sunk into his shoulders as he stared
at me through contorted features. He looked grotesque, and vaguely angry. I
realized that where I held my bag, my knuckles had turned white.
‘Will! Please.’ There was a faint note of hysteria in his mother’s voice.
‘Please, don’t do this.’
Oh God, I thought. I’m not up to this. I swallowed, hard. The man was still
staring at me. He seemed to be waiting for me to do something.
‘I - I’m Lou.’ My voice, uncharacteristically tremulous, broke into the silence.
I wondered, briefly, whether to hold out a hand and then, remembering that he
wouldn’t be able to take it, gave a feeble wave instead. ‘Short for Louisa.’
Then to my astonishment his features cleared, and his head straightened on his
shoulders.

Will Traynor gazed at me steadily, the faintest of smiles flickering across his
face. ‘Good morning, Miss Clark,’ he said. ‘I hear you’re my latest minder.’
Nathan had finished adjusting the footrests. He shook his head as he stood up.
‘You are a bad man, Mr T. Very bad.’ He grinned, and held out a broad hand,
which I shook limply. Nathan exuded an air of unflappability. ‘I’m afraid you
just got Will’s best Christy Brown impression. You’ll get used to him. His bark
is worse than his bite.’
Mrs Traynor was holding the cross at her neck with slim white fingers. She
moved it backwards and forwards along its thin gold chain, a nervous habit. Her
face was rigid. ‘I’ll leave you all to get on. You can call through using the
intercom if you need any help. Nathan will talk you through Will’s routines, and
his equipment.’
‘I’m here, mother. You don’t have to talk across me. My brain isn’t paralysed.
Yet.’
‘Yes, well, if you’re going to be foul, Will, I think it’s best if Miss Clark does
talk directly to Nathan.’ His mother wouldn’t look at him as she spoke, I noticed.
She kept her gaze about ten feet away on the floor. ‘I’m working from home
today. So I’ll pop in at lunchtime, Miss Clark.’
‘Okay.’ My voice emerged as a squawk.
Mrs Traynor disappeared. We were silent while we listened to her clipped
footsteps disappearing down the hall towards the main house.
Then Nathan broke the silence. ‘You mind if I go and talk Miss Clark through
your meds, Will? You want the television? Some music?’
‘Radio Four please, Nathan.’
‘Sure thing.’
We walked through to the kitchen.
‘You not had much experience with quadriplegics, Mrs T says?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. I’ll keep it fairly simple for today. There’s a folder here that tells you
pretty much everything you need to know about Will’s routines, and all his
emergency numbers. I’d advise you to read it, if you get a spare moment. I’m
guessing you’ll have a few.’
Nathan took a key from his belt and opened a locked cabinet, which was
packed full of boxes and small plastic canisters of medication. ‘Right. This lot is

mostly my bag, but you do need to know where everything is in case of
emergencies. There’s a timetable there on the wall so you can see what he has
when on a daily basis. Any extras you give him you mark in there he pointed
‘- but you’re best to clear anything through Mrs T, at least at this stage.’
‘I didn’t realize I was going to have to handle drugs.’
‘It’s not hard. He mostly knows what he needs. But he might need a little help
getting them down. We tend to use this beaker here. Or you can crush them with
this pestle and mortar and put them in a drink.’
I picked up one of the labels. I wasn’t sure I had ever seen so many drugs
outside a pharmacy.
‘Okay. So he has two meds for blood pressure, this to lower it at bedtime, this
one to raise it when he gets out of bed. These he needs fairly often to control his
muscular spasms - you will need to give him one mid-morning, and again at
mid-afternoon. He doesn’t find those too hard to swallow, because they’re the
little coated ones. These are for bladder spasms, and these here are for acid
reflux. He sometimes needs these after eating if he gets uncomfortable. This is
his antihistamine for the morning, and these are his nasal sprays, but I mostly do
those last thing before I leave, so you shouldn’t have to worry. He can have
paracetamol if he’s in pain, and he does have the odd sleeping pill, but these tend
to make him more irritable in the daytime, so we try to restrict them.
‘These -’ he held up another bottle ‘- are the antibiotics he has every two
weeks for his catheter change. I do those unless I’m away, in which case I’ll
leave clear instructions. They’re pretty strong. There are the boxes of rubber
gloves, if you need to clean him up at all. There’s also cream there if he gets
sore, but he’s been pretty good since we got the air mattress.’
As I stood there, he reached into his pocket and handed another key to me.
‘This is the spare,’ he said. ‘Not to be given to anyone else. Not even Will, okay?
Guard it with your life.’
‘It’s a lot to remember.’ I swallowed.
‘It’s all written down. All you need to remember for today are his anti-spasm
meds. Those ones. There’s my mobile number if you need to call me. I’m
studying when I’m not here, so I’d rather not be called too often but feel free till
you feel confident.’

