Gemma's Journey

by Beryl Kingston

  They worked for an hour, took a rest, worked for another hour, asked her to walk again. By the end of the morning, her calf ached and her arms were heavy with fatigue.

  ‘That’s it for now,’ Mr Pearce said. ‘Time for the ambulance to take you home.’

  She was disappointed. ‘What about my new leg?’

  ‘Take a week to get used to this one,’ he advised. ‘Do your exercises every hour on the hour, then we’ll put you on two.’

  By this time she felt secure enough to joke. ‘Promises, promises,’ she complained.

  But it was wonderful to wheel her chair into the hall at Amersham Road with her plaster gone and crutches balanced across her knees and even better to know that she could get up and walk whenever she felt up to it. Especially as Catherine and Nick came out of the kitchen the moment she stood up.

  She was surprised to see Nick, although she shouldn’t have been because it was his home. After their day in York, and that emotional river trip, and the abrupt way they’d parted, she had hoped he would phone her to ask how she was. As the days passed and there’d been no call she’d been rather cast down. But what did that matter now? She was too high to worry about something as trivial as a phone call that hadn’t been made.

  ‘Impressed or what?’ she asked, leaning on her crutches and beaming at them.

  ‘Very,’ Catherine said. ‘Come and have lunch. It’s all ready for you.’

  Gemma began her slow hobble towards the kitchen. ‘How did you know I’d be back in time?’

  ‘Nick rang the centre.’

  It was petty to be annoyed about it but she was annoyed, because his action felt more like interference than concern. But he didn’t seem to notice that she was frowning. He was too busy urging them both into the kitchen.

  ‘I’ve only got an hour,’ he said, ‘and then I’m due back on the wards. So tell me, who did you see and what did they say?’

  He’s more interested in my symptoms than he is in me, Gemma thought. There are times when I don’t feel my legs are my own. But she told him what he wanted to know, adding ‘I’ve got a week to get my act together with one leg and then they’re going to give me the other one.’

  ‘So Dad’ll have to answer his own mail,’ Nick said.

  She assured him she could do her exercises and answer letters at the same time. ‘No problem.’ And he said he could well imagine it and helped himself to more salad.

  Despite her initial annoyance with him, the hour and the meal passed pleasantly and were over too soon.

  I must go,’ Catherine said, ‘or I shall be late for my clinic. Have you got time to fill the dishwasher, Nick?’

  He had but only just. ‘If I’m quick,’ he said, glancing at his watch. And he was quick. But he didn’t speak again until his mother had gone and the table was almost clear.

  How tense he is, Gemma thought as she handed him the last dirty plate. And right back to being formal and distant again. But then he suddenly smiled at her and said, ‘I suppose the next time I shall see you is at the ageds’ retirement party.’

  That was news to her. ‘I didn’t know they were retiring,’ she said. ‘They don’t seem old enough.’

  ‘Oh they’re retiring!’ he confirmed. ‘In just over four weeks. There’s a party organised. Invitations going out tomorrow. You’re invited.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said and he relaxed enough to laugh. ‘I’m the organiser. I/c balloons and streamers. That sort of thing.’

  The thought of another party warmed her. ‘Have you ordered a cake?’

  ‘No,’ he said, switching on the dishwasher. ‘I never thought of a cake. Do we need one?’

  ‘You can’t have a party without a cake,’ she told him. ‘I’ll make one for you if you like.’

  They were conspirators again, grinning at one another. ‘You’re on,’ he said. Now we shall talk, Gemma thought; But he was halfway out the door. ‘See you!’ he said. And was gone.

  Left on her own in the empty kitchen, Gemma felt deflated. They’d been together for nearly ten minutes and he hadn’t said a word about their day out. But never one to brood for long, she shrugged her thoughts away. Why should there be any sort of intimacy between them? He was a doctor and she was a patient. And that was all there was to it. Then she hobbled into her flat to write a list of the ingredients she would need for the cake.

  The next few days were disjointed by exercises and fraught with impatience: at her slow progress, at the aches and pains the exercises produced, at the intolerable wait before she could get back to the rehab centre. Her invitation arrived as he’d promised but there was no letter with it, not even so much as a little note. Fortunately letters arrived for Andrew in every post and that kept her occupied.

