‘Katy? Katy! Don’t doze off, dear. It’s very important you stay awake. That’s another tip I’ve learned from the telly. You must keep talking to me. What television programmes do you like? I think Pointless is a lovely programme; do you ever watch that? What are those two men called? Oh, I always forget a name. Come on, dear, you tell me. I’m sure you know. Or tell me about children’s television. Did you know, it was only on for an hour when I was a little girl? And oh how I loved those programmes! Whirligig with Humphrey Lestocq and Mr Turnip – now I can remember their names – and little Jennifer, the announcer. Oh, she talked so nicely! Children did in those days. Do you remember her? No, of course you don’t. It was years before you were born; years before your mother was born.’
I still had my eyes shut, but I started listening properly.
‘Tell me about my mother,’ I murmured.
‘Oh, a lovely girl, truly a gem. Such a tragedy that she left us so soon. I used to visit her, you know, when she started getting so sick, and she was so brave, chatting away, quite the ticket. But one day she burst out crying and said, “What’s going to happen to my poor babies?” It made me cry too. I felt so sorry for her. There … I’m getting choked up now. Talk to me, Katy. You remember your mother, don’t you?’
Of course she remembers me!
Mum was back, shaking her head in fond exasperation at Mrs Burton’s prattling. She knelt beside me.
Come on, poppet, up you get. You’d better come with me. That’s the way. My goodness! We’re the same height now, you and me.
She pulled me upright and gave me such a hug. It was wonderful feeling her arms round me, so strong, so warm, so undeniably there. I was standing up, the pain was all gone, I was all right after all, perfectly fine.
‘Oh Mum, I thought … I thought I couldn’t even walk!’
‘You will walk, Katy, I’m sure you will, but you mustn’t try to move now. Keep still. I’m sure the ambulance men will get here any minute.’
Why was Mrs Burton still talking to me? Mum and I had strolled up the garden together arm in arm. I could hardly hear her now.
‘There now, love. Keep very, very still. We’re just going to pop these foam blocks round your head and neck – that’s the way. Oh, what a brave girl.’
What was happening? Who was this? Why were they fussing so? I was fine, couldn’t they see? I was with Mum and everything was going to be all right. I didn’t want them to keep pulling at me. They were dragging me back.
‘Oh Lordy! Has the poor little kiddie broken her back?’
‘It’s too soon to say. Are you Grandma?’
What were they talking about? As if anyone as old and sad and decrepit as Mrs Burton could possibly be my grandmother! And what were they doing? They were feeling me carefully! And now they seemed to be sliding something hard under my back.
‘No, no, don’t do that!’ I said. ‘Stop them doing it, Mum.’
But none of them seemed to hear me now. I couldn’t even hear myself. I was flying through the air again, and I couldn’t hang on, and I was falling, falling, falling …
14
Katy.
Katy?
Katy!
So many voices, all of them talking to me.
I felt I was so many Katys.
I was Katy the eldest, organizing all the others, playing games. I was Katy the best friend, giggling and whispering with Cecy. I was Katy at school, chatting to Ryan, sneering at Eva Jenkins. I was Katy with Helen, helping to look after her. I was Katy with Dad; little Katy sitting on his lap. I was Katy with Mum; me in my little red car, Mum running along beside me, laughing. I was laughing too, laughing and laughing.
No, I was crying and crying.
‘Poor darling. Here, let me wipe those eyes. There now. We’ll give you something for the pain.’
Yes, pain. My head. My back. It hurt so much at the top of my spine that I screamed.
‘They’ve given you morphine, baby. It will make you feel nice and woozy very soon, I promise.’ It was Dad, real Dad.
‘But you’re swimming,’ I mumbled.
‘Mrs Burton was waiting at her front door to tell us, bless her. God, what a shock you’ve given us all!’
‘Are you very cross with me?’
‘Oh darling. No, I’m not cross. Not cross at all. And I’m going to stay here with you now while they X-ray you and give you a CT and an MRI scan,’ Dad said, stroking my cheek.
I couldn’t understand why he was talking in letters. I didn’t know what he meant. But it was enough that he was with me.
