Does a bear shit in the woods?

I had to take my hat off to the girl. If you had told me four months ago that we’d get Will off on a long-haul holiday – hell, that we would get him out of this house – I would have told you that you were a few sandwiches short of a picnic. Mind you, I’d have a quiet word with her about Will’s medical care before we went. We couldn’t afford a near miss like that again if we were stuck in the middle of nowhere.

They even told Mrs T as she popped by, just as Louisa was leaving. Will said it, like it was no more remarkable than him going for a walk around the castle.

I have to tell you, I was really pleased. That ruddy online poker site had eaten all my money, and I wasn’t even planning on a holiday this year. I even forgave Louisa for being stupid enough to listen to Will when he said he hadn’t wanted her to do his tubes. And believe me, I had been pretty pissed about that. So it was all looking great, and I was whistling when I shouldered my way into my coat, already looking forward to white sands and blue seas. I was even trying to work out if I could tie in a short visit home to Auckland.

And then I saw them – Mrs Traynor standing outside the back door, as Lou waited to set off down the road. I don’t know what sort of a chat they’d had already, but they both looked grim.

I only caught the last line but, to be honest, that was enough for me.

‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Louisa.’

20

‘You what?’

We were on the hills just outside town when I told him. Patrick was halfway through a sixteen-mile run and wanted me to time him while following behind on the bicycle. As I was marginally less proficient on a bicycle than I was at particle physics, this involved a lot of swearing and swerving on my part, and a lot of exasperated shouting on his. He had actually wanted to do twenty-four miles, but I had told him I didn’t think my seat could take it, and besides, one of us needed to do the weekly shop after we got home. We were out of toothpaste and instant coffee. Mind you, it was only me who wanted the coffee. Patrick was on herbal tea.

As we reached the top of Sheepcote Hill, me puffing, my legs like lead, I decided to just throw it out there. I figured we still had ten miles home for him to recover his good mood.

‘I’m not coming to the Xtreme Viking.’

He didn’t stop, but he came close. He turned to face me, his legs still moving under him, and he looked so shocked that I nearly swerved into a tree.

‘What? Why?’

‘I’m … working.’

He turned back to the road and picked up speed. We had reached the brow of the hill, and I had to close my fingers around the brakes a little to stop myself overtaking him.

‘So when did you work this out?’ Fine beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead, and tendons stood out on his calves. I couldn’t look at them too long or I started wobbling.

‘At the weekend. I just wanted to be sure.’

‘But we’ve booked your flights and everything.’

‘It’s only easyJet. I’ll reimburse you the £39 if you’re that bothered.’

‘It’s not the cost. I thought you were going to support me. You said you were coming to support me.’

He could look quite sulky, Patrick. When we were first together, I used to tease him about it. I called him Mr Grumpy Trousers. It made me laugh, and him so cross that he usually stopped sulking just to shut me up.

‘Oh, come on. I’m hardly not supporting you now, am I? I hate cycling, Patrick. You know I do. But I’m supporting you.’

We went on another mile before he spoke again. It might have been me, but the pounding of Patrick’s feet on the road seemed to have taken on a grim, resolute tone. We were high above the little town now, me puffing on the uphill stretches, trying and failing to stop my heart racing every time a car came past. I was on Mum’s old bike (Patrick wouldn’t let me anywhere near his racing demon) and it had no gears so I was frequently left tailing him.

He glanced behind, and slowed his pace a fraction so that I could draw level. ‘So why can’t they get an agency person in?’ he said.

‘An agency person?’

‘To come to the Traynors’ house. I mean, if you’re there for six months you must be entitled to a holiday.’

‘It’s not that simple.’

‘I don’t see why not. You started work there knowing nothing, after all.’

I held my breath. This was quite hard given that I was completely breathless from cycling. ‘Because he needs to go on a trip.’

‘What?’

‘He needs to go on a trip. So they need me and Nathan there to help him.’

‘Nathan? Who’s Nathan?’

‘His medical carer. The guy you met when Will came to Mum’s.’

I could see Patrick thinking about this. He wiped sweat from his eyes.

‘And before you ask,’ I added, ‘no, I am not having an affair with Nathan.’

He slowed, and glanced down at the tarmac, until he was practically jogging on the spot. ‘What is this, Lou? Because … because it seems to me that there is a line being blurred here between what is work and what is … ’ he shrugged, ‘… normal.’

‘It’s not a normal job. You know that.’

‘But Will Traynor seems to take priority over everything these days.’

‘Oh, and this doesn’t?’ I took my hand off the handlebars, and gestured towards his shifting feet.

‘That’s different. He calls, you come running.’

‘And you go running, I come running.’ I tried to smile.

‘Very funny.’ He turned away.

‘It’s six months, Pat. Six months. You were the one who thought I should take this job, after all. You can’t have a go at me for taking it seriously.’

‘I don’t think … I don’t think it’s about the job … I just … I think there’s something you’re not telling me.’

