Me Before You

When Granddad had first begun his recovery from his strokes he hadn’t been able to do anything for himself. Mum had done it all. ‘Your mother is a saint,’ Dad said, which I took to mean that she wiped his bum without running screaming from the house. I was pretty sure nobody had ever described me as such. I cut Granddad’s food up for him and made him cups of tea but as for anything else, I wasn’t sure I was made of the right ingredients.

Granta House was on the other side of Stortfold Castle, close to the medieval walls, on the long unpavemented stretch that comprised only four houses and the National Trust shop, bang in the middle of the tourist area. I had passed this house a million times in my life without ever actually properly seeing it. Now, walking past the car park and the miniature railway, both of which were empty and as bleak as only a summer attraction can look in February, I saw it was bigger than I had imagined, red brick with a double front, the kind of house you saw in old copies of Country Life while waiting at the doctor’s.

I walked up the long drive, trying not to think about whether anybody was watching out of the window. Walking up a long drive puts you at a disadvantage; it automatically makes you feel inferior. I was just contemplating whether to actually tug at my forelock, when the door opened and I jumped.

A woman, not much older than me, stepped out into the porch. She was wearing white slacks and a medical-looking tunic and carried a coat and a folder under her arm. As she passed me she gave a polite smile.

‘And thank you so much for coming,’ a voice said, from inside. ‘We’ll be in touch. Ah.’ A woman’s face appeared, middle-aged but beautiful, under expensive precision-cut hair. She was wearing a trouser suit that I guessed cost more than my dad earned in a month.

‘You must be Miss Clark.’

‘Louisa.’ I shot out a hand, as my mother had impressed upon me to do. The young people never offered up a hand these days, my parents had agreed. In the old days you wouldn’t have dreamt of a ‘hiya’ or, worse, an air kiss. This woman did not look like she would have welcomed an air kiss.

‘Right. Yes. Do come in.’ She withdrew her hand from mine as soon as humanly possible, but I felt her eyes linger upon me, as if she were already assessing me.

‘Would you like to come through? We’ll talk in the drawing room. My name is Camilla Traynor.’ She seemed weary, as if she had uttered the same words many times that day already.

I followed her through to a huge room with floor to ceiling French windows. Heavy curtains draped elegantly from fat mahogany curtain poles, and the floors were carpeted with intricately decorated Persian rugs. It smelt of beeswax and antique furniture. There were little elegant side tables everywhere, their burnished surfaces covered with ornamental boxes. I wondered briefly where on earth the Traynors put their cups of tea.

‘So you have come via the Job Centre advertisement, is that right? Do sit down.’

While she flicked through her folder of papers, I gazed surreptitiously around the room. I had thought the house might be a bit like a care home, all hoists and wipe-clean surfaces. But this was like one of those scarily expensive hotels, steeped in old money, with well-loved things that looked valuable in their own right. There were silver-framed photographs on a sideboard, but they were too far away for me to make out the faces. As she scanned her pages, I shifted in my seat, to try to get a better look.

And it was then that I heard it – the unmistakable sound of stitches ripping. I glanced down to see the two pieces of material that joined at the side of my right leg had torn apart, sending frayed pieces of silk thread shooting upwards in an ungainly fringe. I felt my face flood with colour.

‘So … Miss Clark … do you have any experience with quadriplegia?’

I turned to face Mrs Traynor, wriggling so that my jacket covered as much of the skirt as possible.

‘No.’

‘Have you been a carer for long?’

‘Um … I’ve never actually done it,’ I said, adding, as if I could hear Syed’s voice in my ear, ‘but I’m sure I could learn.’

‘Do you know what a quadriplegic is?’

I faltered. ‘When … you’re stuck in a wheelchair?’

‘I suppose that’s one way of putting it. There are varying degrees, but in this case we are talking about complete loss of use of the legs, and very limited use of the hands and arms. Would that bother you?’

‘Well, not as much as it would bother him, obviously.’ I raised a smile, but Mrs Traynor’s face was expressionless. ‘Sorry – I didn’t mean –’

‘Can you drive, Miss Clark?’

‘Yes.’

‘Clean licence?’

I nodded.

Camilla Traynor ticked something on her list.

The rip was growing. I could see it creeping inexorably up my thigh. At this rate, by the time I stood up I would look like a Vegas showgirl.

‘Are you all right?’ Mrs Traynor was gazing at me.

‘I’m just a little warm. Do you mind if I take my jacket off?’ Before she could say anything, I wrenched the jacket off in one fluid motion and tied it around my waist, obscuring the split in the skirt. ‘So hot,’ I said, smiling at her, ‘coming in from outside. You know.’

There was the faintest pause, and then Mrs Traynor looked back at her folder. ‘How old are you?’

‘I’m twenty-six.’

‘And you were in your previous job for six years.’

‘Yes. You should have a copy of my reference.’

‘Mm … ’ Mrs Traynor held it up and squinted. ‘Your previous employer says you are a “warm, chatty and life-enhancing presence”.’

‘Yes, I paid him.’

That poker face again.