‘And Mum? Is Mum here too?’ I asked.
He paused. He was standing, bending over me so I could see his face. It suddenly creased up, as if he were trying not to cry.
‘Dad?’ I said, really frightened. I’d never seen Dad cry in my life. I wanted to hug him. ‘Let me out of this thing round my head!’ I begged, but my words wouldn’t come out right.
So I asked Cecy and Ryan, I even asked Eva, because they were all round me, chattering and laughing but taking no notice of me whatsoever, and then they turned into nurses who pushed me in and out of machines. One was a really scary machine like a never-ending tunnel, and I couldn’t move, I couldn’t see; I could just hear really loud thumps and rattles and I couldn’t tell if they were inside or outside my head.
Then at last I was free and in the air again, real air, outside.
‘Dad! Dad, am I going home now?’ I asked, desperately hoping this was true.
‘Not yet, darling. They’re transferring you to a special paediatric spinal unit.’
‘To a … what?’
‘A special hospital for children with bad backs.’
‘But my back isn’t bad.’ Izzie had a bad back sometimes. She’d hurt it when the twins were little, lumping them in and out of their buggy, and it still played up now. She had a little, hard, black cushion to put behind her back when she sat on the sofa, and when it was really bad she ate paracetamols like Smarties.
‘I’m not old like Izzie,’ I said.
‘Oh Katy. Izzie’s not old. Though we’re both feeling positively ancient right this minute.’
‘Old-man dad,’ I said.
‘Yes, very-old-man dad. You’re a bit out of it, sweetheart, now the morphine’s kicked in. Oh Katy, darling …’ Dad screwed up his face and then bobbed back, out of my sight.
‘Dad? Dad, don’t go!’
‘I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. I’m right here, beside you,’ said Dad. His voice was thick. He was crying.
‘Dad – Dad, I am going to get better, aren’t I?’ I asked.
He murmured something. I couldn’t hear him properly.
‘Dad, please! Promise me I’m going to get better,’ I repeated.
‘They’re going to try their hardest to make you better, my special girl,’ said Dad. He stroked my face again, outlining my eyebrows and nose and lips as if he were drawing me. I lay still, liking the distracting tickling feel on my face. The roar inside my head had dulled. The pain in my back was still there, but not quite so sharp. I fell asleep, murmuring, ‘Better, better, better.’
Then there were more nurses, joltings, a journey, but every time I cried out Dad held my hand and reassured me. Perhaps I was given more morphine when I got to the spinal unit because for a while I felt I was wafting along through the air, several feet above my body, looking down at myself being shunted along endless corridors. Dad was one side of me, Mum the other, and Clover was curled up by my feet, weeping so hard that my toes were quite wet. I was wet and yet my throat was dry, so very dry that my voice cracked when I tried to talk.
‘Can I have … a drink … drink of water?’ I whispered.
‘Not just now, darling,’ said Dad.
‘I want one,’ I said, starting to cry. It seemed incredibly mean to me that I couldn’t have a little water when I felt so dreadful, and I hadn’t had anything to drink all day long. Or was this even the next day? It felt as if years had passed since I fell from
the tree. Time seemed to have stopped ticking sensibly, minute by minute, hour by hour.
‘I know, poor girl, but you’re going to have surgery on your back now, and we can’t risk giving you anything in case it makes you sick,’ said Dad.
He bent over me so I could see him. He looked awful, dark circles under his eyes, and his cheeks and chin were shadowed with grey.
‘You haven’t shaved!’ I said, amazed. Dad always took immense care to be softly pink-cheeked and prickle-free.
‘I haven’t had time, you dodo,’ Dad said. ‘I’ve been here with you.’
‘You will stay with me, won’t you?’
‘Well, I can’t be in the operating theatre with you, but I promise I’ll be there when you wake up,’ said Dad.
‘Why can’t you? You’re a doctor!’
‘Yes, but not a surgeon. I’ve talked to Mr Pearson though, and he’s a brilliant man, Katy.’
‘And he’s going to make me better?’
‘He’s going to do his best. He’ll stabilize your back and stop it hurting so much.’
