It’s a crisp winter’s day in January and sunlight streams through my bedroom window. Ticket and I have been together for nearly three months since the two-week residential training course. He’s now twenty-two months old and fully grown, but still a giant puppy at heart. We love having him at home. Without Ticket, we couldn’t have got through our first Christmas since my accident. He received so much attention in church, and when it came to present time, he had the best fun opening all of his toys, including a red squeaky Santa given to him by Trevor and Pandora. On New Year’s Day Mum, Dad, Jamie and I wrapped up in thousands of layers and took Ticket for a long walk, followed by a pub lunch.
Ticket sits in front of me, his face close to mine as I wipe the sleep dust from his eyes with a moist cotton wool pad. It’s hard to keep him still for long, he’s always raring to go on to the next thing. He’s a bundle of energy, giving our home a pulse again.
The past three months have slipped by. Mum doesn’t nag me to get up any more. Ticket’s taken her place, whining to be let out. With the strap in his mouth, he pulls my chair over to me, and waits patiently as I transfer myself to it from the bed. Once I’m positioned on the landing, by the stair-lift, Ticket rushes downstairs to bring the old wheelchair that we hired from the Red Cross to the foot of the stairs. Once I’m in that chair, we make our way to the back door that leads into the garden. I can reach the handle, but Ticket jumps up and tugs at the cord without me even saying the command now. Once I’m showered and dressed, Ticket and I do a couple of chores. With Ticket’s help, together we bundle my bed sheets or clothes into a basket; with the basket on my lap we head downstairs (the same routine with the wheelchair and stair-lift) and into the utility room. Ticket then takes over, loading the machine. I can almost feel him flexing his muscles as he says, ‘Stand back, Cass, this is where I come in.’ He can’t go so far as setting my lingerie on a delicate wash, or hanging my frilly knickers, bras and socks on the clothesline, but if he could, he would.
Captain is a man in Labrador’s clothing,
Jenny had told me recently in a letter, because she still can’t fathom computers and email.
In his own funny way, he talks to me, Cass, and seems to know what I’m thinking. He’s my friend, my power, he means the world to me.
If I’m alone and have any kind of accident, Ticket has been trained to alert Mum or Dad, but if they’re not around, he can bring the telephone to me. I used to be unable to imagine living independently or doing the most basic things for myself without calling for Mum, but with Ticket I’m catching a glimpse of what it might be like moving back to London. And Ticket’s not only helping me. My parents are beginning to have a social life again. ‘We know you’re in good paws,’ Dad says with a wink, before they head out. Dad even suggested to Mum that they go on a winter mini-break to a country hotel with roaring log fires and cooked breakfasts. Mum still sneezes and scratches and says she should buy shares in antihistamine tablets.
Ticket has given me colour in my cheeks and air in my lungs. On our walks, I wrap up warm and pack my bag with beef and chicken treats and his favourite half-chewed lime-green tennis ball. I loop his lead securely to the wheelchair, so I have both arms free to steer myself, and I take us down the long winding Dorset lanes. We say good afternoon to the sheep in the fields; we pass the grand house with the iron gates, and Ticket barks at the peacocks on the lawn.
We often stop at the butcher’s. I can’t get my wheelchair up the steps so out comes Mr Steel in his navy apron, looking like the butcher in a set of
Happy Family
cards as he asks how many miles we’ve covered that day. It doesn’t matter if I say half a mile or five; he always replies, ‘Aye, no rest for the wicked!’ Occasionally he brings Ticket a marrow or rump bone, so of course Ticket loves visiting Mr Steel. In fact he loves everything. Whatever we do, Ticket seems to think it’s the most exciting adventure ever, even if it’s exactly what we did the day before.
We pass many dog walkers and my parents’ neighbours, who always want to stop and talk and to my surprise I enjoy making conversation. Even though Ticket’s coat says, ‘Don’t distract me, I’m working’ I can see their hands restless at their sides, itching to stroke his soft golden fur. Children pat him all the time and tell me he’s ‘so cute’, which makes me glow like a proud mother.
Ticket and I also visit Mrs Henderson, one of Mum and Dad’s elderly neighbours. She lives on her own in a thatched cottage with books on every shelf and a neglected swimming pool in her back garden. She had a proposition for me. She’s writing her memoirs but her typing is slow, so would I consider working for her? She’d pay, of course, she added. I’m aiming to save enough money to plan a trip before I move back to London and get a job. I haven’t told Sarah my plans. We’ve barely been in touch. She’s living in new accommodation in Pimlico. Thankfully she’s stopped trying to persuade me to go back to King’s. Going back there is my old life; it would only remind me of my accident. I crave something new.
