by Jojo Moyes
‘If you think I’m helping you now with your stupid list, you’ve got another thing coming,’ Treena hissed at me, as Mum manhandled her out of the door.
‘Good. I didn’t want your help anyway, freeloader,’ I said, and then ducked as Dad threw a copy of the Radio Times at my head.
On Saturday morning I went to the library. I think I probably hadn’t been in there since I was at school – quite possibly out of fear that they would remember the Judy Blume I had lost in Year 7, and that a clammy, official hand would reach out as I passed through its Victorian pillared doors, demanding £3,853 in fines.
It wasn’t what I remembered. Half the books seemed to have been replaced by CDs and DVDs, great bookshelves full of audiobooks, and even stands of greetings cards. And it was not silent. The sound of singing and clapping filtered through from the children’s book corner, where some kind of mother and baby group was in full swing. People read magazines and chatted quietly. The section where old men used to fall asleep over the free newspapers had disappeared, replaced by a large oval table with computers dotted around the perimeter. I sat down gingerly at one of these, hoping that nobody was watching. Computers, like books, are my sister’s thing. Luckily, they seemed to have anticipated the sheer terror felt by people like me. A librarian stopped by my table, and handed me a card and a laminated sheet with instructions on it. She didn’t stand over my shoulder, just murmured that she would be at the desk if I needed any further help, and then it was just me and a chair with a wonky castor and the blank screen.
The only computer I have had any contact with in years is Patrick’s. He only really uses it to download fitness plans, or to order sports technique books from Amazon. If there is other stuff he does on there, I don’t really want to know about it. But I followed the librarian’s instructions, double-checking every stage as I completed it. And, astonishingly, it worked. It didn’t just work, but it was easy.
Four hours later I had the beginnings of my list.
And nobody mentioned the Judy Blume. Mind you, that was probably because I had used my sister’s library card.
On the way home I nipped in to the stationer’s and bought a calendar. It wasn’t one of the month-to-view kind, the ones you flip over to reveal a fresh picture of Justin Timberlake or mountain ponies. It was a wall calendar – the sort you might find in an office, with staff holiday entitlement marked on it in permanent pen. I bought it with the brisk efficiency of someone who liked nothing better than to immerse herself in administrative tasks.
In my little room at home, I opened it out, pinned it carefully to the back of my door and marked the date when I had started at the Traynors’, way back at the beginning of February. Then I counted forward, and marked the date – 12 August – now barely four months ahead. I took a step back and stared at it for a while, trying to make the little black ring bear some of the weight of what it heralded. And as I stared, I began to realize what I was taking on.
I would have to fill those little white rectangles with a lifetime of things that could generate happiness, contentment, satisfaction or pleasure. I would have to fill them with every good experience I could summon up for a man whose powerless arms and legs meant he could no longer make them happen by himself. I had just under four months’ worth of printed rectangles to pack out with days out, trips away, visitors, lunches and concerts. I had to come up with all the practical ways to make them happen, and do enough research to make sure that they didn’t fail.
And then I had to convince Will to actually do them.
I stared at my calendar, the pen stilled in my hand. This little patch of laminated paper suddenly bore a whole heap of responsibility.
I had a hundred and seventeen days in which to convince Will Traynor that he had a reason to live.
11
There are places where the changing seasons are marked by migrating birds, or the ebb and flow of tides. Here, in our little town, it was the return of the tourists. At first, a tentative trickle, stepping off trains or out of cars in brightly coloured waterproof coats, clutching their guidebooks and National Trust membership; then, as the air warmed, and the season crept forwards, disgorged alongside the belch and hiss of their coaches, clogging up the high street, Americans, Japanese and packs of foreign schoolchildren were dotted around the perimeter of the castle.
In the winter months little stayed open. The wealthier shop owners took advantage of the long bleak months to disappear to holiday homes abroad, while the more determined hosted Christmas events, capitalizing on occasional carol concerts in the grounds, or festive craft fairs. But then as the temperatures slid higher, the castle car parks would become studded with vehicles, the local pubs chalk up an increase in requests for a ploughman’s lunch and, within a few sunny Sundays, we had morphed again from being a sleepy market town into a traditional English tourist destination.
I walked up the hill, dodging this season’s hovering early few as they clutched their neoprene bumbags and well-thumbed tourist guides, their cameras already poised to capture mementoes of the castle in spring. I smiled at a few, paused to take photographs of others with proffered cameras. Some locals complained about the tourist season – the traffic jams, the overwhelmed public toilets, the demands for strange comestibles in The Buttered Bun cafe (‘You don’t do sushi? Not even hand roll?’). But I didn’t. I liked the breath of foreign air, the close-up glimpses of lives far removed from my own. I liked to hear the accents and work out where their owners came from, to study the clothes of people who had never seen a Next catalogue or bought a five-pack of knickers at Marks and Spencer’s.