‘And then I’ll be better. Dad, can I have my skateboard back?’
‘What? Darling, you’re going to have to take things very slowly –’
‘But when I’m better. Promise I can have my skateboard?’
‘We’ll see,’ said Dad.
Then someone injected my arm and Dad gave me my skateboard and I rode it down all the hospital corridors, up the walls and along the ceilings, faster and faster. We were all in a race, but Ryan and I were out in front. I was winning, screaming, ‘I’m Katy Carr, I’m Katy Carr, I’m Katy Carr!’ as I shot up a huge ramp and then I catapulted off the end, whirling through the air, falling again, falling and falling …
I landed with a jolt, and someone was very gently tapping my face.
‘Wake up, Katy. That’s a good girl. Open those eyes.’
I opened them obediently. There was a nurse bending over me, looking concerned.
‘Where’s Dad?’ I whispered.
‘Your dad’s waiting to see you, back in the ward. We’re just making sure you’re all right, honey,’ she said softly.
‘I’m all right now?’ I said. ‘So can I go home?’
‘Not for a while.’
‘Am I still not better?’
‘Well … Mr Pearson’s done a lovely job of your back. It won’t be anywhere near as painful now.’
I tried to wriggle. I couldn’t manage it.
‘Why can’t I move?’ I asked, starting to panic.
‘Shh now. You’ve only just come round from the anaesthetic. We’ll be assessing you later. You’ve just to be a good girl and stay still,’ she said.
‘I don’t want to be good!’ I said furiously.
She was looking very sad, but that made her laugh.
‘Well, you can be as naughty as you like when you get home, but you have to be a good girl while you’re here in hospital,’ she said.
‘But it’s horrid here,’ I said. ‘You won’t even let me have a drink of water!’
‘What? No, you couldn’t drink before your operation. You can have a drink very soon. Tell you what, I’ll get you an ice cube to suck. That will help.’ She went away and came back with a cup of ice cubes clinking together. ‘There. Pretend it’s an ice lolly. What flavour do you like best? I like Soleros – they’re less fattening. You know, those orangey-mango ones.’
‘I like strawberry. Or raspberry. I like red,’ I said indistinctly, my mouth full of ice cube. It felt wonderful in my hot dry mouth. If I tried hard I could imagine a red fruity flavour. ‘Mmm, delicious!’
‘That’s the girl! Let’s give your face a little wash while we’re at it. You’re all-over tear stains.’
‘I don’t usually cry, you know. I’m not a baby. I’m the eldest. When can I see my sisters and brothers?’
‘When you’re back on the main ward, dear.’
‘They’ll find it a bit scary in hospital, even though our dad’s a doctor. Phil’s only just been to hospital himself, with a cut finger.’
‘You sound a very harum-scarum family,’ said the nurse. ‘No wonder your dad’s got grey hair. He’s quite a bit older than your mum, isn’t he?’
‘My mum?’ I said, my heart beating fast. I knew I’d only been imagining her, but I wondered madly if she’d somehow really come back to look after me.
‘Yes, she’s so worried about you. She came while your dad went home for a bit of a wash and brush-up. Lovely lady – she’s got hair to die for, hasn’t she?’
‘Long blonde hair? She’s not my mum,’ I said indignantly. I hated the thought of Izzie coming to see me in hospital. She’d be full of ‘I told you so’s. ‘She’s just my stepmum. I can’t stick her.’
‘All right, all right. Don’t go working yourself up now. It’s all my fault. I chatter on, don’t I? There now. Let’s see how your blood pressure’s doing, pet.’
I let her check me and begged to see Dad again. They let him come to me, though he was all muffled up in strange clothes like the nurse.
‘It’s just to keep everything hygienic,’ said Dad.
‘You look weird, Dad,’ I mumbled.
The clothes looked silly, and his face still didn’t look right, though he’d had a shave now. Then another person loomed beside him, a younger man with a pink, shiny, important face.
‘Hello Katy. I’m Mr Pearson. I’m the guy who operated on your back. Now, we’re going to do some funny little tests on you – is that OK?’
