By My Side

by Alice Peterson

  Edward offers me a cigarette.

  ‘It’s no smoking in here,’ Lindsey reminds him.

  He lights up. ‘Fuck off. Why are you making us do this? Can’t you see we don’t want to look at ourselves?’

  ‘Well, I don’t mind all that much,’ Trevor says, hoping to break the tension. ‘I mean, I’ve never been much of a beauty queen, moi.’

  Jenny and Alex are quiet. Tom is gazing at his feet, humming.

  ‘But it’s about the dogs,’ Lindsey tries to explain to us again, ‘and their interaction with you. This is an essential part of the training. I know it’s difficult but—’

  ‘It’s not just about the fucking dogs!’ Edward shouts now.

  ‘Edward! Calm down, please.’

  ‘What part of this don’t you get? At home I have no mirrors, right? Don’t you understand? I hate seeing me.’

  Lindsey sits down. ‘I know it’s hard, but if you want to take Tinkerbell home, you need to put the past behind you. You have a chance at a new life, Edward. It’s not the same as your old one, but it could be a good life.’

  ‘Don’t fucking patronise me.’

  Unfazed, Lindsey says, ‘Are you going to take it?’

  ‘It’s too late. I don’t want this fucking life. I’m in hell. This is hell on wheels,’ he says, leaving the room.

  *

  Later that evening there’s a knock on my door. ‘Come in,’ I call. Jenny enters, Captain by her side. Ticket immediately jumps up, his tail wagging. They play for a minute until Jenny says, firmly, ‘Down, now. Good boy.’ Captain lies down by her chair but keeps a close eye on Ticket.

  ‘I was checking to see if you were all right?’ she asks in her soft voice.

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  She isn’t convinced.

  ‘Really, I’m fine, Jenny. It’s Edward I’m worried about.’

  She nods. ‘I don’t like the filming either.’

  ‘You’d never know.’

  ‘I want to do my best for Captain. He didn’t ask to be an assistant dog so we have to do this, for our boys.’ There’s a pause. ‘Besides, I was in hospital for twenty years.’

  ‘For two years?’

  ‘No, twenty.’

  ‘You’re joking!’ is the first stupid thing to tumble out of my mouth, but of course I know she’s not.

  ‘I was told I was in the best place,’ she continues in a voice so calm, like waves gently rolling on to the shore. ‘No one could cope with me being at home. I needed too much care.’

  I am out of my depth, struggling to know the right thing to say. ‘What kept you going all that time?’

  ‘I put my name down on a housing list. I had the faintest hope that one of these days I’d get out. I couldn’t accept that I was going to die in hospital. I had to believe I’d go back into the community. Every day I’d think of people who were worse off than me. I know what you’re thinking,’ she says, when she registers my incredulous face, ‘but I’m glad I didn’t give up, and if that doesn’t make me a strong person, nothing will.’

  ‘How did you hear about Canine Partners?’

  ‘It was a guardian angel day. My sister was taking me out for a change of scene and we walked past one of the staff rooms where there was a demonstration going on. Lindsey told me to come in and watch. “I have to have one of those,” I said to her afterwards. The hospital didn’t think anyone in their right mind would give me a dog but Lindsey was always positive. I worked so hard to leave that place for this one. My lap,’ she says to him, and Captain jumps up, both paws pressed against her knees, and she strokes him affectionately.

  I look at her. She has seen nothing but her four walls and yet I think she’s seen more than most of us, especially me. ‘Is it wonderful to be out?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Strange too. Technology has moved on so much in the last twenty years, what with Facebook and texting and emails. It was like walking into another time zone!’ She pauses. ‘Here I am talking all about myself, but I don’t know much about you, Cass.’

  I tell her, briefly, why I’m in a wheelchair. Each time I tell someone about my accident, it gets a tiny bit easier.

  ‘Lindsey!’ we hear Edward calling outside in the corridor. His bedroom is next door to mine. ‘Can we talk?’

  Jenny and I stop. Wait.

  ‘Do you want to come into my office?’ Lindsey asks.

  ‘No, I need to say it now, right here. I’m really sorry. I don’t know what happened earlier. I was so angry but—’

  ‘Edward, it’s all right.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, I was out of order, I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that … oh God, this is my last hope and I’m scared. I’ve blown it, haven’t I? I’ve let you down. You’ll take Tinkerbell away from me?’