In secret, I’ve been online researching and slowly I’m making small steps to begin building a future. When I’m ready, I’ll tell Mum and Dad what I’m planning.
Mum, Dad, Jamie, Ticket and I drive to Canine Partners for Ticket’s graduation day, where we hope to see again all the friends we made on the training course. It’s a celebration for everyone who has been involved in the process of forming our partnerships, from the breeders to the puppy parents, occupational therapists, foster parents, sponsors and, of course, the trainers and staff who work for the charity.
We’ve dressed up for the event. Jamie and my father are looking handsome in jackets and ties. Mum’s modelling an elegant suit with fake fur cuffs. I’m wearing a blue jersey dress with leggings and boots and both Mum and I went to the hairdresser’s yesterday to have our hair washed and blow-dried. But the most important person looks like a Hollywood star. Last night I gave Ticket a bath and groom and told him he’d give George Clooney a run for his money. I even polished the silver studs on his purple collar until they were sparkling like stars.
Guests mill in the reception area of the training centre, the atmosphere like a drinks party. I’m eager to show Jamie round, pointing to the purpose-built chalets where my friends and I had stayed on the course. Jamie looks at some of the framed photographs, slowing down when he comes to a shot of a beaming Prince Harry holding a golden puppy.
Guests and dogs gradually begin to make their way into the main training room. Today it’s lined with blue plastic chairs and there’s a PowerPoint screen at the far end, which reads: ‘Partnership Ceremony, February 11, 2011’. Ticket’s tail hasn’t stopped wagging since we arrived, and he almost pulls me out of my wheelchair when he sees the purple people again, especially Lindsey and Stuart testing the microphone. Today Stuart is wearing a suit with a shiny purple tie with the Canine Partner’s logo. Immediately he approaches us, greeting Ticket first.
Amongst my friends, I spot Alex in a stripy shirt and navy woollen pinafore dress, clutching her stick. I introduce her to my family. Cilla is lying down on a dark green doggy paw-print mat, a fancy purple pompom attached to her collar. When she sees Ticket she springs to her feet, almost yanking Alex off her chair. I tell Ticket to calm down, we don’t want to spoil Cilla’s hairdo.
Alex glances at the screen and the increasing number of guests filing into the room. ‘What you gonna say when it’s your turn? This is scary, huh?’
‘Got any gin under your jumper?’ I whisper.
Trevor glides past us in his wheelchair, which seems to have acquired an army of new gadgets, including a front mirror and what looks like a bright red fly swatter on one of the arms. ‘Greetings!’ he booms, parking his chair close to us and introducing his wife. I notice he’s lost a lot of weight, so much so that I can see the outline of his chin. I realise only now that he must have been quite handsome as a younger man.
As everyone takes their seats, Jenny waves at me from across the room. Captain is sitting on his doggy mat looking like a king at his coronation. The last person I see before the ceremony begins is Edward. He’s sitting in the front row. I watch him tenderly stroking Tinkerbell under her chin. As if sensing I am watching, he turns round and smiles.
‘Order!’ Stuart shouts, telling the dogs to keep quiet too. He taps the microphone, before beginning to describe how none of us would be here today if it weren’t for the breeders. ‘Our pups are not super-canine puppies, they are just normal pups that widdle and chew flexes and furniture, and do all the things we wish puppies wouldn’t do. But with lots of love and fun, patience and hard work, these puppies become the canine partners of the future.’ Stuart continues to describe how the charity operates, and that each person plays a unique part. ‘We have some very special partnerships to present to you today, so, without further ado, let’s start with Pandora and Trevor.’
Up comes an image on the screen of Pandora as a puppy, her head buried in a flowerpot. Pandora’s trainer comes to the front, telling us where Pandora was born and what she was like as a puppy. Stuart then invites Trevor and Pandora to the front. ‘Before my beautiful Pandora came into my life, I didn’t go out much,’ he says. ‘Pain wipes out all the pleasure of doing anything and if I’m honest I’d lost my faith, but I’ve begun to go to church again,’ he says, his voice filled with emotion.
Soon there’s a photographer taking a shot of Pandora and Trevor with a swarm of people around her. It’s like a
This Is Your Life
dog show, Pandora reunited with her breeder, puppy and foster parents, and trainer.
Jenny and Captain are next.