‘You look cheerful,’ Will said, as I dropped my bag in the hallway. He said it as if it were almost an affront.
‘That’s because it’s today.’
‘What is?’
‘Our outing. We’re taking Nathan to see the horse racing.’
Will and Nathan looked at each other. I almost laughed. I had been so relieved at the sight of the weather; once I saw the sun, I knew everything was going to be all right.
‘Horse racing?’
‘Yup. Flat racing at –’ I pulled my notepad from my pocket ‘– Longfield. If we leave now we can be there in time for the third race. And I have five pounds each way on Man Oh Man, so we’d better get a move on.’
‘Horse racing.’
‘Yes. Nathan’s never been.’
In honour of the occasion I was wearing my blue quilted minidress, with the scarf with horse bits around the edge knotted at my neck, and a pair of leather riding boots.
Will studied me carefully, then reversed his chair and swerved so that he could better see his male carer. ‘This is a long-held desire of yours, is it, Nathan?’
I gave Nathan a warning glare.
‘Yiss,’ he said, and broke out a smile. ‘Yes, it is. Let’s head for the gee-gees.’
I had primed him, of course. I had rung him on Friday and asked him which day I could borrow him for. The Traynors had agreed to pay his extra hours (Will’s sister had left for Australia, and I think they wanted to be sure that someone ‘sensible’ was going to accompany me) but I hadn’t been sure until Sunday what it actually was we were going to do. This seemed the ideal start – a nice day out, less than half an hour’s drive away.
‘And what if I say I don’t want to go?’
‘Then you owe me forty pounds,’ I said.
‘Forty pounds? How do you work that out?’
‘My winnings. Five pounds each way at eight to one.’ I shrugged. ‘Man Oh Man’s a sure thing.’
I seemed to have got him off balance.
Nathan clapped his hands on to his knees. ‘Sounds great. Nice day for it too,’ he said. ‘You want me to pack some lunch?’
‘Nah,’ I said. ‘There’s a nice restaurant. When my horse comes in, lunch is on me.’
‘You’ve been racing often, then?’ Will said.
And then before he could say anything else, we had bundled him into his coat and I ran outsid
e to reverse the car.
I had it all planned, you see. We would arrive at the racecourse on a beautiful sunny day. There would be burnished, stick-legged thoroughbreds, their jockeys in billowing bright silks, careening past. Perhaps a brass band or two. The stands would be full of cheering people, and we would find a space from which to wave our winning betting slips. Will’s competitive streak would kick in and he would be unable to resist calculating the odds and making sure he won more than either Nathan or me. I had worked it all out. And then, when we had had enough of watching the horses, we would go to the well-reviewed racecourse restaurant and have a slap-up meal.
I should have listened to my father. ‘Want to know the true definition of the triumph of hope over experience?’ he would say. ‘Plan a fun family day out.’
It started with the car park. We drove there without incident, me now a little more confident that I wasn’t going to tip Will over if I went faster than 15 mph. I had looked up the directions at the library, and kept up a cheerful banter almost the whole way there, commenting on the beautiful blue sky, the countryside, the lack of traffic. There were no queues to enter the racecourse, which was, admittedly, a little less grand than I had expected, and the car park was clearly marked.
But nobody had warned me it was on grass, and grass that had been driven over for much of a wet winter at that. We backed into a space (not hard, as it was only half full) and almost as soon as the ramp was down Nathan looked worried.
‘It’s too soft,’ he said. ‘He’s going to sink.’
I glanced over at the stands. ‘Surely, if we can get him on to that pathway we’ll be okay?’
‘It weighs a ton, this chair,’ he said. ‘And that’s forty feet away.’
‘Oh, come on. They must build these chairs to withstand a bit of soft ground.’
I backed Will’s chair down carefully and then watched as the wheels sank several inches into the mud.
Will said nothing. He looked uncomfortable, and had been silent for much of the half-hour drive. We stood beside him, fiddling with his controls. A breeze had picked up, and Will’s cheeks grew pink.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We’ll do it manually. I’m sure we can manage to get there between us.’
We tilted Will backwards. I took one handle and Nathan took the other and we dragged the chair towards the path. It was slow progress, not least because I had to keep stopping because my arms hurt and my pristine boots grew thick with dirt. When we finally made it to the pathway, Will’s blanket had half slipped off him and had somehow got caught up in his wheels, leaving one corner torn and muddy.
‘Don’t worry,’ Will said, dryly. ‘It’s only cashmere.’
I ignored him. ‘Right. We’ve made it. Now for the fun bit.’
