By My Side

by Alice Peterson

  Dom was the only patient in our ward who had the nerve to persevere with Guy. ‘We’re all in the same boat,’ he’d claim, except that wasn’t strictly true. Guy’s injury at the C6 level is worse and carries with it a lot more complications.

  However, Dom is someone who will not give up. Finally Guy broke down when Dom had insisted on singing Monty Python’s song, ‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life’.

  ‘Will you stop being so fucking perky all the fucking time!’

  There was this long painful silence that was broken when the entire ward laughed, including Guy. After that moment something changed within him; a small light had been switched on. That was also the beginning of Dom’s nickname, Perky.

  Gradually Guy joined Dom and me for supper in the evenings. Initially Dom and I did all the talking although I was aware that Guy listened to every word. I could see he had trouble holding his knife and fork so sometimes he ate his baked beans with a large spoon. We talked about our accidents; it’s impossible not to since they haunt you day and night. Dom had finished work, got on his motorbike, and the next thing he knew, he was lying face down on the tarmac. ‘My back tyre blew. I torture myself thinking, what if I had taken the bend slower? What if, what if?’

  I told them about that morning with Sean in our flat in Pimlico. All I was doing was getting some breakfast. I wasn’t concentrating; it was one mistake that had cost me this. ‘No one else was hurt,’ I confided. I also told them about my student days at King’s and Sean writing me a letter. Neither said a word. Deep down I could hear Guy thinking he’d have probably left me too, and I sensed Dom felt guilty that Miranda was unflinching in her support. If anything she loved him even more.

  ‘I remember waking up in my car,’ Guy said and Dom and I nearly choked on our food. ‘I had this pain in my neck.’ And after that moment Guy didn’t stop talking. He told us that he had been driving back from a party in the early hours of the morning when his car hit a tree. It had taken the ambulance men six hours to get him out of the front seat. They’d had to cut the car’s roof off. He had been as dependent as a baby for the first few months in hospital.

  His voice was shaking. I felt unnerved by the pain in his dark eyes but I was glad he was talking, and he had Dom to thank for this breakthrough. It was as if, since his accident, his mind and body had shut down completely and finally he was beginning to come out of the coma.

  ‘They don’t mince their words in here, do they?’ Dom said during one of our evenings.

  ‘Doctors are arseholes,’ Guy said. ‘Most of them, anyway.’

  ‘I can’t see you being like them, Cass,’ Dom added. ‘I have to say, I was pretty cheesed off when they told me I wouldn’t be able to walk again.’

  ‘You posh sod,’ said Guy. ‘I went fucking mental. Sorry, Princess.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ I handed round the jam tarts that Dad had brought in for me.

  ‘I thought if you broke your neck you died,’ Guy continued. ‘I thought people in wheelchairs were born like that. Fucking hell – sorry, Cass – I had no idea I could end up like a cabbage. The doc says, “You’ll never walk again and it’s something you’re going to have to get used to. ”’ He rocked in his chair. ‘Since I’ve been here all I’ve been told are the things I can’t do. Can’t use my hands properly.’

  I hid my own.

  ‘Can’t dress myself, won’t be able to sweat or shiver because I’ve lost feeling in my sensory nerves too, so I’m at risk of hypothermia. Can’t do or feel a thing. Can’t even pick my fucking nose.’

  He didn’t apologise this time.

  ‘The scariest thing though,’ Guy continued, making up time for his silence, ‘is that when I leave here I’m moving in with my parents. I loved my pad in London. I worked every hour of the day to buy it. It looked over the Thames. Thirty-five and living at home,’ he continued, staring at both of us. ‘They’re hardly young either, you’ve seen them.’ Guy’s father is tall and slim with thinning grey hair and I’d watch him with his son, head hung low and unable to say a word. He looked like a wounded animal. Guy’s mother did all the talking.

  ‘I left home when I was eighteen to make my millions in the City. Before this I was a stockbroker. At weekends I’d play sport. What am I going to do now? Crochet? Hang on, can’t even do that.’

  The more Guy talked, the less scared I became of him. While I loved Dom for his optimism, I related to Guy’s cynicism. It also didn’t matter that both were older than me.