I stared at the folder in front of me. It felt like I was about to sit an exam I
hadn’t prepared for. 'What if he needs ... to go to the loo?’ I thought of the hoist.
Tm not sure I could, you know, lift him.’ I tried not to let my face betray my
panic.
Nathan shook his head. ‘You don’t need to do any of that. His catheter takes
care of that. I’ll be in at lunchtime to change it all. You’re not here for the
physical stuff.’
‘What am I here for?’
Nathan studied the floor before he looked at me. ‘Try to cheer him up a little?
He’s ... he’s a little cranky. Understandable, given ... the circumstances. But
you’re going to have to have a fairly thick skin. That little skit this morning is
his way of getting you off balance.’
‘Is this why the pay is so good?’
‘Oh yes. No such thing as a free lunch, eh?’ Nathan clapped me on the
shoulder. I felt my body reverberate with it. ‘Ah, he’s all right. You don’t have to
pussyfoot around him.’ He hesitated. ‘I like him.’
He said it like he might be the only person who did.
I followed him back into the living room. Will Traynor’s chair had moved to
the window, and he had his back to us and was staring out, listening to
something on the radio.
‘That’s me done, Will. You want anything before I go?’
‘No. Thank you, Nathan.’
‘I’ll leave you in Miss Clark’s capable hands, then. See you lunchtime, mate.’
I watched the affable helper putting on his jacket with a rising sense of panic.
‘Have fun, you guys.’ Nathan winked at me, and then he was gone.
I stood in the middle of the room, hands thrust in my pockets, unsure what to
do. Will Traynor continued to stare out of the window as if I weren’t there.
‘Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?’ I said, finally, when the silence
became unbearable.
‘Ah. Yes. The girl who makes tea for a living. I wondered how long it would
be before you wanted to show off your skills. No. No, thank you.’
‘Coffee, then?’
‘No hot beverages for me, just now, Miss Clark.’
‘You can call me Lou.’

me before you, 03

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.’

£ 0f 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?’
Abroad 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.
I felt his mother stiffen.
‘Will, stop it!’
He didn’t even glance towards her. Another prehistoric sound emerged from
somewhere near his chest. It was a terrible, agonizing noise. I tried not to flinch.
The man was grimacing, his head tilted and sunk into his shoulders as he stared
at me through contorted features. He looked grotesque, and vaguely angry. I
realized that where I held my bag, my knuckles had turned white.
‘Will! Please.’ There was a faint note of hysteria in his mother’s voice.
‘Please, don’t do this.’
Oh God, I thought. I’m not up to this. I swallowed, hard. The man was still
staring at me. He seemed to be waiting for me to do something.
‘I - I’m Lou.’ My voice, uncharacteristically tremulous, broke into the silence.
I wondered, briefly, whether to hold out a hand and then, remembering that he
wouldn’t be able to take it, gave a feeble wave instead. ‘Short for Louisa.’
Then to my astonishment his features cleared, and his head straightened on his
shoulders.

Will Traynor gazed at me steadily, the faintest of smiles flickering across his
face. ‘Good morning, Miss Clark,’ he said. ‘I hear you’re my latest minder.’
Nathan had finished adjusting the footrests. He shook his head as he stood up.
‘You are a bad man, Mr T. Very bad.’ He grinned, and held out a broad hand,
which I shook limply. Nathan exuded an air of unflappability. ‘I’m afraid you
just got Will’s best Christy Brown impression. You’ll get used to him. His bark
is worse than his bite.’
Mrs Traynor was holding the cross at her neck with slim white fingers. She
moved it backwards and forwards along its thin gold chain, a nervous habit. Her
face was rigid. ‘I’ll leave you all to get on. You can call through using the
intercom if you need any help. Nathan will talk you through Will’s routines, and
his equipment.’
‘I’m here, mother. You don’t have to talk across me. My brain isn’t paralysed.
Yet.’
‘Yes, well, if you’re going to be foul, Will, I think it’s best if Miss Clark does
talk directly to Nathan.’ His mother wouldn’t look at him as she spoke, I noticed.
She kept her gaze about ten feet away on the floor. ‘I’m working from home
today. So I’ll pop in at lunchtime, Miss Clark.’
‘Okay.’ My voice emerged as a squawk.
Mrs Traynor disappeared. We were silent while we listened to her clipped
footsteps disappearing down the hall towards the main house.
Then Nathan broke the silence. ‘You mind if I go and talk Miss Clark through
your meds, Will? You want the television? Some music?’
‘Radio Four please, Nathan.’
‘Sure thing.’
We walked through to the kitchen.
‘You not had much experience with quadriplegics, Mrs T says?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. I’ll keep it fairly simple for today. There’s a folder here that tells you
pretty much everything you need to know about Will’s routines, and all his
emergency numbers. I’d advise you to read it, if you get a spare moment. I’m
guessing you’ll have a few.’
Nathan took a key from his belt and opened a locked cabinet, which was
packed full of boxes and small plastic canisters of medication. ‘Right. This lot is