As she tells her story I can sense the disbelief from the audience that she endured twenty years in hospital. ‘Captain’s speciality seems to be picking out my clothes. He has great style, right down to the colour coordinating of my underwear.’ There are lots of laughs. ‘Before the days of Captain, when I was taken out by my carer, nobody would look me in the eye. I’m sure they thought, “This old ducky, she’s not quite right upstairs!”’ Though Jenny smiles, the audience understand the sadness behind what she’s said. ‘Now I’m seen as a person,’ she says, collapsing into tears, years of frustration and pain finally coming out. The audience applaud, encouraging her to continue. ‘My condition made my world so small, but Captain has made my world big again.’
Tom is the next in line. Stuart holds the microphone for him. ‘Leo is the class mascot,’ he says in one go, his speech dramatically improved. ‘My … other friends ask … if they can rent … him … out, for the night!’
Ticket is getting restless now as Alex walks up to the front, unsteady on her stick. Nervously she begins, ‘I used to wake up gloomy, you know, but Cilla jumps up on the bed with me shoes as if to say, “Come on! Let’s go!” I’m so clumsy, always dropping me keys and me stick but Cilla brings ’em to me. When I’m stressed she breathes gently against me hand, as if to say, “Mum, it’s all right.” Cilla gives me a reason for living. She’s with me twenty-four seven. I love her. Cheers!’ she finishes triumphantly.
Edward is next and as he talks, Tinkerbell gazes up at him, as if there’s no one else in the room. They make a handsome couple. Edward is dressed in a stylish grey suit and a striped Royal Marine tie; Tinkerbell is wearing a red-spotted collar and her coat is now adorned with an embroidered black and red Royal Marines Commando badge.
‘In 2007 I returned home, injured, from Afghanistan. As you can see –’ he coughs – ‘I lost my right leg, just above the knee. I knew the risks going into the Marines, but you still don’t think it’s going to happen to you.’ Tinkerbell rubs her nose against his thigh. ‘After life in the forces it was tough moving back home and trying to fit into civilian life. I felt boxed in. I’d get up, work on my laptop, take my meds, sleep, have physio. I didn’t see much daylight, and it got me down. But thanks to my girl …’ Tinkerbell can’t help jumping on to his lap now, making everyone in the room smile. ‘I can’t believe how much I love her. She’s changed my life,’ he says, tears in his eyes. ‘I’m not half as scared of my future any more.’
I whisper to Ticket that it’s our turn now, looking at the image of him on the screen as a puppy, playing with a tennis ball. Lindsey tells the audience that he was friendly, charming and renowned for his good looks. ‘And when I saw him with Cass I knew it was a match made in heaven.’ As Ticket and I make our way down the aisle, towards the front, I hear a loud sob, the kind you hear in a cinema when there’s one person who can’t hold it in any more as the
Titanic
sinks or the hero gasps his last breath in his lover’s arms.
It’s coming from Mum.
Ticket rests his head against my knee, as I begin, ‘I’m not alone any more, am I?’ Ticket now jumps up, trying to hug me, wagging his tail. I stroke him fondly. ‘I feel stronger day by day, and ready to face the world again. Ticket is so
bouncy
.’ Everyone laughs. ‘And he’s so loving. He’s everything …’ I pause, trying to compose myself. ‘He’s everything I could want. I couldn’t ask—’ I look down at him, wagging his tail, and feel a tidal wave of affection overcoming me ‘—for a better dog.’
Holding back my tears, I thank everyone who gave him to me. ‘But most of all, I need to thank one person. Mum drove us down the bumpy track to Canine Partners, pretending she didn’t know where we were.’ A silence descends across the hall. No one understands what I mean, except for Stuart. ‘I was sworn to secrecy,’ he says to the audience.
‘It’s a long story, but all I’ll say is I’m glad you took a risk, Mum. You’ve taught me that life is about taking chances.’ I notice Dad reaching out to grab her hand and whispering something into her ear. Jamie and Dad stand up to clap. And before I know it, most of the audience are on their feet, clapping and cheering for Ticket and me.
It’s a week after Ticket’s graduation day, and Dad and I are chatting in the kitchen as I cook the supper. Ticket is asleep in his basket by the fire. We must have covered a good five miles today. There was a cold wind, the sky overcast, but that didn’t stop us. I wore a thousand layers, along with a pair of fluffy blue earmuffs that Alex gave to me as a gift from Cilla. ‘When I go down the shops, it’s dangerous, ’cos Cilla has expensive taste,’ she’d said during the lunch that had followed the speeches.
Edward and I also exchanged contact numbers and addresses, suggesting we meet up. He lives in London, in Richmond.