  My mobile rings, telling me I have a new message. ‘Can’t wait to see u Princess. Restaurant better serve baked beans. Guy.’

  I smile, thinking about one time when the supper trolley had rattled round the ward.

  ‘Looking forward to your baked beans?’ I’d asked him. We were all in our pyjamas, as if at a sleepover party.

  ‘Don’t you, like, trump all the time?’ Dom asked.

  ‘I was wondering what the smell was,’ I said.

  Guy looked at me. ‘Don’t even think about coming between me and my orange friends, Princess.’

  ‘This lady goes to a smart dinner party in London,’ started Dom, ‘and there’s an American guest. Quite early on in the party the hostess unfortunately breaks wind.’

  Guy roared with laughter.

  ‘So the gentleman to her left says, “I’m so dreadfully sorry.” The dinner continues but a couple of minutes later the hostess breaks wind again. So the gentleman to her right apologises. The American guest watches these incidents with astonishment. And then a couple of minutes later the hostess does yet another trump. The American, now gobsmacked, leans forward and says, “Hey, madam, have that one on me!”’

  The ticket conductor enters our carriage, bringing me back to the present. He punches my ticket. As I think about Guy and Dom again, I find I’m grinning all the way to Paddington, realising how much I’m looking forward to seeing them, almost more than Sarah.

  *

  Everyone gathers their cases, laptops, newspapers and magazines. I look out of the window, down the entire stretch of platform. I can’t see anyone yet. Don’t panic, Cass. The station promised that there’d be someone to help at this end. I watch people filing out and marching across to the exit barriers.

  Finally the carriage is quiet. The automatic doors open and I position myself near to the step. Thankfully I can see a solid metal ramp to the right of me, near to the driver’s door, and to my relief a couple of men in official uniform walk on to the platform. ‘Hello!’ I call out.

  ‘All right?’ one of them replies, drinking a cup of tea.

  ‘Can you help me, please? I need that ramp.’ I point to it. It’s on wheels.

  Passengers begin to board the train.

  The uniformed men continue talking about last night’s football results.

  ‘Do you think you could get that ramp?’ I ask, not wanting to shout and make a spectacle of myself. ‘Or lift me down?’

  ‘You’re young? Can’t you walk at all?’ one of them asks.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Sorry, love, don’t think we’re insured to lift passengers. You know, health and safety and all that.’

  Panic racing through me now, I reverse my chair to allow a couple into the carriage, but they stop. ‘Can I help you?’ the man suggests. He is balding with spectacles and doesn’t look as if he could lift a fly. His wife or partner is wearing a colourful sundress with espadrilles.

  ‘It’s my first time on a train,’ I tell them. ‘Not a great start.’

  ‘You take the chair,’ the man says to his wife or partner, as he lifts me into his arms. He’s surprisingly strong. ‘Health and safety my foot,’ he mutters under his breath. ‘Tony Blair has a lot to answer for.’

  *

  ‘How was your day?’ Mum asks, the moment I arrive home late that night. I sense Dad signalling to her that all is not rosy. ‘How was the journey?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Someone helped you?’

  I nod. ‘I’m tir
ed, Mum. I might go to bed.’ I wheel myself into the kitchen first to get a glass of water.

  ‘But you had a good day?’ She follows me. ‘You enjoyed seeing Dom and Guy? And how was Sarah? It must have been lovely catching up.’

  ‘Yep,’ I reply, fighting the urge to cry. I think of today, how in many ways returning to London and seeing Dom and Guy was positive; yet in so many other ways I was haunted by a city where I used to live and study, party, be wild and free, independent and happy, not think twice about hopping on the tube or running to catch a bus. A home where I’d been in love.

  In my bedroom I sit, frozen, with a scalpel that I stole from Dad’s office. When Sarah and I had greeted one another, immediately it felt odd, almost as if we were going on a first date. Sarah asked me where I would like to sit, and did I need a hand with my jacket? She scurried round the table, taking away a chair to make room for me.

  I grip the scalpel.