mostly my bag, but you do need to know where everything is in case of
emergencies. There’s a timetable there on the wall so you can see what he has
when on a daily basis. Any extras you give him you mark in there he pointed
‘- but you’re best to clear anything through Mrs T, at least at this stage.’
‘I didn’t realize I was going to have to handle drugs.’
‘It’s not hard. He mostly knows what he needs. But he might need a little help
getting them down. We tend to use this beaker here. Or you can crush them with
this pestle and mortar and put them in a drink.’
I picked up one of the labels. I wasn’t sure I had ever seen so many drugs
outside a pharmacy.
‘Okay. So he has two meds for blood pressure, this to lower it at bedtime, this
one to raise it when he gets out of bed. These he needs fairly often to control his
muscular spasms - you will need to give him one mid-morning, and again at
mid-afternoon. He doesn’t find those too hard to swallow, because they’re the
little coated ones. These are for bladder spasms, and these here are for acid
reflux. He sometimes needs these after eating if he gets uncomfortable. This is
his antihistamine for the morning, and these are his nasal sprays, but I mostly do
those last thing before I leave, so you shouldn’t have to worry. He can have
paracetamol if he’s in pain, and he does have the odd sleeping pill, but these tend
to make him more irritable in the daytime, so we try to restrict them.
‘These -’ he held up another bottle ‘- are the antibiotics he has every two
weeks for his catheter change. I do those unless I’m away, in which case I’ll
leave clear instructions. They’re pretty strong. There are the boxes of rubber
gloves, if you need to clean him up at all. There’s also cream there if he gets
sore, but he’s been pretty good since we got the air mattress.’
As I stood there, he reached into his pocket and handed another key to me.
‘This is the spare,’ he said. ‘Not to be given to anyone else. Not even Will, okay?
Guard it with your life.’
‘It’s a lot to remember.’ I swallowed.
‘It’s all written down. All you need to remember for today are his anti-spasm
meds. Those ones. There’s my mobile number if you need to call me. I’m
studying when I’m not here, so I’d rather not be called too often but feel free till
you feel confident.’

I stared at the folder in front of me. It felt like I was about to sit an exam I
hadn’t prepared for. 'What if he needs ... to go to the loo?’ I thought of the hoist.
Tm not sure I could, you know, lift him.’ I tried not to let my face betray my
panic.
Nathan shook his head. ‘You don’t need to do any of that. His catheter takes
care of that. I’ll be in at lunchtime to change it all. You’re not here for the
physical stuff.’
‘What am I here for?’
Nathan studied the floor before he looked at me. ‘Try to cheer him up a little?
He’s ... he’s a little cranky. Understandable, given ... the circumstances. But
you’re going to have to have a fairly thick skin. That little skit this morning is
his way of getting you off balance.’
‘Is this why the pay is so good?’
‘Oh yes. No such thing as a free lunch, eh?’ Nathan clapped me on the
shoulder. I felt my body reverberate with it. ‘Ah, he’s all right. You don’t have to
pussyfoot around him.’ He hesitated. ‘I like him.’
He said it like he might be the only person who did.
I followed him back into the living room. Will Traynor’s chair had moved to
the window, and he had his back to us and was staring out, listening to
something on the radio.
‘That’s me done, Will. You want anything before I go?’
‘No. Thank you, Nathan.’
‘I’ll leave you in Miss Clark’s capable hands, then. See you lunchtime, mate.’
I watched the affable helper putting on his jacket with a rising sense of panic.
‘Have fun, you guys.’ Nathan winked at me, and then he was gone.
I stood in the middle of the room, hands thrust in my pockets, unsure what to
do. Will Traynor continued to stare out of the window as if I weren’t there.
‘Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?’ I said, finally, when the silence
became unbearable.
‘Ah. Yes. The girl who makes tea for a living. I wondered how long it would
be before you wanted to show off your skills. No. No, thank you.’
‘Coffee, then?’
‘No hot beverages for me, just now, Miss Clark.’
‘You can call me Lou.’