  So the long week passed and at last she was back in Crystal Palace, with the medical team around her and the consultant finally agreeing that she’d made sufficient progress to be introduced to her new leg.

  It was a hideous thing, like an enormous light socket with a carbon fibre peg emerging from the middle of it, where the calf should have been, and a clumsy-looking plastic foot attached to the énd of the peg. There was a grey leather strap to fit over her knee and hold the socket in position and, laid out ready for her, a selection of socks to pad the stump so that the liner didn’t rub. The one the prosthetist recommended was called an Ottobock sock and was made of cotton but there were woollen socks and fluffy socks too and the choice would depend on what felt most comfortable to her.

  The sight of it upset her so much that she had to joke about it to recover her balance. ‘Peg-leg the pirate,’ she said.

  ‘It is a bit,’ Mr Pearce agreed. ‘But this isn’t what you’ll finish up with, of course. This is just your primary limb.’

  ‘How many am I going to have?’

  ‘Three, probably,’ the prosthetist said. ‘Maybe more.’

  This is going to take months, she realised, and her heart sank. But he was talking about socks. ‘… lots of socks.’

  She pulled her mind back to the moment. ‘Lots of socks?’

  ‘They’ve got to act like shock absorbers,’ he explained. ‘The one thing you must avoid is any chafing and we’ve got to get a perfect fit. We’ll see how many pairs you need to be comfortable, which will vary according to how much shrinkage there is in your stump. Shouldn’t be too many in your case because you’ve had to wait for such a long time to be fitted and most of the swelling should have gone down. Let’s see, shall we?’

  It was two, one woollen and one fluffy cotton. Then at last, at last, the prosthesis was eased over her stump – and it did fit, exactly as they’d promised, like the proverbial glove – and she managed to stand on two legs, admiring her new wonderful image in the long mirror. Two legs, two feet, too good to be true.

  ‘Now,’ Mr Pearce said, bringing her back to the earth she would tread on, ‘let’s see what you can do. Two steps forward, if you will.’

  Although she was walking between the two long handrails, they were the most difficult steps she’d ever taken. Her remaining leg was still weak and the stump didn’t move her new leg in the direction she wanted, so she straddled and staggered like an overgrown toddler. The effort it took was out of all proportion to the distance she was able to move. She was glad it was only two steps he’d asked for.

  ‘Now we’ll take a look at your pelvis,’ he ordered.

  This was the physiotherapist’s job and it was done very thoroughly.

  ‘We’ve got to be sure the new limb isn’t going to tilt your hip bones,’ she explained, ‘because that would change the alignment of your spine and then you could be in trouble. No. It’s all in order. You can walk again when you’re ready.’

  The next two steps were simply comic. It was like being on stilts. ‘I’ll get the hang of it in a minute,’ she promised, as much to herself as her audience. But they were all too busy to answer, watching her closely and taking notes.

  The prosthetist produced a set of
tools and followed her on his hands and knees, adjusting the leg after every step, gradually working his way round the various adjustment screws all over the alignment device. At one point he stuck a slice of wood underneath her new foot to get the level right. It looked ugly and untidy but was obviously necessary, as the next step she took was a slight improvement. She staggered on, one uncoordinated pace after another, up and down between the rails, hanging on for balance and dear life. The observation and the adjustments continued.

  ‘And I always said I didn’t do patience,’ she observed to Mr Pearce as she passed him for the second time.

  ‘This takes time,’ he told her. ‘It’s not a thing we can hurry.’

  ‘It’s all necessary,’ the prosthetist added from the floor. ‘You’ll thank us for it when you get your perfect leg. And it will be perfect, I promise you.’

  ‘Break for lunch,’ Mr Pearce decided, checking his watch. ‘Back here at 2.15.’

  Gemma was glad to sit in her chair and wheel off for something to eat. This was much, much worse than walking on her real leg had been. Her entire body was aching: calf, hips, back, neck, shoulders. Even her hands. It was as if she’d been gardening non-stop for a week. Thank God for a snack and the chance to sit down.

