Me Before You Page 22

  mundane as laundry polluting the view of her herbaceous borders. My own mother pegged her whites out almost as a badge of pride. It was like a challenge to her neighbours: Beat this, ladies! It was all Dad could do to stop her putting a second revolving clothes dryer out the front.

  ‘He asked me if you’d said anything about it.’

  ‘Oh.’ I kept my face a studied blank. And then, because he seemed to be waiting, ‘Evidently not.’

  ‘Was he with someone?’

  I put the last peg back in the peg bag. I rolled it up, and placed it in the empty laundry basket. I turned to him.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A woman.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Red-haired?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Will thought about this for a minute.

  ‘I’m sorry if you think I should have told you,’ I said. ‘But it … it didn’t seem like my business.’

  ‘And it’s never an easy conversation to have.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation, Clark, it’s not the first time,’ he said, and headed back into the house.

  Deirdre Bellows said my name twice before I looked up. I was scribbling in my notepad, place names and question marks, pros and cons, and I had pretty much forgotten I was even on a bus. I was trying to work out a way of getting Will to the theatre. There was only one within two hours’ drive, and it was showing Oklahoma! It was hard to imagine Will nodding along to ‘Oh What A Beautiful Morning’, but all the serious theatre was in London. And London still seemed like an impossibility.

  Basically, I could now get Will out of the house, but we had pretty much reached the end of what was available within an hour’s radius, and I had no idea how to get him to go further.

  ‘In your own little world, eh, Louisa?’

  ‘Oh. Hi, Deirdre.’ I scooched over on the seat to make room for her.

  Deirdre had been friends with Mum since they were girls. She owned a soft-furnishings shop and had been divorced three times. She possessed hair thick enough to be a wig, and a fleshy, sad face that looked like she was still dreaming wistfully of the white knight who would come and sweep her away.

  ‘I don’t normally get the bus but my car’s in for a service. How are you? Your mum told me all about your job. Sounds very interesting.’

  This is the thing about growing up in a small town. Every part of your life is up for grabs. Nothing is secret – not the time I was caught smoking at the out-of-town supermarket car park when I was fourteen, nor the fact that my father had re-tiled the downstairs loo. The minutiae of everyday lives were currency for women like Deirdre.

  ‘It’s good, yes.’

  ‘And well paid.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was so relieved for you after the whole Buttered Bun thing. Such a shame they shut the cafe. We’re losing all the useful shops in this town. I remember when we had a grocer, a baker and a butcher on the high street. All we needed was a candlestick maker!’

  ‘Mmm.’ I saw her glance at my list and closed my notepad. ‘Still. At least we do have somewhere to buy curtains. How’s the shop?’

  ‘Oh, fine … yes … What’s that, then? Something to do with work?’

  ‘I’m just working on things that Will might like to do.’

  ‘Is that your disabled man?’

  ‘Yes. My boss.’

  ‘Your boss. That’s a nice way of putting it.’ She nudged me. ‘And how’s your clever old sister getting on at university?’

  ‘She’s good. And Thomas.’

  ‘She’ll end up running the country, that one. I have to say, though, Louisa, I was always surprised you didn’t leave before her. We always thought you were such a bright little thing. Not that we still don’t, of course.’

  I raised a polite smile. I wasn’t sure what else I could do.

  ‘But still. Someone’s got to do it, eh? And it’s nice for your mum that one of you is happy to stay so close to home.’

  I wanted to contradict her, and then I realized that nothing I had done in the last seven years suggested I had either any ambition or any desire to move further than the end of my street. I sat there, as the bus’s tired old engine snarled and juddered beneath us, and had a sudden sense of time racing, of losing whole chunks of it in my small journeys backwards and forwards along the same stretch. Round and round the castle. Watching Patrick go round and round the track. The same petty concerns. The same routines.

  ‘Oh, well. Here’s my stop.’ Deirdre rose heavily beside me, hoisting her patent handbag over her shoulder. ‘Give your mum my love. Tell her I’ll be round tomorrow.’

  I looked up, blinking. ‘I got a tattoo,’ I said suddenly. ‘Of a bee.’

  She hesitated, holding on to the side of the seat.

  ‘It’s on my hip. An actual tattoo. It’s permanent,’ I added.

  Deirdre glanced towards the door of the bus. She looked a bit puzzled, and then gave me what I think she thought was a reassuring smile.

  ‘Well, that’s very nice, Louisa. As I said, tell your mum I’ll be round tomorrow.’

  Every day, while he was watching television, or otherwise engaged, I sat in front of Will’s computer and worked on coming up with the magic event that might Make Will Happy. But as time went on, I found that my list of things we couldn’t do, places we couldn’t go to, had begun to exceed my ideas for those we could by a significant factor. When the one figure first exceeded the other, I went back on to the chatroom sites, and asked their advice.

  Ha! said Ritchie. Welcome to our world, Bee.