‘Will it help?’
I blinked, my mouth opening briefly. I closed it. Dad always said it made me
look more stupid than I actually was. ‘Well ... can I get you anything?’
He turned to look at me. His jaw was covered in several weeks of stubble, and
his eyes were unreadable. He turned away.
‘I’ll I cast around the room. ‘I’ll see if there’s any washing, then.’
I walked out of the room, my heart thumping. From the safety of the kitchen I
pulled out my mobile phone and thumped out a message to my sister.
This is awful. He hates me.
The reply came back within seconds.
You have only been there an hour,
you wuss! M & D really
worried about money. Just get a grip
& think of hourly rate. X
I snapped my mobile phone shut, and blew out my cheeks. I went through the
laundry basket in the bathroom, managing to raise a paltry quarter load of
washing, and spent some minutes checking the instructions to the machine. I
didn’t want to mis-programme it or do anything which might prompt Will or Mrs
Traynor to look at me like I was stupid again. I started the washing machine and
stood there, trying to work out what else I could legitimately do. I pulled the
vacuum cleaner from the hall cupboard and ran it up and down the corridor and
into the two bedrooms, thinking all the while that if my parents could see me
they would have insisted on taking a commemorative photograph. The spare
bedroom was almost empty, like a hotel room. I suspected Nathan did not stay
over often. I thought I probably couldn’t blame him.
I hesitated outside Will Traynor’s bedroom, then reasoned that it needed
vacuuming just like anywhere else. There was a built-in shelf unit along one
side, upon which sat around twenty framed photographs.
As I vacuumed around the bed, I allowed myself a quick peek at them. There
was a man bungee jumping from a cliff, his arms outstretched like a statue of
Christ. There was a man who might have been Will in what looked like jungle,

and him again in the midst of a group of drunken friends. The men wore bow
ties and dinner jackets and had their arms around each other’s shoulders.
There he was on a ski slope, beside a girl with dark glasses and long blonde
hair. I stooped, to get a better view of him in his ski goggles. He was clean¬
shaven in the photograph, and even in the bright light his face had that expensive
sheen to it that moneyed people get through going on holiday three times a year.
He had broad, muscular shoulders visible even through his ski jacket. I put the
photograph carefully back on the table and continued to vacuum around the back
of the bed. Finally, I turned the vacuum cleaner off, and began to wind the cord
up. As I reached down to unplug it, I caught a movement in the corner of my eye
and jumped, letting out a small shriek. Will Traynor was in the doorway,
watching me.
‘Courchevel. Two and a half years ago.’
I blushed. ‘I’m sorry. I was just -’
‘You were just looking at my photographs. Wondering how awful it must be to
live like that and then turn into a cripple.’
‘No.’ I blushed even more furiously.
‘The rest of my photographs are in the bottom drawer if you find yourself
overcome with curiosity again,’ he said.
And then with a low hum the wheelchair turned to the right, and he
disappeared.
The morning sagged and decided to last for several years. I couldn’t remember
the last time minutes and hours stretched so interminably. I tried to find as many
jobs to occupy myself as I could, and went into the living room as seldom as
possible, knowing I was being cowardly, but not really caring.
At eleven I brought Will Traynor a beaker of water and his anti-spasm
medication, as Nathan had requested. I placed the pill on his tongue and then
offered him the beaker, as Nathan had instructed me. It was pale, opaque plastic,
the kind of thing Thomas had used, except without Bob the Builder on the sides.
He swallowed with some effort, and then signalled to me that I should leave him
alone.
I dusted some shelves that didn’t really need dusting, and contemplated
cleaning some windows. Around me the annexe was silent, apart from the low

