‘The keys to the car are here. I’ve put you on our insurance. I’m trusting the details you gave me were correct. Nathan should be able to show you how the ramp works. All you have to do is help Will position properly and the vehicle will do the rest. Although … he’s not desperately keen to go anywhere at the moment.’
‘It is a bit chilly out,’ I said.
Mrs Traynor didn’t seem to hear me.
‘You can make yourself tea and coffee in the kitchen. I keep the cupboards stocked. The bathroom is through here –’
She opened the door and I stared at the white metal and plastic hoist that crouched over the bath. There was an open wet area under the shower, with a folded wheelchair beside it. In the corner a glass-fronted cabinet revealed neat stacks of shrink-wrapped bales. I couldn’t see what they were from here, but it all gave off a faint scent of disinfectant.
Mrs Traynor closed the door, and turned briefly to face me. ‘I should reiterate, it is very important that Will has someone with him all the time. A previous carer disappeared for several hours once to get her car fixed, and Will … injured himself in her absence.’ She swallowed, as if still traumatized by the memory.
‘I won’t go anywhere.’
‘Of course you will need … comfort breaks. I just want to make it clear that he can’t be left for periods longer than, say, ten or fifteen minutes. If something unavoidable comes up either ring the intercom, as my husband, Steven, may be home, or call my mobile number. If you do need to take any time off, I would appreciate as much notice as possible. It is not always easy finding cover.’
‘No.’
Mrs Traynor opened the hall cupboard. She spoke like someone reciting a well-rehearsed speech.
I wondered briefly how many carers there had been before me.
‘If Will is occupied, then it would be helpful if you could do some basic housekeeping. Wash bedding, run a vacuum cleaner around, that sort of thing. The cleaning equipment is under the sink. He may not want you around him all the time. You and he will have to work out your level of interaction for yourselves.’
Mrs Traynor looked at my clothes, as if for the first time. I was wearing the very shaggy waistcoat thing that Dad says makes me look like an emu. I tried to smile. It seemed like an effort.
‘Obviously I would hope that you could … get on with each other. It would be nice if he could think of you as a friend rather than a paid professional.’
‘Right. What does he … um … like to do?’
‘He watches films. Sometimes he listens to the radio, or to music. He has one of those digital things. If you position it near his hand, he can usually manipulate it himself. He has some movement in his fingers, although he finds it hard to grip.’
I felt myself brightening. If he liked music and films, surely we could find some common ground? I had a sudden picture of myself and this man laughing at some Hollywood comedy, me running the Hoover around the bedroom while he listened to his music. Perhaps this was going to be okay. Perhaps we might end up as friends. I had never had a disabled friend before – only Treen’s friend David, who was deaf, but would put you in a headlock if you suggested that meant disabled.
‘Do you have any questions?’
‘No.’
‘Then let’s go and introduce you.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Nathan should have finished dressing him now.’
We hesitated outside the door and Mrs Traynor knocked. ‘Are you in there? I have Miss Clark to meet you, Will.’
There was no answer.
‘Will? Nathan?’
A broad New Zealand accent. ‘He’s decent, Mrs T.’
She pushed open the door. The annexe’s living room was deceptively large, and one wall consisted entirely of glass doors that looked out over open countryside. A wood burner glowed quietly in the corner, and a low beige sofa faced a huge flat-screen television, its seats covered by a wool throw. The mood of the room was tasteful, and peaceful – a Scandinavian bachelor pad.
In the centre of the room stood a black wheelchair, its seat and back cushioned by sheepskin. A solidly built man in white collarless scrubs was crouching down, adjusting a man’s feet on the footrests of the wheelchair. As we stepped into the room, the man in the wheelchair looked up from under shaggy, unkempt hair. His eyes met mine and after a pause, he let out a bloodcurdling groan. Then his mouth twisted, and he let out another unearthly cry.
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.
‘It is a bit chilly out,’ I said.
Mrs Traynor didn’t seem to hear me.
‘You can make yourself tea and coffee in the kitchen. I keep the cupboards stocked. The bathroom is through here –’
She opened the door and I stared at the white metal and plastic hoist that crouched over the bath. There was an open wet area under the shower, with a folded wheelchair beside it. In the corner a glass-fronted cabinet revealed neat stacks of shrink-wrapped bales. I couldn’t see what they were from here, but it all gave off a faint scent of disinfectant.
Mrs Traynor closed the door, and turned briefly to face me. ‘I should reiterate, it is very important that Will has someone with him all the time. A previous carer disappeared for several hours once to get her car fixed, and Will … injured himself in her absence.’ She swallowed, as if still traumatized by the memory.
‘I won’t go anywhere.’
‘Of course you will need … comfort breaks. I just want to make it clear that he can’t be left for periods longer than, say, ten or fifteen minutes. If something unavoidable comes up either ring the intercom, as my husband, Steven, may be home, or call my mobile number. If you do need to take any time off, I would appreciate as much notice as possible. It is not always easy finding cover.’
‘No.’
Mrs Traynor opened the hall cupboard. She spoke like someone reciting a well-rehearsed speech.
I wondered briefly how many carers there had been before me.
‘If Will is occupied, then it would be helpful if you could do some basic housekeeping. Wash bedding, run a vacuum cleaner around, that sort of thing. The cleaning equipment is under the sink. He may not want you around him all the time. You and he will have to work out your level of interaction for yourselves.’
Mrs Traynor looked at my clothes, as if for the first time. I was wearing the very shaggy waistcoat thing that Dad says makes me look like an emu. I tried to smile. It seemed like an effort.
‘Obviously I would hope that you could … get on with each other. It would be nice if he could think of you as a friend rather than a paid professional.’
‘Right. What does he … um … like to do?’
‘He watches films. Sometimes he listens to the radio, or to music. He has one of those digital things. If you position it near his hand, he can usually manipulate it himself. He has some movement in his fingers, although he finds it hard to grip.’
I felt myself brightening. If he liked music and films, surely we could find some common ground? I had a sudden picture of myself and this man laughing at some Hollywood comedy, me running the Hoover around the bedroom while he listened to his music. Perhaps this was going to be okay. Perhaps we might end up as friends. I had never had a disabled friend before – only Treen’s friend David, who was deaf, but would put you in a headlock if you suggested that meant disabled.
‘Do you have any questions?’
‘No.’
‘Then let’s go and introduce you.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Nathan should have finished dressing him now.’
We hesitated outside the door and Mrs Traynor knocked. ‘Are you in there? I have Miss Clark to meet you, Will.’
There was no answer.
‘Will? Nathan?’
A broad New Zealand accent. ‘He’s decent, Mrs T.’
She pushed open the door. The annexe’s living room was deceptively large, and one wall consisted entirely of glass doors that looked out over open countryside. A wood burner glowed quietly in the corner, and a low beige sofa faced a huge flat-screen television, its seats covered by a wool throw. The mood of the room was tasteful, and peaceful – a Scandinavian bachelor pad.
In the centre of the room stood a black wheelchair, its seat and back cushioned by sheepskin. A solidly built man in white collarless scrubs was crouching down, adjusting a man’s feet on the footrests of the wheelchair. As we stepped into the room, the man in the wheelchair looked up from under shaggy, unkempt hair. His eyes met mine and after a pause, he let out a bloodcurdling groan. Then his mouth twisted, and he let out another unearthly cry.
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.