  When we were waiting for our drinks, there was a long awkward silence, so alien to our past friendship. Sarah and I used to be geeks by day. Over cups of black coffee we’d discuss molecules and genetics, science and weird body parts. By night we were party animals at Tutu’s, the famous nightclub named after Desmond Tutu, who had studied at King’s. We loved to dance. Being with her reminded me of staggering home at three in the morning, empty bottles of vodka in our hands, only to be at hospital by nine a.m. the following day, bleary-eyed and in need of another coffee shot from the machine.

  Today, we talked about my train journey to London and the menu, both of us deliberating for ages about what to eat. Sarah asked after my parents. When I asked her to tell me about her forthcoming summer placement in Gibraltar, all she said was that it was no big deal, as long as she managed to get her certificate of attendance by the end. ‘But apart from that, Cass, nothing much is going on,’ she said, avoiding eye contact. Sarah is the happiest, most enthusiastic person I know. Sean and I would say her bounciness was great most of the time, except first thing on a Monday morning, when we could hear her singing in the shower.

  Being with her today was difficult; I felt disconnected in every way and wanted to be back with Guy and Dom, in a safe place where the three of us could laugh and feel at home with each other and the new worlds we now inhabit.

  The evening went from bad to worse when Sarah said, ‘I don’t know how to tell you this.’ She was fidgeting with the strap of her handbag. ‘Oh, Cass.’ She took a large gulp of wine. ‘It’s Sean.’

  I felt sick.

  ‘He’s met … he’s met someone else.’ Sarah refilled my wine glass. I sat silent, shocked. Of course he was going to meet someone else but it felt too soon. ‘Cass, say something. This is me you’re talking to.’

  ‘Who is she?’ I asked, numb inside.

  ‘No one you know. She’s in the year below.’

  That was something.

  ‘Listen, he’s a dickhead, and I hate the way he’s treated you. I can’t even look at him, the way he carries on as if nothing’s happened. I feel so guilty, Cass. I don’t want to live with him in our final year. I mean, in my final year … Oh God, you know what I mean.’ Sarah was getting tangled up in her words. ‘I really miss you, it’s not the same.’

  ‘Don’t feel guilty.’ I gripped her hand. ‘It’s not your fault. I miss you too.’ It felt like we were saying goodbye.

  With the scalpel I cut a long straight line into my thigh, slicing it into my flesh. I watch blood seeping out, vivid against my pale skin. I want to see how deep I can go until I feel something; anything but this numbness. There’s a knock on my door and without waiting Dad walks in to say goodnight.

  ‘Cass!’ He kneels down beside me and grabs the sharp object from my hand. ‘What the hell are you doing!’ He rushes out of the room. I hear him flinging open the bathroom cabinet. Pots of pills crash into the sink. ‘Bren!’ he shouts. Mum runs upstairs and into my room; the sight of blood makes her stagger but quickly she composes herself when Dad returns with the first-aid box. I watch them struggling to help me, their hands trembling. Mum cleans the wound and they lift my leg so they can wrap the bandage around my thigh. ‘Scissors,’ Mum demands. Dad hands them to her and she tears through the material in a jagged line.

  Next she is bandaging my thigh, pulling each layer tighter than the last. ‘Stop it! Let me die,’ I beg.

  Mum lets go of the bandage and leaves the room.

  ‘How can we help you?’ Dad asks. ‘Tell us what we can do, Cass.’

  He only then notices the mess of torn paper, photographs of Sean reduced to nothing but scraps of memories.

  *

  It’s two hours later, eleven o’clock in the evening. From the top of the stairs I can see Mum and Dad in the kitchen. They are sitting on the window seat. Dad is holding Mum, rocking her in his arms like a child.

  Another hour goes by and still I can’t sleep. My bedroom door opens. Disorientated, I turn on the light. ‘Can I come in?’ Mum asks, wearing her ancient blue dressing gown that I remember as a child. Tentatively she sits on my bed. I want to say sorry. I feel ashamed that I let her and Dad down tonight.

  ‘I’ll never hear your footsteps again,’ she says. ‘See your posture. You had such a graceful posture.’

  I can’t cry; it’s buried too deep. Instead I reach out to hold her hand.