  From the ensuing conversations I learnt that getting drunk in a wheelchair came with its own hazards, including catheter disasters, falling down kerbs, and being steered to the wrong home by other drunks. I learnt that there was no single place where non-quads were more or less helpful than anywhere else, but that Paris was singled out as the least wheelchair-friendly place on earth. This was disappointing, as some small, optimistic part of me had still hoped we might make it there.

  I began to compile a new list – things you cannot do with a quadriplegic.

  Go on a tube train (most underground stations don’t have lifts), which pretty much ruled out activities in half of London unless we wanted to pay for taxis.

  Go swimming, without help, and unless the temperature was warm enough to stop involuntary shivering within minutes. Even disabled changing rooms are not much use without a pool hoist. Not that Will would have allowed himself into a pool hoist.

  Go to the cinema, unless guaranteed a seat at the front, or unless Will’s spasms were low-grade that day. I had spent at least twenty minutes of Rear Window on my hands and knees picking up the popcorn that Will’s unexpected knee jerk had sent flying into the air.

  Go on a beach, unless your chair had been adapted with ‘fat wheels’. Will’s hadn’t.

  Fly on aircraft where the disabled ‘quota’ had already been used up.

  Go shopping, unless all the shops had got their statutory ramps in place. Many around the castle used their listed building status to say they couldn’t fit them. Some were even telling the truth.

  Go anywhere too hot, or too cold (temperature issues).

  Go anywhere spontaneously (bags needed to be packed, routes to be double-checked for accessibility).

  Go out to eat, if feeling self-conscious about being fed, or – depending on the catheter situation – if the restaurant’s bathroom was down a flight of stairs.

  Go on long train journeys (exhausting, and too difficult to get heavy motorized chair on to train without help).

  Get a haircut if it had been raining (all the hair stuck to Will’s wheels. Weirdly, this made both of us nauseous).

  Go to friend’s houses, unless they had wheelchair ramps. Most houses have stairs. Most people do not have ramps. Our house was a rare exception. Will said there was nobody he wanted to see anyway.

  Go down the hill from the castle in heavy rain (the brakes were not always safe, and tha
t chair was too heavy for me to hold).

  Go anywhere where there were likely to be drunks. Will was a magnet for drunks. They would crouch down, breathe fumes all over him, and make big, sympathetic eyes. Sometimes they would, indeed, try to wheel him off.

  Go anywhere where there might be crowds. This meant that, as summer approached, outings around the castle were getting harder, and half the places I thought we might be able to go – fairs, outdoor theatre, concerts – were ruled out.

  When, struggling for ideas, I asked the online quads what was the thing they would like to do most in all the world, the answer nearly always came back as, ‘Have sex.’ I got quite a lot of unsolicited detail on that one.

  But essentially it was not a huge help. There were eight weeks to go, and I had run out of ideas.

  A couple of days after our discussion under the washing line, I returned home to find Dad standing in the hallway. This would have been unusual in itself (the last few weeks he seemed to have retreated to the sofa in the daytime, supposedly to keep Granddad company), but he was wearing an ironed shirt, had shaved, and the hallway was filled with the scent of Old Spice. I am pretty sure he’d had that bottle of aftershave since 1974.

  ‘There you are.’

  I closed the door behind me. ‘Here I am.’

  I was feeling tired and anxious. I had spent the whole bus journey home talking on my mobile phone to a travel agent about places to take Will, but we were both stumped. I needed to get him further away from home. But there didn’t seem to be a single place outside a five-mile radius of the castle that he actually wanted to visit.

  ‘Are you okay getting your own tea tonight?’

  ‘Sure. I can join Patrick at the pub later. Why?’ I hung up my coat on a free peg.

  The rack was so much emptier with all Treena’s and Thomas’s coats gone.

  ‘I am taking your mother out for dinner.’

  I did a quick mental calculation. ‘Did I miss her birthday?’

  ‘Nope. We’re celebrating.’ He lowered his voice, as if it were some kind of secret. ‘I got a job.’

  ‘You didn’t!’ And now I could see it; his whole body had lightened. He was standing straighter again, his face wreathed in smiles. He looked years younger.

  ‘Dad, that’s fantastic.’

  ‘I know. Your mother’s over the moon. And, you know, she’s had a tough few months what with Treena going and Granddad and all. So I want to take her out tonight, treat her a bit.’

  ‘So what’s the job?’

  ‘I’m going to be head of maintenance. Up at the castle.’

  I blinked. ‘But that’s –’

  ‘Mr Traynor. That’s right. He rang me and said he was looking for someone, and your man, Will there, had told him that I was available. I went this afternoon and showed him what I could do, and I’m on a month’s trial. Beginning Saturday.’

  ‘You’re going to work for Will’s dad?’

  ‘Well, he said they have to do a month’s trial, to go through the proper procedures and all, but he said he couldn’t think of any reason why I shouldn’t get it.’

  ‘That – that’s great,’ I said. I felt weirdly unbalanced by the news. ‘I didn’t even know there was a job going.’