Oh hell, I thought.

It was as if I were being studied. Not necessarily in a good way. My mother’s shirt felt suddenly cheap, the synthetic threads shining in the thin light. I should just have worn my plainest trousers and a shirt. Anything but this suit.

‘So why are you leaving this job, where you are clearly so well regarded?’

‘Frank – the owner – sold the cafe. It’s the one at the bottom of the castle. The Buttered Bun. Was,’ I corrected myself. ‘I would have been happy to stay.’

Mrs Traynor nodded, either because she didn’t feel the need to say anything further about it, or because she too would have been happy for me to stay there.

‘And what exactly do you want to do with your life?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Do you have aspirations for a career? Would this be a stepping stone to something else? Do you have a professional dream that you wish to pursue?’

I looked at her blankly.

Was this some kind of trick question?

‘I … I haven’t really thought that far. Since I lost my job. I just –’ I swallowed. ‘I just want to work again.’

It sounded feeble. What kind of person came to an interview without even knowing what she wanted to do? Mrs Traynor’s expression suggested she thought the same thing.

She put down her pen. ‘So, Miss Clark, why should I employ you instead of, say, the previous candidate, who has several years’ experience with quadriplegics?’

I looked at her. ‘Um … honestly? I don’t know.’ This met with silence, so I added, ‘I guess that would be your call.’

‘You can’t give me a single reason why I should employ you?’

My mother’s face suddenly swam into view. The thought of going home with a ruined suit and another interview failure was beyond me. And this job paid more than £9 an hour.

I sat up a bit. ‘Well … I’m a fast learner, I’m never ill, I only live on the other side of the castle, and I’m stronger than I look … probably strong enough to help move your husband around –’

‘My husband? It’s not my husband you’d be working with. It’s my son.’

‘Your son?’ I blinked. ‘Um … I’m not afraid of hard work. I’m good at dealing with all sorts of people and … and I make a mean cup of tea.’ I began to blather into the silence. The thought of it being her son had thrown me. ‘I mean, my dad seems to think that’s not the greatest reference. But in my experience there’s not much that can’t be fixed by a decent cup of tea … ’

There was something a bit strange about the way Mrs Traynor was looking at me.

‘Sorry,’ I spluttered, as I realized what I had said. ‘I’m not suggesting the thing … the paraplegia … quadriplegia … with … your son … could be solved by a cup of tea.’

‘I should tell you, Miss Clark, that this is not a permanent contract. It would be for a maximum of six months. That is why the salary is … commensurate. We wanted to attract the right person.’

‘Believe me, when you’ve done shifts at a chicken processing factory, working in Guantánamo Bay for six months looks attractive.’ Oh, shut up, Louisa. I bit my lip.

But Mrs Traynor seemed oblivious. She closed her file. ‘My son – Will – was injured in a road accident almost two years ago. He requires twenty-four-hour care, the majority of which is provided by a trained nurse. I have recently returned to work, and the carer would be required to be here throughout the day to keep him company, help him with food and drink, generally provide an extra pair of hands, and make sure that he comes to no harm.’ Camilla Traynor looked down at her lap. ‘It is of the utmost importance that Will has someone here who understands that responsibility.’

Everything she said, even the way she emphasized her words, seemed to hint at some stupidity on my part.

‘I can see that.’ I began to gather up my bag.

‘So would you like the job?’

It was so unexpected that at first I thought I had heard her wrong. ‘Sorry?’

‘We would need you to start as soon as possible. Payment will be weekly.’

I was briefly lost for words. ‘You’d rather have me instead of –’ I began.

‘The hours are quite lengthy – 8am till 5pm, sometimes later. There is no lunch break as such, although when Nathan, his daily nurse, comes in at lunchtime to attend to him, there should be a free half an hour.’

‘You wouldn’t need anything … medical?’

‘Will has all the medical care we can offer him. What we want for him is somebody robust … and upbeat. His life is … complicated, and it is important that he is encouraged to –’ She broke off, her gaze fixed on something outside the French windows. Finally, she turned back to me. ‘Well, let’s just say that his mental welfare is as important to us as his physical welfare. Do you understand?’

‘I think so. Would I … wear a uniform?’

‘No. Definitely no uniform.’ She glanced at my legs. ‘Although you might want to wear … something a bit less revealing.’

I glanced down to where my jacket had shifted, revealing a generous expanse of bare thigh. ‘It … I’m sorry. It ripped. It’s not actually mine.’

But Mrs Traynor no longer appeared to be listening. ‘I’ll explain what needs doing when you start. Will is not the easiest person to be around at the moment, Miss Clark. This job is going to be about mental attitude as much as any … professional skills you might have. So. We will see you tomorrow?’

‘Tomorrow? You don’t want … you don’t want me to meet him?’

‘Will is not having a good day. I think it’s best that we start afresh then.’

I stood up, realizing Mrs Traynor was already waiting to see me out.

‘Yes,’ I said, tugging Mum’s jacket across me. ‘Um. Thank you. I’ll see you at eight o’clock tomorrow.’