Ah yes. The fun bit. Who thought it would be a good idea for racecourses to have turnstiles? It was hardly as if they needed crowd control, surely? It’s not as if there were crowds of chanting racehorse fans, threatening riots if Charlie’s Darling didn’t make it back in third, rioting stable-girls who needed penning in and keeping out. We looked at the turnstile, and then back at Will’s chair, and then Nathan and I looked at each other.
Nathan stepped over to the ticket office and explained our plight to the woman inside. She tilted her head to look at Will, then pointed us towards the far end of the stand.
‘The disabled entrance is over there,’ she said.
She said disabled like someone entering a diction contest. It was a good 200 yards away. By the time we finally made it over there the blue skies had disappeared abruptly, replaced by a sudden squall. Naturally, I hadn’t brought an umbrella. I kept up a relentless, cheerful commentary about how funny this was and how ridiculous, and even to my ears I had begun to sound brittle and irritating.
‘Clark,’ said Will, finally. ‘Just chill out, okay? You’re being exhausting.’
We bought tickets for the stands, and then, almost faint with relief at finally having got there, I wheeled Will out to a sheltered area just to the side of the main stand. While Nathan sorted out Will’s drink, I had some time to look at our fellow racegoers.
It was actually quite pleasant at the base of the stands, despite the occasional spit of rain. Above us, on a glass-fronted balcony, men in suits proffered champagne glasses to women in wedding outfits. They looked warm and cosy, and I suspected that was the Premier Area, listed next to some stratospheric price on the board in the ticket kiosk. They wore little badges on red thread, marking them out as special. I wondered briefly if it was possible to colour our blue ones a different shade, but decided that being the only people with a wheelchair would probably make us a little conspicuous.
Beside us, dotted along the stands and clutching polystyrene cups of coffee and hip flasks, were men in tweedy suits and women in smart padded coats. They looked a little more everyday, and their little badges were blue too. I suspected that many of them were trainers and grooms, or horsey people of some sort. Down at the front, by little whiteboards, stood the tic-tac men, their arms waving in some strange semaphore that I couldn’t understand. They scribbled up new combinations of figures, and scrubbed them out again with the base of their sleeves.
And then, like some parody of a class system, around the parade ring stood a group of men in striped polo shirts, who clutched beer cans and who seemed to be on some kind of outing. Their shaved heads suggested some kind of military service. Periodically they would break out into song, or begin some noisy, physical altercation, ramming each other with blunt heads or wrapping their arms around each other’s necks. As I passed to go to the loo, they catcalled me in my short skirt (I appeared to be the only person in the whole of the stands in a skirt) and I flipped them the finger behind my back. And then they lost interest as seven or eight horses began skirting around each other, eased into the stands with workmanlike skill, all preparing for the next race.
And then I jumped as around us the small crowd roared into life and the horses bolted from the starting gate. I stood and watched them go, suddenly transfixed, unable to suppress a flurry of excitement at the tails suddenly streaming out behind them, the frantic efforts of the brightly coloured men atop them, all jostling for position. When the winner crossed the finishing line it was almost impossible not to cheer.
We watched the Sisterwood Cup, and then the Maiden Stakes, and Nathan won six pounds on a small each-way bet. Will declined to bet. He watched each race, but he was silent, his head retracted into the high collar of his jacket. I thought perhaps he had been indoors so long that it was bound to all feel a little weird for him, and I decided I was simply not going to acknowledge it.
‘I think that’s your race, the Hempworth Cup,’ Nathan said, glancing up at the screen. ‘Who did you say your money was on? Man Oh Man?’ He grinned. ‘I never knew how much more fun betting is when you’re actually watching the horses.’
‘You know, I didn’t tell you this, but I’ve never been racing before either,’ I told Nathan.
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘I’ve never even been on a horse. My mum is terrified of them. Wouldn’t even take me to the stables.’
‘My sister’s got two, just outside Christchurch. She treats them like babies. All her money goes on them.’ He shrugged. ‘And she isn’t even going to eat them at the end of it.’
Will’s voice filtered up towards us. ‘So how many races will it take to ensure we’ve fulfilled your long-held ambitions?’
‘Don’t be grumpy. They say you should try everything once,’ I said.
‘I think horse racing falls into the “except incest and morris dancing” category.’
‘You’re the one always telling me to widen my horizons. You’re loving it,’ I said. ‘And don’t pretend otherwise.’
And then they were off. Man Oh Man was in purple silks with a yellow diamond. I watched him flatten out around the white rail, the horse’s head extended, the jockey’s legs pumping, arms flailing backwards and forwards up the horse’s neck.
‘Go on, mate!’ Nathan had got into it, despite himself. His fists were clenched, his eyes fixed on the blurred group of animals speeding around the far side of the track.