  ‘Edward, you haven’t let me down and I certainly won’t be taking Tinkerbell away from you.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I’ll see you in the morning and don’t give it another thought, OK, because I’m not going to and nor is Tinkerbell.’

  Minutes later there’s another knock on the door. ‘It’s me,’ Alex calls. Both Ticket and Captain bark as they jump to their feet, tails wagging, acting like they’re hosts letting in the next party guest. Alex walks in with Priscilla. She sits down, leaning her stick against the wall, before she produces from her bag a plastic cup along with a bottle of gin. ‘No sniff, Cilla,’ she says, pushing her away. ‘It ain’t food, sweetheart. It’s medicine.’ She offers both Jenny and me a glass.

  Jenny takes a tentative sip. I take a large gulp. And another.

  ‘D’you feel better now?’ Alex asks me.

  ‘Yes, much.’

  ‘I envy you, you know.’

  ‘Me? Why?’

  ‘The thing is, you’re pretty. Whatever you saw on the screen, I didn’t see it,’ she says, ‘honest to God. I bet you have guys queuing up.’

  I laugh, confiding that I haven’t been on a date since the accident; that the dating scene terrifies me almost as much as looking in the mirror.

  ‘Edward’s dead handsome too. Those beautiful green eyes and dark hair, and he’s a real hero and all that, ain’t he? Just imagine him in his uniform,’ she giggles.

  Jenny and I smile. I had noticed Edward was handsome too. It’s hard not to.

  ‘But whatever I have, it’s degenerative, right, it’s like MS and it’s only going to get worse. I can’t drive now, and that really hurts.’

  ‘Why do you want a dog, Alex?’ Jenny asks.

  ‘Well, I love ’em, always have. I thought my doggy days were well ’n’ truly over when I got this.’ She shrugs her shoulders. ‘This sounds stupid, right.’

  ‘Go on,’ Jenny and I say at the same time.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll meet anyone now.’ She laughs that painful laugh we are all guilty of; the laugh that attempts to mask the sadness. It makes me think of Guy. ‘I’ve kinda reckoned on being celibate for the rest of me life. I want a friend though. I don’t want to be alone no more,’ Alex confesses. ‘Loneliness, it’s a killer. How about both of you?’ she rushes on, hoping we don’t focus on what she’s just said.

  ‘That’s not stupid,’ I say. ‘It’s exactly how I feel.’

  ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ Jenny adds.

  ‘To loneliness, and beating the crap out of it,’ I suggest.

  We raise our glasses to each other and to Captain, Cilla and Ticket.

  12

  It’s a crisp winter’s day in January and sunlight streams through my bedroom window. Ticket and I have been together for nearly three months since the two-week residential training course. He’s now twenty-two months old and fully grown, but still a giant puppy at heart. We love having him at home. Without Ticket, we couldn’t have got through our first Christmas since my accident. He received so much attention in church, and when it came to present time, he had the best fun opening all of his toys, including a red squeaky Santa given to him by Trevor and Pandora. On New Year’s Day Mum,
Dad, Jamie and I wrapped up in thousands of layers and took Ticket for a long walk, followed by a pub lunch.

  Ticket sits in front of me, his face close to mine as I wipe the sleep dust from his eyes with a moist cotton wool pad. It’s hard to keep him still for long, he’s always raring to go on to the next thing. He’s a bundle of energy, giving our home a pulse again.

  The past three months have slipped by. Mum doesn’t nag me to get up any more. Ticket’s taken her place, whining to be let out. With the strap in his mouth, he pulls my chair over to me, and waits patiently as I transfer myself to it from the bed. Once I’m positioned on the landing, by the stair-lift, Ticket rushes downstairs to bring the old wheelchair that we hired from the Red Cross to the foot of the stairs. Once I’m in that chair, we make our way to the back door that leads into the garden. I can reach the handle, but Ticket jumps up and tugs at the cord without me even saying the command now. Once I’m showered and dressed, Ticket and I do a couple of chores. With Ticket’s help, together we bundle my bed sheets or clothes into a basket; with the basket on my lap we head downstairs (the same routine with the wheelchair and stair-lift) and into the utility room. Ticket then takes over, loading the machine. I can almost feel him flexing his muscles as he says, ‘Stand back, Cass, this is where I come in.’ He can’t go so far as setting my lingerie on a delicate wash, or hanging my frilly knickers, bras and socks on the clothesline, but if he could, he would. Captain is a man in Labrador’s clothing, Jenny had told me recently in a letter, because she still can’t fathom computers and email. In his own funny way, he talks to me, Cass, and seems to know what I’m thinking. He’s my friend, my power, he means the world to me.