hum of the television in the living room where he sat. I didn’t feel confident
enough to put on a music station in the kitchen. I had a feeling he would have
something cutting to say about my choice in music.
At twelve thirty, Nathan arrived, bringing with him the cold air of outside, and
a raised eyebrow. ‘All okay?’ he said.
I had rarely been so happy to see someone in my life. ‘Fine.’
‘Great. You can take a half-hour now. Me and Mr T have a few things we
attend to at this point in the day.’
I almost ran for my coat. I hadn’t planned on going out for lunch, but I was
almost faint with relief at getting out of that house. I pulled up my collar, stuck
my handbag on my shoulder, and set off at a brisk walk down the drive, as if I
had somewhere I actually wanted to go. In fact, I just walked around the
surrounding streets for half an hour, breathing hot clouds of breath into my
tightly wrapped scarf.
There were no cafes at this end of town, now that The Buttered Bun was
closed. The castle was deserted. The nearest eating place was a gastropub, the
kind of place where I doubted I could afford a drink, let alone a quick lunch. All
the cars in the car park were huge and expensive with recent number plates.
I stood in the castle car park, making sure I was out of view of Granta House,
and dialled my sister’s number. ‘Hey.’
‘You know I can’t talk at work. You haven’t walked out, have you?’
‘No. I just needed to hear a friendly voice.’
‘Is he that bad?’
‘Treen, he hates me. He looks at me like I’m something the cat dragged in.
And he doesn’t even drink tea. I’m hiding from him.’
‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’
‘What?’
‘Just talk to him, for crying out loud. Of course he’s miserable. He’s stuck in a
bloody wheelchair. And you’re probably being useless. Just talk to him. Get to
know him. What’s the worst that can happen?’
‘I don’t know ... I don’t know if I can stick it.’
‘I’m not telling Mum you’re giving up your job after half a day. They won’t
give you any benefits, Lou. You can’t do this. We can’t afford for you to do this.’
She was right. I realized I hated my sister.

There was a brief silence. Treen’s voice turned uncharacteristically
conciliatory. This was really worrying. It meant she knew I did actually have the
worst job in the world. 'Look/ she said. ‘It’s just six months. Just do the six
months, have something useful on your CV and you can get a job you actually
like. And hey - look at it this way, at least it’s not working nights at the chicken
factory, right?’
‘Nights at the chicken factory would feel like a holiday compared with -’
‘I’m going now, Lou. I’ll see you later.’
‘So would you like to go somewhere this afternoon? We could drive somewhere
if you like.’
Nathan had been gone for almost half an hour. I had spun out the washing of
the tea mugs as long as humanly possible, and I thought that if I spent one more
hour in this silent house my head might explode.
He turned his head towards me. ‘Where did you have in mind?’
‘I don’t know. Just a drive in the country?’ I was doing this thing I sometimes
do of pretending I’m Treena. She is one of those people who are completely
calm and competent, and as a result no one ever messes with her. I sounded, to
my own ears, professional and upbeat.
‘The country,’ he said, as if considering it. ‘And what would we see. Some
trees? Some sky?’
‘I don’t know. What do you normally do?’
‘I don’t do anything, Miss Clark. I can’t do anything any more. I sit. I just
about exist.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I was told that you have a car that’s adapted for wheelchair
use?’
‘And you’re worried that it will stop working if it doesn’t get used every day?’
‘No, but I -’
‘Are you telling me I should go out?’
‘I just thought -’
‘You thought a little drive would be good for me? A breath of fresh air?’
‘I’m just trying to -’
‘Miss Clark, my life is not going to be significantly improved by a drive
around Stortfold’s country lanes.’ He turned away.

His head had sunk into his shoulders and I wondered whether he was
comfortable. It didn’t seem to be the time to ask him. We sat in silence.
‘Do you want me to bring you your computer?’
‘Why, have you thought of a good quadriplegic support group I could join?
Quads R Us? The Tin Wheel Club?’
I took a deep breath, trying to make my voice sound confident.
‘Okay ... well ... seeing as we’re going to spend all this time in each other’s
company perhaps we could get to know something about each other -’
There was something about his face then that made me falter. He was staring
straight ahead at the wall, a tic moving in his jaw.
‘It’s just ... it’s quite a long time to spend with someone. All day,’ I continued.
‘Perhaps if you could tell me a little of what you want to do, what you like, then
I can ... make sure things are as you like them?’
This time the silence was painful. I heard my voice slowly swallowed by it,
and couldn’t work out what to do with my hands. Treena and her competent
manner had evaporated.
Finally, the wheelchair hummed and he turned slowly to face me.
‘Here’s what I know about you, Miss Clark. My mother says you’re chatty.’
He said it like it was an affliction. ‘Can we strike a deal? Whereby you are very
un-chatty around me?’
I swallowed, feeling my face flame.
‘Fine,’ I said, when I could speak again. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen. If you want
anything just call me.’
‘You can’t give up already.’
I was lying sideways on my bed with my legs stretched up the wall, like I did
when I was a teenager. I had been up here since supper, which was unusual for
me. Since Thomas was born, he and Treena had moved into the bigger room, and
I was in the box room, which was small enough to make you feel claustrophobic
should you sit in it for more than half an hour at a time.
But I didn’t want to sit downstairs with Mum and Granddad because Mum
kept looking at me anxiously and saying things like ‘It will get better, love’ and
‘No job is great on the first day’ - as if she’d had a ruddy job in the last twenty
years. It was making me feel guilty. And I hadn’t even done anything.