  ‘I only shout at you to get out of bed because I feel guilty that you’re stuck at home. I want you to have a life away from us.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Please don’t hurt yourself again, Cass. I love you, you have no idea.’ She breathes deeply. ‘And the older you get, the more I love you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, clutching her hand. ‘Today was hard, Mum.’

  She nods. ‘Your father told me about Sean. Don’t be too sad. There’ll be someone out there much braver and stronger and that person will fall in love with you, because of who you are, a talented beautiful girl.’

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ I say, now feeling a well of tears.

  ‘Do you know what else I miss, Cass?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I can’t hug you properly.’

  ‘We could try?’

  Mum lifts the covers and lies down next to me. I hold on to her arm, using it as a rail so that I can position myself on to my side.

  ‘That’s much better,’ she says, her arms wrapped around me. ‘No wheelchair in the way.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mum, about earlier,’ I say, hugging her back.

  ‘It’s going to get better, I promise. There has to be something or someone out there, who’s going to help us get through this.’

  7

  It’s the end of July. I’ve been at home for nearly three months.

  Jamie is on holiday in Ibiza. Sarah has just left for her two-month placement, four weeks in Dublin and four in Gibraltar. I try not to think that I’d be in Africa, working in a bush hospital. Instead, Mum and I are out on one of our regular Friday drives. Mum always takes the day off on a Friday, and since the sunshine was out, we left earlier than usual this morning, Mum suggesting we stop and have a picnic lunch.

  Mum and I have been going on regular drives for the past month, and I’ve learned a lot about her in the car, things I didn’t know, or previously wouldn’t have even thought to ask. I’ve discovered my grandfather Fred, Mum’s father, worked in a factory and Granny Pearl wasn’t interested in kids, which is why Mum was an only child. Mum and Dad were neighbours (I knew that). Mum described Dad’s father, Eric. ‘He was a drunk, Cass. All the street would see him staggering home from the pub after work.’ The one time I do recall Granddad Eric visiting us in London, all I can remember him doing was loosening his tie and twitching, sweat breaking out on his forehead. It now makes sense that he was gasping for a drink. Granny Pearl hadn’t wanted to be involved in our family life. I realise now why Mum and Dad are so close. They didn’t have parents in the way that Jamie and I do. They only had each other.

  ‘We promised one another that we’d run awa
y together, move to London the moment we could,’ Mum had said. ‘We were wild, Cass. I had this mini skirt. You see, back in our day it was all about Twiggy and Mary Quant. Anyway, my father hated it. We always had such fisticuffs, Dad and I, our neighbours threatened to call social services half the time!’ Mum had laughed, but there was sadness deep inside. ‘I was about to go out with your dad to the pictures, and my dad says, “Brenda, you’re not walking out in that skirt, I can see your knickers!” I walked on. “You come back here, at once!”’

  ‘And did you?’ I’d asked, knowing the answer.

  ‘No! Of course not.’ She laughed proudly. ‘Michael and I, we were so happy,’ she went on. ‘In our first flat, it was in Shepherd’s Bush, we had no television, no proper bed, no nothing, but it didn’t bother us because we had our freedom. We were determined to make something of ourselves. There was no way we were ever going back home.’

  I learned that Mum took a catering course in west London. De-boning turkeys, skinning fish and plucking pheasants put her off cooking for life. She quit after a few months because she found a well-paid job working for a Texan called Troy. He was the senior vice-president of an oil company and Mum was his secretary. She’d lied through her teeth in the interview, pretending she could type as if on speed and she was a demon at shorthand. With Dad’s help, she faked her references. The cracks began to show when Troy dictated too quickly, so Mum devised this trick to break her pencil and rush out, fill the gaps and then come back, but one day he presented her with ten shiny pencils, all perfectly sharpened. “There you go, ma’am, there’s no need for you to rush your pretty little legs out no more,”’ Troy had said, winking at her.

  While Mum was flirting with Troy, Dad was busy studying at Kingston to become an architect. ‘I needed a good job. Your father was penniless. Troy knew I’d been a little liberal with the truth, but he admired my ambition. Sometimes in life you have to take a few risks.’