  If I’m alone and have any kind of accident, Ticket has been trained to alert Mum or Dad, but if they’re not around, he can bring the telephone to me. I used to be unable to imagine living independently or doing the most basic things for myself without calling for Mum, but with Ticket I’m catching a glimpse of what it might be like moving back to London. And Ticket’s not only helping me. My parents are beginning to have a social life again. ‘We know you’re in good paws,’ Dad says with a wink, before they head out. Dad even suggested to Mum that they go on a winter mini-break to a country hotel with roaring log fires and cooked breakfasts. Mum still sneezes and scratches and says she should buy shares in antihistamine tablets.

  Ticket has given me colour in my cheeks and air in my lungs. On our walks, I wrap up warm and pack my bag with beef and chicken treats and his favourite half-chewed lime-green tennis ball. I loop his lead securely to the wheelchair, so I have both arms free to steer myself, and I take us down the long winding Dorset lanes. We say good afternoon to the sheep in the fields; we pass the grand house with the iron gates, and Ticket barks at the peacocks on the lawn.

  We often stop at the butcher’s. I can’t get my wheelchair up the steps so out comes Mr Steel in his navy apron, looking like the butcher in a set of Happy Family cards as he asks how many miles we’ve covered that day. It doesn’t matter if I say half a mile or five; he always replies, ‘Aye, no rest for the wicked!’ Occasionally he brings Ticket a marrow or rump bone, so of course Ticket loves visiting Mr Steel. In fact he loves everything. Whatever we do, Ticket seems to think it’s the most exciting adventure ever, even if it’s exactly what we did the day before.

  We pass many dog walkers and my parents’ neighbours, who always want to stop and talk and to my surprise I enjoy making conversation. Even though Ticket’s coat says, ‘Don’t distract me, I’m working’ I can see their hands restless at their sides, itching to stroke his soft golden fur. Children pat him all the time and tell me he’s ‘so cute’, which makes me glow like a proud mother.

  Ticket and I also visit Mrs Henderson, one of Mum and Dad’s elderly neighbours. She lives on her own in a thatched cottage with books on every shelf and a neglected swimming pool in her back garden. She had a proposition for me. She’s writing her memoirs but her typing is slow, so would I consider working for her? She’d pay, of course, she added. I’m aiming to save enough money to plan a trip before I move back to London and get a job. I haven’t told Sarah my plans. We’ve barely been in touch. She’s living in new accommodation in Pimlico. Thankfully she’s stopped trying to persuade me to go back to King’s. Going back there is my old life; it would only remind me of my accident. I crave something new.

  In secret, I’ve been online researching and slowly I’m making small steps to begin building a future. When I’m ready, I’ll tell Mum and Dad what I’m planning.

  13

  Mum, Dad, Jamie, Ticket and I drive to Canine Partners for Ticket’s graduation day, where we hope to see again all the friends we made on the training course. It’s a celebration for everyone who has been involved in the process of forming our partnerships, from the breeders to the puppy parents, occupational therapists, foster parents, sponsors and, of course, the trainers and staff who work for the charity.

  We’ve dressed up for the event. Jamie and my father are looking handsome in jackets and ties. Mum’s modelling an elegant suit with fake fur cuffs. I’m wearing a blue jersey dress with leggings and boots and both Mum and I went to the hairdresser’s yesterday to have our hair washed and blow-dried. But the most important person looks like a Hollywood star. Last night I gave Ticket a bath and groom and told him he’d give George Clooney a run for his money. I even polished the silver studs on his purple collar until they were sparkling like stars.

  Guests mill in the reception area of the training centre, the atmosphere like a drinks party. I’m eager to show Jamie round, pointing to the purpose-built chalets where my friends and I had stayed on the course. Jamie looks at some of the framed photographs, slowing down when he comes to a shot of a beaming Prince Harry holding a golden puppy.

