Me Before You(8)
Author: Jojo Moyes

‘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.’

Mum was spooning potatoes on to Dad’s plate. She put two on, he parried, lifting a third and fourth from the serving dish. She blocked him, steering them back on to the serving dish, finally rapping him on the knuckles with the serving spoon when he made for them again. Around the little table sat my parents, my sister and Thomas, my granddad, and Patrick – who always came for dinner on Wednesdays.

‘Daddy,’ Mum said to Granddad. ‘Would you like someone to cut your meat? Treena, will you cut Daddy’s meat?’

Treena leant across and began slicing at Granddad’s plate with deft strokes. On the other side she had already done the same for Thomas.

‘So how messed up is this man, Lou?’

‘Can’t be up to much if they’re willing to let our daughter loose on him,’ Bernard remarked. Behind me, the television was on so that Dad and Patrick could watch the football. Every now and then they would stop, peering round me, their mouths stopping mid-chew as they watched some pass or near miss.

‘I think it’s a great opportunity. She’ll be working in one of the big houses. For a good family. Are they posh, love?’

In our street ‘posh’ could mean anyone who hadn’t got a family member in possession of an ASBO.

‘I suppose so.’

‘Hope you’ve practised your curtsy.’ Dad grinned.

‘Did you actually meet him?’ Treena leant across to stop Thomas elbowing his juice on to the floor. ‘The crippled man? What was he like?’

‘I meet him tomorrow.’

‘Weird, though. You’ll be spending all day every day with him. Nine hours. You’ll see him more than you see Patrick.’

‘That’s not hard,’ I said.

Patrick, across the table, pretended he couldn’t hear me.

‘Still, you won’t have to worry about the old sexual harassment, eh?’ Dad said.

‘Bernard!’ said my mother, sharply.

‘I’m only saying what everyone’s thinking. Probably the best boss you could find for your girlfriend, eh, Patrick?’

Across the table, Patrick smiled. He was busy refusing potatoes, despite Mum’s best efforts. He was having a non-carb month, ready for a marathon in early March.

‘You know, I was thinking, will you have to learn sign language? I mean, if he can’t communicate, how will you know what he wants?’

‘She didn’t say he couldn’t talk, Mum.’ I couldn’t actually remember what Mrs Traynor had said. I was still vaguely in shock at actually having been given a job.

‘Maybe he talks through one of those devices. Like that scientist bloke. The one on The Simpsons.’

‘Bugger,’ said Thomas.

‘Nope,’ said Bernard.

‘Stephen Hawking,’ said Patrick.

‘That’s you, that is,’ Mum said, looking accusingly from Thomas to Dad. She could cut steak with that look. ‘Teaching him bad language.’

‘It is not. I don’t know where he’s getting it from.’

‘Bugger,’ said Thomas, looking directly at his grandfather.

Treena made a face. ‘I think it would freak me out, if he talked through one of those voice boxes. Can you imagine? Get-me-a-drink-of-water,’ she mimicked.

Bright – but not bright enough not to get herself up the duff, as Dad occasionally muttered. She had been the first member of our family to go to university, until Thomas’s arrival had caused her to drop out during her final year. Mum and Dad still held out hopes that one day she would bring the family a fortune. Or possibly work in a place with a reception desk that didn’t have a security screen around it. Either would do.

‘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.