Me Before You

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?’

‘Frank – the owner – sold the cafe. It’s the one at the bottom of the castle. The Buttered Bun. Was,’ I corrected myself. ‘I 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 Guantánamo 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.