  Guests and dogs gradually begin to make their way into the main training room. Today it’s lined with blue plastic chairs and there’s a PowerPoint screen at the far end, which reads: ‘Partnership Ceremony, February 11, 2011’. Ticket’s tail hasn’t stopped wagging since we arrived, and he almost pulls me out of my wheelchair when he sees the purple people again, especially Lindsey and Stuart testing the microphone. Today Stuart is wearing a suit with a shiny purple tie with the Canine Partner’s logo. Immediately he approaches us, greeting Ticket first.

  Amongst my friends, I spot Alex in a stripy shirt and navy woollen pinafore dress, clutching her stick. I introduce her to my family. Cilla is lying down on a dark green doggy paw-print mat, a fancy purple pompom attached to her collar. When she sees Ticket she springs to her feet, almost yanking Alex off her chair. I tell Ticket to calm down, we don’t want to spoil Cilla’s hairdo.

  Alex glances at the screen and the increasing number of guests filing into the room. ‘What you gonna say when it’s your turn? This is scary, huh?’

  ‘Got any gin under your jumper?’ I whisper.

  Trevor glides past us in his wheelchair, which seems to have acquired an army of new gadgets, including a front mirror and what looks like a bright red fly swatter on one of the arms. ‘Greetings!’ he booms, parking his chair close to us and introducing his wife. I notice he’s lost a lot of weight, so much so that I can see the outline of his chin. I realise only now that he must have been quite handsome as a younger man.

  As everyone takes their seats, Jenny waves at me from across the room. Captain is sitting on his doggy mat looking like a king at his coronation. The last person I see before the ceremony begins is Edward. He’s sitting in the front row. I watch him tenderly stroking Tinkerbell under her chin. As if sensing I am watching, he turns round and smiles.

  ‘Order!’ Stuart shouts, telling the dogs to keep quiet too. He taps the microphone, before beginning to describe how none of us would be here today if it weren’t for the breeders. ‘Our pups are not super-canine puppies, they are just normal pups that widdle and chew flexes and furniture, and do all the things we wish puppies wouldn’t do. But with lots of love and fun, patience and hard work, these puppies become
the canine partners of the future.’ Stuart continues to describe how the charity operates, and that each person plays a unique part. ‘We have some very special partnerships to present to you today, so, without further ado, let’s start with Pandora and Trevor.’

  Up comes an image on the screen of Pandora as a puppy, her head buried in a flowerpot. Pandora’s trainer comes to the front, telling us where Pandora was born and what she was like as a puppy. Stuart then invites Trevor and Pandora to the front. ‘Before my beautiful Pandora came into my life, I didn’t go out much,’ he says. ‘Pain wipes out all the pleasure of doing anything and if I’m honest I’d lost my faith, but I’ve begun to go to church again,’ he says, his voice filled with emotion.

  Soon there’s a photographer taking a shot of Pandora and Trevor with a swarm of people around her. It’s like a This Is Your Life dog show, Pandora reunited with her breeder, puppy and foster parents, and trainer.

  Jenny and Captain are next.

  As she tells her story I can sense the disbelief from the audience that she endured twenty years in hospital. ‘Captain’s speciality seems to be picking out my clothes. He has great style, right down to the colour coordinating of my underwear.’ There are lots of laughs. ‘Before the days of Captain, when I was taken out by my carer, nobody would look me in the eye. I’m sure they thought, “This old ducky, she’s not quite right upstairs!”’ Though Jenny smiles, the audience understand the sadness behind what she’s said. ‘Now I’m seen as a person,’ she says, collapsing into tears, years of frustration and pain finally coming out. The audience applaud, encouraging her to continue. ‘My condition made my world so small, but Captain has made my world big again.’

  Tom is the next in line. Stuart holds the microphone for him. ‘Leo is the class mascot,’ he says in one go, his speech dramatically improved. ‘My … other friends ask … if they can rent … him … out, for the night!’

  Ticket is getting restless now as Alex walks up to the front, unsteady on her stick. Nervously she begins, ‘I used to wake up gloomy, you know, but Cilla jumps up on the bed with me shoes as if to say, “Come on! Let’s go!” I’m so clumsy, always dropping me keys and me stick but Cilla brings ’em to me. When I’m stressed she breathes gently against me hand, as if to say, “Mum, it’s all right.” Cilla gives me a reason for living. She’s with me twenty-four seven. I love her. Cheers!’ she finishes triumphantly.