‘I didn’t say I was giving up.’
Treena had barged in without knocking, as she did every day, even though I
always had to knock quietly on her room, in case Thomas was sleeping.
‘And I could have been naked. You could at least shout first.’
‘I’ve seen worse. Mum thinks you’re going to hand in your notice.’
I slid my legs sideways down the wall and pushed myself up to a seated
position.
‘Oh God, Treen. It’s worse than I thought. He is so miserable.’
‘He can’t move. Of course he’s miserable.’
‘No, but he’s sarcastic and mean with it. Every time I say something or
suggest something he looks at me like I’m stupid, or says something that makes
me feel about two years old.’
‘You probably did say something stupid. You just need to get used to each
other.’
‘I really didn’t. I was so careful. I hardly said anything except “Would you
like to go out for a drive?” or “Would you like a cup of tea?”.’
‘Well, maybe he’s like that with everyone at the start, until he knows whether
you’re going to stick around. I bet they get through loads of helpers.’
‘He didn’t even want me in the same room as him. I don’t think I can stick it,
Katrina. I really don’t. Honest - if you’d been there you would understand.’
Treena said nothing then, just looked at me for a while. She got up and
glanced out of the door, as if checking whether there was anybody on the
landing.
‘I’m thinking of going back to college,’ she said, finally.
It took my brain a few seconds to register this change of tack.
‘Oh my God,’ I said. ‘But -’
‘I’m going to take a loan to pay for the fees. But I can get some special grant
too, because of having Thomas, and the university is offering me reduced rates
because they ... ’ She shrugged, a little embarrassed. ‘They say they think I
could excel. Someone’s dropped out of the business studies course, so they can
take me for the beginning of the next term.’
‘What about Thomas?’
‘There’s a nursery on campus. We can stay there in a subsidized flat in halls in
the week, and come back here most weekends.’

‘Oh.’
I could feel her watching me. I didn’t know what to do with my face.
‘I’m really desperate to use my brain again. Doing the flowers is doing my
head in. I want to learn. I want to improve myself. And I’m sick of my hands
always being freezing cold from the water.’
We both stared at her hands, which were pink tinged, even in the tropical
warmth of our house.
‘But -’
‘Yup. I won’t be working, Lou. I won’t be able to give Mum anything. I
might... I might even need a bit of help from them.’ This time she looked quite
uncomfortable. Her expression, when she glanced up at me, was almost
apologetic.
Downstairs Mum was laughing at something on the television. We could hear
her exclaiming to Granddad. She often explained the plot of the show to him,
even though we told her all the time she didn’t need to. I couldn’t speak. The
significance of my sister’s words sank in slowly but inexorably. I felt like a
Mafia victim must do, watching the concrete setting slowly around their ankles.
‘I really need to do this, Lou. I want more for Thomas, more for both of us.
The only way I’ll get anywhere is by going back to college. I haven’t got a
Patrick. I’m not sure I’ll ever have a Patrick, given that nobody’s been remotely
interested since I had Thomas. I need to do the best I can by myself.’
When I didn’t say anything, she added, ‘For me and Thomas.’
I nodded.
‘Lou? Please?’
I had never seen my sister look like that before. It made me feel really
uncomfortable. I lifted my head, and raised a smile. My voice, when it emerged,
didn’t even sound like my own.
‘Well, like you say. It’s just a matter of getting used to him. It’s bound to be
difficult in the first few days, isn’t it?’

me before you, 02.2

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.

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 ... ’

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 ... ’



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.