‘Tests? But I still don’t think I can sit up,’ I said.
‘No, you don’t need to sit up. You just lie there like a good girl and we’ll do the tests on your arms and legs to see how they are.’
‘But it’s not my arms and legs. I didn’t hurt them. I thought you were operating on my back.’
‘That’s right. I did. But there are lots of little nerves that spread out from your spine down your limbs. We want to see if they’re working properly.’
The tests they did were really odd. They touched each arm in turn while I had to close my eyes and call out when I could feel it.
‘Yep, you’re tickling me!’ I said.
They tried hot things and cold things and I had to tell them which was which. They seemed the most elementary tests in the world. Even little Phil could have done them.
‘You’re doing beautifully, Katy. Well done!’ said Dad, as if I’d done brilliantly in my SATs.
Then they started on my stomach. Well, I knew they were poking at it because I opened my eyes a little and peeped. I wondered if they were messing about with me, because I couldn’t feel it at all. Maybe they weren’t touching me properly this time? It was so strange, as normally when anyone touched my tummy I doubled up laughing because I’m so ticklish there.
Then they moved further down to my legs, pulling off the thin blanket covering them. I tried to lift my head to peer at what they were doing.
‘No, Katy, lie still, flat on your back, there’s a good girl,’ said the nurse.
So I couldn’t see what they were doing. I could only watch their faces. They weren’t smiling now.
‘Are you doing the tests now? What’s the matter? Do it harder!’ I said sharply.
Then I saw Mr Pearson had a pin in his hand.
‘But don’t prick me!’ I said.
He laughed but he didn’t look at all happy. He looked very sad. So did the nurse. And I heard Dad give a little groan.
‘Dad? What is it? What’s the matter?’ I asked, panicking now.
Mr Pearson and the nurse were looking at each other, then looking at Dad.
‘Would you like me to have a little chat with Katy?’ Mr Pearson asked Dad.
‘No. No, I think I’d better do it,’ said Dad.
‘Well, we’ll give you a little privacy then,’ said Mr Pearson. He patted me gently on the shoulder. ‘There now, Katy. I’ll be coming to see you tomorrow and I’ll do my best to answer any questions you might have.’
Then he did the oddest thing. He put his arms round Dad and gave him a quick hug.
‘Dad? Is he a friend of yours? Why did he hug you like that?’ I asked, when they’d left us on our own.
‘He’s – he’s a very nice man,’ said Dad. ‘And he’s stabilized your spine, so you shouldn’t have too many problems in the future.’
‘So when can I get up properly?’
‘Well, that’s the thing, Katy.’ Dad’s face bobbed into focus. He had tears in his eyes. ‘I’m afraid you won’t be able to get up as such. They’ll sit you up soon, and I dare say you’ll have to do all sorts of exercises, but you’re going to have to use a wheelchair to get around.’
‘A wheelchair? What? Like Helen?’
‘Yes, like Helen! And she manages beautifully, doesn’t she? Of course it will take a lot of getting used to, and I know it will be difficult, but you’re a very brave girl, Katy, and we’ll all help as best we can.’
‘But – but how long am I going to have to use a wheelchair?’ I asked, stunned. Wheelchairs were for seriously sick people like Helen, or old, old, old people. Girls like me didn’t use wheelchairs.
‘I’m not old and I’m not sick!’ I said. ‘I just had a fall. I’m not going in a wheelchair!’
‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to, darling, whether you want to or not.’ The tears were running down Dad’s cheeks now.
‘But for how long? When will I be able to walk properly?’
Dad shook his head helplessly.
‘Dad, answer me!’
‘I – I don’t think you will be able to walk, darling. I think you’ve lost all sensation in the lower half of your body.’
‘But I had the operation. You said Mr Pearson had sorted out my spine.’
‘He’s stabilized it, Katy. But he can’t sort out all the nerve damage. It’s simply not possible.’
‘So when will all my nerves get better?’
‘They can’t. Well, maybe in the future implants will be possible, who knows. And there are various treatments and devices. But in basic, practical terms it looks like you won’t be able to walk at all.’
Katy Page 17