I hesitated, just a moment too long. ‘That’s not true.’

‘But you won’t come to the Viking.’

‘I’ve told you, I –’

He shook his head slightly, as if he couldn’t hear me properly. Then he began to run down the road, away from me. I could see from the set of his back how angry he was.

‘Oh, come on, Patrick. Can’t we just stop for a minute and discuss this?’

His tone was mulish. ‘No. It will throw out my time.’

‘Then let’s stop the clock. Just for five minutes.’

‘No. I have to do it in real conditions.’

He began to run faster, as if he had gained a new momentum.

‘Patrick?’ I said, struggling suddenly to keep up with him. My feet slipped on the pedals, and I cursed, kicking a pedal back to try and set off again. ‘Patrick? Patrick!’

I stared at the back of his head and the words were out of my mouth almost before I knew what I was saying. ‘Okay. Will wants to die. He wants to commit suicide. And this trip is my last attempt to change his mind.’

Patrick’s stride shortened and then slowed. He stopped on the road ahead, his back straight, still facing away from me. He turned slowly. He had finally stopped jogging.

‘Say that again.’

‘He wants to go to Dignitas. In August. I’m trying to change his mind. This is the last chance I have.’

He was staring at me like he didn’t know quite whether to believe me.

‘I know it sounds mad. But I have to change his mind. So … so I can’t come to the Viking.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

‘I had to promise his family I wouldn’t tell anyone. It would be awful for them if it got out. Awful. Look, even he doesn’t know I know. It’s all been … tricky. I’m sorry.’ I reached out a hand to him. ‘I would have told you if I could.’

He didn’t answer. He looked crushed, as if I had done something terrible. There was a faint frown on his face, and he swallowed twice, hard.

‘Pat –’

‘No. Just … I just need to run now, Lou. By myself.’ He ran a hand across his hair. ‘Okay?’

I swallowed. ‘Okay.’

He looked for a moment as if he had forgotten why we were even out there. Then he struck off again, and I watched him disappear on the road ahead of me, his head facing resolutely ahead, his legs eating up the road beneath him.

I had put the request out on the day after we returned from the wedding.

Can anyone tell me a good place to go where quadriplegics can have adventures? I am looking for things that an able-bodied person might be able to do, things that might make my depressed friend forget for a while that his life is a bit limited. I don’t really know what I’m hoping for, but all suggestions gratefully received. This is quite urgent. Busy Bee.

As I logged on I found myself staring at the screen in disbelief. There were eighty-nine responses. I scrolled up and down the screen, unsure at first whether they could all possibly be in response to my request. Then I glanced around me at the other computer users in the library, desperate for one of them to look at me so that I could tell them. Eighty-nine responses! To a single question!

There were tales of bungee jumping for quadriplegics, of swimming, canoeing, even horse riding, with the aid of a special frame. (When I watched the online video this linked to, I was a little disappointed that Will had said he really couldn’t stand horses. It looked ace.)

There was swimming with dolphins, and scuba diving with supporters. There were floating chairs that would enable him to go fishing, and adapted quad bikes that would allow him to off-road. Some of them had posted photographs or videos of themselves taking part in these activities. A few of them, including Ritchie, had remembered my previous posts, and wanted to know how he was doing.

This all sounds like good news. Is he feeling better?

I typed a quick response:

Maybe. But I’m hoping this trip will really make a difference.

Ritchie responded:

Attagirl! If you’ve got the funds to sort it all out, the sky’s the limit!

Scootagirl wrote:

Make sure you post up some pics of him in the bungee harness. Love the look on guys’ faces when they’re upside down!

I loved them – these quads and their carers – for their courage and their generosity and their imaginations. I spent two hours that evening writing down their suggestions, following their links to related websites they had tried and tested, even talking to a few in the chat rooms. By the time I left I had a destination; we would head to California, to The Four Winds Ranch, a specialist centre which offered experienced help ‘in a way that will make you forget you ever needed help’, according to its website. The ranch itself, a low-slung timber building set into a forest clearing near Yosemite, had been set up by a former stuntman who refused to let his spinal injury limit the things he could do, and the online visitors book was full of happy and grateful holidaymakers who swore that he had changed the way they felt about their disability – and themselves. At least six of the chat-room users had been there, and all said it had turned their lives around.

It was wheelchair friendly, but with all the facilities you would expect from a luxury hotel. There were outside sunken baths with discreet hoists, and specialist masseurs. There was trained medical help on site, and a cinema with spaces for wheelchairs beside the normal seats. There was an accessible outdoor hot tub where you could sit and stare up at the stars. We would spend a week there, and then a few days on the coast at a hotel complex where Will could swim, and get a good look at the rugged coastline. Best of all, I had found a cl**ax to the holiday that Will would never forget – a skydive, with the help of parachute instructors who were trained in helping quads jump. They had special equipment that would strap Will to them (apparently, the most important thing was securing their legs so that their knees didn’t fly up and bash them in the face).