  A pretty woman was limping towards her table, carrying a tray. Late thirties, neat figure, fluffy fair hair, snub nose, blue eyes, warm smile. ‘You’re new aren’t you?’ she asked. ‘Mind if I join you?’

  ‘Please do,’ Gemma said. ‘I shall be glad of the company.’

  ‘Bad morning?’

  ‘Exhausting.’

  The woman understood at once. ‘Was it your first fitting?’ she asked and nodded sagely when Gemma said it was.

  They introduced themselves – ‘Janey Medlicott’ ‘Gemma Goodeve’ – and told one another what limbs they’d lost and how, as calmly as though they were discussing a visit to a hairdresser. Janey had lost an arm and a leg in a road accident.

  ‘I’m over the worst of it now,’ she said. ‘Getting back to work helps a lot. And driving again. You’ve no idea how much better that makes you feel.’

  That made Gemma stare. ‘Isn’t it a bit difficult, driving?’

  ‘Not these days,’ Janey said. ‘Providing you’ve got one foot for the accelerator and the brake. You can do everything else on the steering column, even with a false hand – change gear, switch on the lights, sound your horn, change channels on the radio, put on your make-up. It’s great. I recommend it.’

  ‘How long did it take you?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘Five months almost exactly,’ Janey told her, ‘from the day of the accident to the day I was behind the wheel again. Fords do special rates for disabled drivers. I could give you their address, if you’re interested. I think I’ve got a telephone number too, somewhere.’

  ‘Yes please,’ Gemma said. ‘I’d like both. If I can drive again …’

  ‘You will,’ Janey encouraged her. ‘Just make your mind up to it and it’s as good as done.’

  ‘People are very positive here,’ Gemma remarked, returning to her sandwiches.

  ‘No point in being anything else,’ Janey said. ‘When you’ve been brought down as far as we have, the only way on is up. The thing to remember is you’re not alone. There are lots of people here to help you. That’s the good thing about a limb centre. There are people in chairs and people with hooks and people with pea-stick limbs wherever you look. We’re all in it together and we all help each other.’

  ‘You said you worked,’ Gemma asked. ‘What do you do? If you don’t mind me asking.’

  ‘I was a telephonist,’ Janey told her. ‘With the Post Office. Still am, actually, only I’m part-time now. There aren’t so many full-time jobs available these days. Not for anyone. But in a way it doesn’t matter. I’ve got my disability pension so I don’t need a full-time job as much as I did. The extra money would be nice because we’ve got a mortgage, but he’s still in work so I’m not desperate for it. And having a bit of time to spare gives me a chance to do something useful.’

  Gemma looked a question at her.

  ‘I’m part-time telephonist, part-time disabled helper,’ she explained. ‘I work in my local hospital with the disabled kids. It helps them to have someone around who knows what they’re going through, someone they can ask questions and talk to. Takes one to know one, sort of idea.’

  It sounded an excellent arrangement. ‘They don’t need any more, do they?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘I don’t think so. Not at the moment anyway. But they’re always looking out for people to help in the schools. You could try there.’

  ‘I might just do that,’ Gemma said. Maybe being trained to teach drama was going to stand her in good stead after all. She hadn’t been near a school since her last teaching practice, but there was no harm in offering. ‘I am glad I met you,’ she said. ‘You’ve given me a lot to think about.’

  ‘Good to hear it,’ Janey said, finishing her tea. ‘Now it’s back to the catwalk, I suppose.’

  The word rang bells in Gemma’s mind. ‘The what?’

  ‘The catwalk. That’s what we call the bars. You know, the ones you hang on to while you’re walking up and down and they’re all looking at you.’

  Gemma was enjoying the joke. ‘My mother always reckoned I’d end up as a model,’ she said. ‘Little did she know!’

  ‘Well good luck!’ Janey said. ‘I’ll see you around.’

  ‘Parking in the next bay,’ Gemma promised. It was extraordinary how much she’d cheered up. She was on her way. Anything was possible now.