‘Go on, Man Oh Man!’ I yelled. ‘We’ve got a steak dinner riding on you!’ I watched him vainly trying to make ground, his nostrils dilated, his ears back against his head. My own heart lurched into my mouth. And then, as they reached the final furlong, my yelling began to die away. ‘All right, a coffee,’ I said. ‘I’ll settle for a coffee?’
Around me the stands had erupted into shouting and screaming. A girl was bouncing up and down two seats along from us, her voice hoarse with screeching. I found I was bouncing on my toes. And then I looked down and saw that Will’s eyes were closed, a faint furrow separating his brows. I tore my attention from the track, and knelt down.
‘Are you okay, Will?’ I said, moving close to him. ‘Do you need something?’ I had to yell to make myself heard over the din.
‘Scotch,’ he said. ‘Large one.’
I stared at him, and he lifted his eyes to mine. He looked utterly fed up.
‘Let’s get some lunch,’ I said to Nathan.
Man Oh Man, that four-legged imposter, flashed past the finishing line a miserable sixth. There was another cheer, and the announcer’s voice came over the tannoy: Ladies and gentlemen, an emphatic win there from Love Be A Lady, there in first place, followed by Winter Sun, and Barney Rubble two lengths behind in third place.
I pushed Will’s chair through the oblivious groups of people, deliberately bashing into heels when they failed to react to my second request.
We were just at the lift when I heard Will’s voice. ‘So, Clark, does this mean you owe me forty pounds?’
The restaurant had been refurbished, the food now under the auspices of a television chef whose face appeared on posters around the racecourse. I had looked up the menu beforehand.
‘The signature dish is duck in orange sauce,’ I told the two men. ‘It’s Seventies retro, apparently.’
‘Like your outfit,’ said Will.
Out of the cold, and away from the crowds, he appeared to have cheered up a little. He had begun to look around him, instead of retreating back into his solitary world. My stomach began to rumble, already anticipating a good, hot lunch. Will’s mother had given us eighty pounds as a ‘float’. I had decided I would pay for my food myself, and show her the receipt, and as a result had no fears at all that I was going to order myself whatever I fancied on the menu – retro roast duck, or otherwise.
‘You like going out to eat, Nathan?’ I said.
‘I’m more of a beer and takeaway man myself,’ Nathan said. ‘Happy to come today, though.’
‘When did you last go out for a meal, Will?’ I said.
He and Nathan looked at each other. ‘Not while I’ve been there,’ Nathan said.
‘Strangely, I’m not overly fond of being spoon-fed in front of strangers.’
‘Then we’ll get a table where we can face you away from the room,’ I said. I had anticipated this one. ‘And if there are any celebrities there, that will be your loss.’
‘Because celebrities are thick on the ground at a muddy minor racecourse in March.’
‘You’re not going to spoil this for me, Will Traynor,’ I said, as the lift doors opened. ‘The last time I ate out anywhere was a birthday party for four-year-olds at Hailsbury’s only indoor bowling alley, and there wasn’t a thing there that wasn’t covered in batter. Including the children.’
We wheeled our way along the carpeted corridor. The restaurant ran along one side, behind a glass wall, and I could see there were plenty of free tables. My stomach began to rumble in anticipation.
‘Hello,’ I said, stepping up to the reception area. ‘I’d like a table for three, please.’ Please don’t look at Will, I told the woman silently. Don’t make him feel awkward. It’s important that he enjoys this.
‘Badge, please,’ she said.
‘Sorry?’
‘Your Premier Area badge?’
I looked at her blankly.
‘This restaurant is for Premier badge holders only.’
I glanced behind me at Will and Nathan. They couldn’t hear me, but stood, expectantly, waiting. Nathan was helping remove Will’s coat.
‘Um … I didn’t know we couldn’t eat anywhere we wanted. We have the blue badges.’
She smiled. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Only Premier badge holders. It does say so on all our promotional material.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Okay. Are there any other restaurants?’
‘I’m afraid the Weighing Room, our relaxed dining area, is being refurbished right now, but there are stalls along the stands where you can get something to eat.’ She saw my face fall, and added, ‘The Pig In A Poke is pretty good. You get a hog roast in a bun. They do apple sauce too.’
‘A stall.’
‘Yes.’
I leant in towards her. ‘Please,’ I said. ‘We’ve come a long way, and my friend there isn’t good in the cold. Is there any way at all that we could get a table in here? We just really need to get him into the warm. It’s really important that he has a good day.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m really sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s more than my job’s worth to override the rules. But there is a disabled seating area downstairs that you can shut the doors on. You can’t see the course from there, but it’s quite snug. It’s got heaters and everything. You could eat in there.’
I stared at her. I could feel the tension creeping upwards from my shins. I