‘Um … that’s not the only thing. He says I can stay there when I want, in the spare room. To get past the whole bed problem at home.’
Patrick looked at me. ‘You’re going to live at his house?’
‘I might. It’s a nice offer, Pat. You know what it’s been like at home. And you’re never here. I like coming to your house, but … well, if I’m honest, it doesn’t feel like home.’
He was still staring at me. ‘Then make it home.’
‘What?’
‘Move in. Make it home. Put your stuff up. Bring your clothes. It’s about time we moved in together.’
It was only afterwards, when I thought about it, that I realized he had actually looked really unhappy as he said this. Not like a man who had finally worked out he could not live without his girlfriend close by him, and wanted to make a joyous union of our two lives. He looked like someone who felt outmanoeuvred.
‘You really want me to move in?’
‘Yes. Sure.’ He rubbed at his ear. ‘I mean, I’m not saying let’s get married or anything. But it does make sense, right?’
‘You old romantic.’
‘I mean it, Lou. It’s time. It’s probably been time for ages, but I guess I’ve just been wrapped up in one thing and another. Move in. It’ll be good.’ He hugged me. ‘It will be really good.’
Around us the Triathlon Terrors had diplomatically resumed their chatter. A small cheer went up as a group of Japanese tourists got the photograph they had wanted. Birds sang, the sun dipped, the world turned. I wanted to be part of it, not stuck in a silent room, worrying about a man in a wheelchair.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It will be good.’
17
The worst thing about working as a carer is not what you might think. It’s not the lifting and cleaning, the medicines and wipes and the distant but somehow always perceptible smell of disinfectant. It’s not even the fact that most people assume you’re only doing it because you really aren’t smart enough to do anything else. It’s the fact that when you spend all day in really close proximity to someone, there is no escape from their moods. Or your own.
Will had been distant with me all morning, since I had first told him my plans. It was nothing an outsider could have put their finger on, but there were fewer jokes, perhaps less casual conversation. He asked me nothing about the contents of the day’s newspapers.
‘That’s … what you want to do?’ His eyes had flickered, but his face betrayed nothing.
I shrugged. Then I nodded more emphatically. I felt there was something childishly non-committal about my response. ‘It’s about time, really,’ I said. ‘I mean, I am twenty-seven.’
He studied my face. Something tightened in his jaw.
I felt suddenly, unbearably tired. I felt this peculiar urge to say sorry, and I wasn’t sure what for.
He gave a little nod, raised a smile. ‘Glad you’ve got it all sorted out,’ he said, and wheeled himself into the kitchen.
I was starting to feel really cross with him. I had never felt judged by anyone as I felt judged by Will now. It was as if me deciding to settle down with my boyfriend had made me less interesting to him. Like I could no longer be his pet project. I couldn’t say any of this to him, of course, but I was just as cool with him as he was with me.
It was, frankly, exhausting.
In the afternoon, there was a knock at the back door. I hurried down the corridor, my hands still wet from washing up, and opened it to find a man standing there in a dark suit, a briefcase in hand.
‘Oh no. We’re Buddhist,’ I said firmly, closing the door as the man began to protest.
Two weeks previously a pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses had kept Will captive at the back door for almost fifteen minutes, while he struggled to reverse his chair back over the dislodged doormat. When I finally shut the door they had opened the letter box to call that ‘he more than anyone’ should understand what it was to look forward to the afterlife.
‘Um … I’m here to see Mr Traynor?’ the man said, and I opened the door cautiously. In all my time at Granta House nobody had ever come to see Will via the back door.
‘Let him in,’ Will said, appearing behind me. ‘I asked him to come.’ When I still stood there, he added, ‘It’s okay, Clark … he’s a friend.’
The man stepped over the threshold, held out his hand and shook mine. ‘Michael Lawler,’ he said.
He was about to say something else, but Will moved his chair between us, effectively cutting off any further conversation.
‘We’ll be in the living room. Could you make some coffee, then leave us for a while?’
‘Um … okay.’
Mr Lawler smiled at me, a little awkwardly, and followed Will into the living room. When I walked in with a tray of coffee some minutes later they were discussing cricket. The conversation about legs and runs continued until I had no further reason to lurk.
Brushing invisible dust from my skirt, I straightened up and said, ‘Well. I’ll leave you to it.’
‘Thanks, Louisa.’
‘You sure you don’t want anything else? Biscuits?’
‘Thank you, Louisa.’
Will never called me Louisa. And he had never banished me from anything before.
Mr Lawler stayed almost an hour. I did my chores, then hung around in the kitchen, wondering if I was brave enough to eavesdrop. I wasn’t. I sat, ate two Bourbon creams, chewed my nails, listened to the low hum of their voices, and wondered for the fifteenth time why Will had asked this man not to use the front entrance.
