‘Why would being in a wheelchair mean he
had to speak like a Dalek?’ I said.
‘But you’re going to have to get up close and
personal to him. At the very least you’ll have to
wipe his mouth and give him drinks and stuff.’
‘So? It’s hardly rocket science.’
‘Says the woman who used to put Thomas’s
nappy on inside out.’
‘That was once.’
‘Twice. And you only changed him three
times.’
I helped myself to green beans, trying to look
more sanguine than I felt.
But even as I had ridden the bus home, the
same thoughts had already started buzzing
around my head. What would we talk about?
What if he just stared at me, head lolling, all
day? Would I be freaked out? What if I couldn’t
understand what it was he wanted? I was legendarily
bad at caring for things; we no longer
had houseplants at home, or pets, after the disasters
that were the hamster, the stick insects and
Randolph the goldfish. And how often was that
stiff mother of his going to be around? I didn’t
like the thought of being watched all the time.
Mrs Traynor seemed like the kind of woman
whose gaze turned capable hands into fingers
and thumbs.
‘Patrick, what do you think of it all, then?’
Patrick took a long slug of water, and
shrugged.
Outside, the rain beat on the windowpanes,
just audible over the clatter of plates and cutlery.
‘It’s good money, Bernard. Better than working
nights at the chicken factory, anyway.’
There was a general murmur of agreement
around the table.
‘Well, it comes to something when the best
you can all say about my new career is that it’s
better than hauling chicken carcasses around the
inside of an aircraft hangar,’ I said.
‘Well, you could always get fit in the