  That night, she wrote a postcard to her mother. She hadn’t written to her for days, so it was high time. I shall have to go and see her soon, she thought, as she picked up her pen. And there was still the business of meeting her father. She really did want to see him. She knew that now. But not in this state. Not until she was walking properly and had found herself a job and her scars had faded a bit more. They were too obvious at the moment. There was no rush. What were a few more weeks after the years she’d spent without him?

  Thought I’d better let you know how I’m getting on. I have had the plaster removed from my right leg and have been fitted with my prosthesis. I can now walk again using crutches. It will make a lot of difference in the flat. Being in a chair all the time was awkward. I will write again after my next appointment and when I can walk well enough I will come and see you. Luv, Gemma.

  Chapter 18

  When Billie got home from work the next afternoon, Tim was in the bedroom sitting at her dressing table trimming his moustache with her nail scissors.

  ‘You’ve had another postcard,’ he said, flashing his charming smile through the mirror and out to where she stood in the hall. ‘It’s on the hall table. Came second post. She’s not in the convalescent home any more, apparently. She’s got a flat.’

  ‘Was there any address?’ Billie asked but she could see from his disappointed face that there wasn’t. She picked up the card and read it quickly. ‘Oh dear! She is being naughty.’

  ‘We must make allowances,’ Tim said gallantly, as he returned to his trimming. ‘She’s been to hell and back, poor kid.’

  Billie walked into the kitchen to make a pot of tea. ‘It wouldn’t hurt her to put her address even so,’ she grumbled. ‘If she’s got a place of her own she ought to tell us where it is. I mean, time’s going on. It’s six weeks since the crash. She ought to consider our feelings a bit. Yours certainly, when you’ve come all this way to see her. It’s not nice to spurn you.’

  He followed her into the kitchen and, standing behind her, put his arms round her waist and kissed her neck. ‘You’re such a tender heart,’ he said. ‘I’m not being spurned. How can you say such a thing when I’m here with you? Nothing could be further from the truth.’

  She leant back into his embrace, charmed by the compliment.

  ‘That’s a smart blouse,’ he murmured into her hair. ‘Is it new?’

  ‘I bought it this afte
rnoon. Out of stock.’ She’d worn it home specially to please him. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘It’s charming,’ he said, kissing her to prove it. ‘That pink always suited you. It’s your colour. English rose.’

  She turned in his arms so that she could face him. ‘Oh Tim,’ she said. ‘I do love you.’

  But he was sighing. ‘I would like to see her, naturally,’ he said. ‘You’re right about that. Still, she’ll come round in her own time. I must be patient.’

  My poor Tim, she thought, pitying the sigh. ‘I wish there was something I could do,’ she told him, sighing too. ‘I mean, if I could think of something, I’d do it like a shot. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course you would,’ he soothed. Then he seemed to be thinking. ‘What if we were to try the hospital again?’

  ‘They won’t tell us anything,’ she said, reaching for the teapot. ‘You know they won’t. It’s against their policy. They said so.’ She’d gone back to ask them for an address after Gemma’s first postcard was delivered and they’d made her feel so unwelcome she certainly didn’t want to repeat the performance. ‘I’ve had enough of hospitals and their blessed rules all the time. No, my darling, I’m afraid we’ll just have to wait till she writes a proper letter to us. Or comes to see us. Maybe she’ll come over Christmas. I mean, families always get together for Christmas, don’t they?’

  ‘That’s over six weeks away,’ he said, sitting at the kitchen table. ‘And like you said, time’s getting on. She ought to be putting in her claim soon or she’ll miss the boat.’

  Billie had almost forgotten about the claim. ‘Oh that!’ she said. ‘Maybe she’s done it already and not told us.’

  He shook his head. ‘If she’d done it, it would have been in the papers. Half a million’s a lot of money. And that’s news.’

  True. ‘I don’t suppose she’s been well enough to think about it,’ Billie said, watching the kettle. ‘They make you rest all the time when you’re convalescent, don’t they.’

  ‘I couldn’t say. I’ve never been convalescent.’

  ‘No,’ she said, turning to admire him. ‘I don’t suppose you have.’