Patrick looked at me. ‘You’re going to live at his house?’
‘I might. It’s a nice offer, Pat. You know what it’s been like at home. And you’re never here. I like coming to your house, but … well, if I’m honest, it doesn’t feel like home.’
He was still staring at me. ‘Then make it home.’
‘What?’
‘Move in. Make it home. Put your stuff up. Bring your clothes. It’s about time we moved in together.’
It was only afterwards, when I thought about it, that I realized he had actually looked really unhappy as he said this. Not like a man who had finally worked out he could not live without his girlfriend close by him, and wanted to make a joyous union of our two lives. He looked like someone who felt outmanoeuvred.
‘You really want me to move in?’
‘Yes. Sure.’ He rubbed at his ear. ‘I mean, I’m not saying let’s get married or anything. But it does make sense, right?’
‘You old romantic.’
‘I mean it, Lou. It’s time. It’s probably been time for ages, but I guess I’ve just been wrapped up in one thing and another. Move in. It’ll be good.’ He hugged me. ‘It will be really good.’
Around us the Triathlon Terrors had diplomatically resumed their chatter. A small cheer went up as a group of Japanese tourists got the photograph they had wanted. Birds sang, the sun dipped, the world turned. I wanted to be part of it, not stuck in a silent room, worrying about a man in a wheelchair.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It will be good.’
17
The worst thing about working as a carer is not what you might think. It’s not the lifting and cleaning, the medicines and wipes and the distant but somehow always perceptible smell of disinfectant. It’s not even the fact that most people assume you’re only doing it because you really aren’t smart enough to do anything else. It’s the fact that when you spend all day in really close proximity to someone, there is no escape from their moods. Or your own.
Will had been distant with me all morning, since I had first told him my plans. It was nothing an outsider could have put their finger on, but there were fewer jokes, perhaps less casual conversation. He asked me nothing about the contents of the day’s newspapers.
‘That’s … what you want to do?’ His eyes had flickered, but his face betrayed nothing.
I shrugged. Then I nodded more emphatically. I felt there was something childishly non-committal about my response. ‘It’s about time, really,’ I said. ‘I mean, I am twenty-seven.’
He studied my face. Something tightened in his jaw.
I felt suddenly, unbearably tired. I felt this peculiar urge to say sorry, and I wasn’t sure what for.
He gave a little nod, raised a smile. ‘Glad you’ve got it all sorted out,’ he said, and wheeled himself into the kitchen.
I was starting to feel really cross with him. I had never felt judged by anyone as I felt judged by Will now. It was as if me deciding to settle down with my boyfriend had made me less interesting to him. Like I could no longer be his pet project. I couldn’t say any of this to him, of course, but I was just as cool with him as he was with me.
It was, frankly, exhausting.
In the afternoon, there was a knock at the back door. I hurried down the corridor, my hands still wet from washing up, and opened it to find a man standing there in a dark suit, a briefcase in hand.
‘Oh no. We’re Buddhist,’ I said firmly, closing the door as the man began to protest.
Two weeks previously a pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses had kept Will captive at the back door for almost fifteen minutes, while he struggled to reverse his chair back over the dislodged doormat. When I finally shut the door they had opened the letter box to call that ‘he more than anyone’ should understand what it was to look forward to the afterlife.
‘Um … I’m here to see Mr Traynor?’ the man said, and I opened the door cautiously. In all my time at Granta House nobody had ever come to see Will via the back door.
‘Let him in,’ Will said, appearing behind me. ‘I asked him to come.’ When I still stood there, he added, ‘It’s okay, Clark … he’s a friend.’
The man stepped over the threshold, held out his hand and shook mine. ‘Michael Lawler,’ he said.
He was about to say something else, but Will moved his chair between us, effectively cutting off any further conversation.
‘We’ll be in the living room. Could you make some coffee, then leave us for a while?’
‘Um … okay.’
Mr Lawler smiled at me, a little awkwardly, and followed Will into the living room. When I walked in with a tray of coffee some minutes later they were discussing cricket. The conversation about legs and runs continued until I had no further reason to lurk.
Brushing invisible dust from my skirt, I straightened up and said, ‘Well. I’ll leave you to it.’
‘Thanks, Louisa.’
‘You sure you don’t want anything else? Biscuits?’
‘Thank you, Louisa.’
Will never called me Louisa. And he had never banished me from anything before.
Mr Lawler stayed almost an hour. I did my chores, then hung around in the kitchen, wondering if I was brave enough to eavesdrop. I wasn’t. I sat, ate two Bourbon creams, chewed my nails, listened to the low hum of their voices, and wondered for the fifteenth time why Will had asked this man not to use the front entrance.