  ‘Nor me. It’s great, though. He’s a man who understands quality, Lou. I talked to him about green oak, and he showed me some of the work done by the previous man. You wouldn’t believe it. Shocking. He said he was very impressed by my work.’

  He was animated, more so than I had seen him for months.

  Mum had appeared beside him. She was wearing lipstick, and her good pair of heels. ‘There’s a van. He gets his own van. And the pay is good, Lou. It’s even a bit more than your dad was getting at the furniture factory.’

  She was looking up at him like he was some kind of all-conquering hero. Her face, when she turned to me, told me I should do the same. It could contain a million messages, my mother’s face, and this one told me Dad should be allowed his moment.

  ‘That’s great, Dad. Really.’ I stepped forward and gave him a hug.

  ‘Well, it’s really Will you should thank. What a smashing bloke. I’m just bloody grateful that he thought of me.’

  I listened to them leave the house, the sound of Mum fussing in the hall mirror, Dad’s repeated reassurances that she looked lovely, that she was just fine as she was. I heard him patting his pockets for keys, wallet, loose change, followed by a brief burst of laughter. And then the door slammed, I heard the hum of the car pulling away and then there was just the distant sound of the television in Granddad’s room. I sat on the stairs. And then I pulled out my phone and rang Will’s number.

  It took him a while to answer. I pictured him heading to the hands-free device, depressing the button with his thumb.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is this your doing?’

  There was a brief pause. ‘Is that you, Clark?’

  ‘Did you get my dad a job?’

  He sounded a little breathless. I wondered, absently, whether he was sitting up okay.

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘I am pleased. It’s just … I don’t know. I feel weird.’

  ‘You shouldn’t do. Your dad needed a job. Mine needed a skilled maintenance man.’

  ‘Really?’ I couldn’t keep the scepticism from my voice.

  ‘What?’

  ‘This has nothing to do with what you asked me the other day? About him and the other woman?’

  There was a long pause. I could see him there, in his living room, looking out through the French windows.

  His voice, when it came, was careful. ‘You think I’d blackmail my father into giving yours a job?’

  Put like that it did sound far-fetched.

  I sat down again. ‘Sorry. I don’t know. It’s just weird. The timing. It’s all a bit convenient.’

  ‘Then be pleased, Clark. It’s good news. Your dad will be great. And it means … ’ He hesitated.

  ‘It means what?’

  ‘ … that one day you can go off and spread your wings without worrying about how your parents are going to be able to support themselves.’

  It was as if he had punched me. I felt the air disappear from my lungs.

  ‘Lou?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’re awfully quiet.’

  ‘I’m … ’ I swallowed. ‘Sorry. Distracted by something. Granddad’s calling me. But yes. Thanks for – for putting a word in for him.’ I had to get off the phone. Because out of nowhere a huge lump had lodged itself somewhere in my throat and I wasn’t sure I could say anything else.

  I walked to the pub. The air was thick with the smell of blossom, and people smiled as they passed me on the street. I couldn’t raise a single greeting in return. I just knew I couldn’t stay in that house, alone with my thoughts. I found the Triathlon Terrors all in the beer garden, their two tables pushed together in a dappled corner, arms and legs spilling off the ends in sinewy pink angles. I got a few polite nods (none from the women) and Patrick stood, creating a small space for me beside him. I realized I really wished Treena was around.

  The pub garden was full, with that peculiarly English mix of braying students and post-work salesmen in their shirtsleeves. This pub was a favourite with tourists, and among the English voices were a variety of other accents – Italian, French, American. From the west wall they could see the castle, and – just as they did every summer – the tourists were lining up for photographs with it behind them in the distance.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you. Do you want a drink?’

  ‘In a minute.’ I just wanted to sit there, to let my head rest against Patrick. I wanted to feel like I used to feel – normal, untroubled. I wanted not to think about death.

  ‘I broke my best time today. Fifteen miles in just 79.2 minutes.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Cooking with gas now, eh, Pat?’ someone said.

  Patrick bunched both his fists and made a revving no
ise with his mouth.

  ‘That’s great. Really.’ I tried to look pleased for him.

  I had a drink, and then another. I listened to their talk of mileage, of the skinned knees and hypothermic swimming bouts. I tuned out, and watched the other people in the pub, wondering about their lives. Each of them would have huge events in their own families – babies loved and lost, dark secrets, great joys and tragedies. If they could put it into perspective, if they could just enjoy a sunny evening in a pub garden, then surely I should too.

  And then I told Patrick about Dad’s job. His face looked a little like I imagine mine had. I had to repeat it, just so he could be sure he had heard me right.

  ‘That’s … very cosy. You both working for him.’

  I wanted to tell him then, I really did. I wanted to explain that so much of everything was tied up in my battle to keep Will alive. I wanted to tell him how afraid I was that Will seemed to be trying to buy me my freedom. But I knew I could say nothing. I might as well get the rest of it over while I could.

  ‘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