Mum enters the room and kicks her heels off by the fireplace. ‘I’ve had such a shitty day,’ she tells us, collapsing on to a chair and rubbing her aching feet together. ‘Spoilt tenant’s wife is tired of the house that she’s renting for
only
five thousand quid a month and wants to move. So she drags her husband from a meeting to another house that she says she likes more. He agrees, reluctantly. I show them round the new house and she then says, “You know what? I’ve changed my mind. Let’s stay put.”’
Dad unscrews the vodka bottle and fetches some ice from the freezer to make Mum a vodka tonic. ‘I remember that story about the Japanese man years ago. He was letting one of your properties and was scared by all the frogs in the pond.’
‘Oh yes! “I been seeing many big frog,”’ she says in a bad Japanese accent, ‘“maybe more than fifty in pond, and it’s kind of fun seeing them jump up and down but we afraid in short time they come out of pond and into house!” Oh thank you,’ she says gratefully when Dad hands her the vodka tonic. She asks how my day was, watching as I crack an egg against the side of the bowl. I’m making omelettes with ham and salad for supper.
‘When I was a child I had these weird psychosomatic illnesses,’ she says. ‘I went through this phase, every time I walked I’d kick my right leg out to the side, like a soldier with a leg twitch.’ With her drink in one hand she does an impersonation across the kitchen floor. ‘I couldn’t stop. I did it in the shops, at school, going to church. The only reason Mum did something about it was because she was embarrassed. She had this friend who was into witch doctors and all that crap, and I can remember her doing this strange voodoo dance around me whilst cracking eggs over my head.’
‘Weird, Mum. Did it work?’
‘’Course not! Mum took me to the doctor. He asked me where this strange habit came from and I told him my address.’
‘That’s a fine answer,’ Dad says, raising his glass.
‘Anyway, how’s your day been?’ Mum asks me, glancing at Ticket lying on his back, paws in the air, snoring. ‘Clearly busy.’ She smiles.
‘Good. Actually there’s something I want to tell you.’
*
Mum and Dad are still patiently waiting for my news when Jamie enters the room. Recently he was made redundant, so, unable to afford London rent without a job, he’s home making plans to travel back to Madrid this spring, to teach English to businessmen abroad again. ‘What’s going on?’ he asks, sensing the expectant atmosphere. He joins us at the table, where supper has just been laid out.
‘I’m going skiing,’ I announce.
Dad drops his knife. ‘Skiing? But—’
Mum talks over him. ‘Where?’
‘Colorado.’
‘Colorado!’ Dad says.
‘When?’ Mum asks.
‘In a couple of weeks.’
‘A couple of weeks!’
‘Dad, are you going to repeat everything I say?’
‘Sorry. It’s a lot to take in.’
‘Sorry to be thick, right, but how are you going to ski, Cass?’ Jamie asks.
‘Remember my physio Paul at hospital?’
‘’Course I remember.’
‘Well, he told me about Back Up, and they called me a few months ago to see if I was interested in signing up for a course. I’ve been doing a lot of research online, it’s a spinal cord injury charity, they go canoeing, camping, skiing, kayaking—’
‘Hang on! How?’ Jamie scratches his head. ‘Do they, like, put you on a sledge or something and roll you down the hill?’
‘Isn’t it dangerous?’ Dad asks.
‘I was thinking that, Dad.’ Dad and Jamie nod in appreciation of one another. They’re like two old men sometimes. All they need are their dressing gowns, pipes and slippers.
‘It can’t be dangerous. It’s at the NSCD.’
‘The what?’
‘National Sports Center for the …’ I stop. ‘Disabled,’ I mutter. ‘Anyway, Back Up run these trips all the time, Dad. They told me the NSCD provide professional instructors, they have state-of-the-art equipment, plus we’ll have a medical team and buddies with us.’
‘Buddies?’ Dad says.
‘They’re volunteers for Back Up.’ Emma, the CEO, explained to me that they get their course volunteers or buddies mainly from companies. ‘They’re staff from RBS, Waitrose, Azzuri, that kind of workplace,’ she’d said. ‘Their HR department basically pay for key staff to come on a course. Others are Back Up staff or family members, not of someone on the course, but perhaps a family member who has seen how much difference it’s made to their brother or father, so in turn they want to give something back.’
‘Right, volunteers,’ Dad repeats.
This conversation isn’t flowing the way I’d hoped. I turn my attention to Mum, strangely quiet. ‘Back Up was started in nineteen eighty, eighty-six I think, by this guy called Mike Nemesvary. He’d been a professional skier and after his accident his one dream was to get back up the mountain.’
‘Um,’ mutters Dad.
‘You don’t need to worry, I promise.’
No one says a word.
‘I’m broken already,’ I say quietly. ‘What more damage can be done?’
Mum, Dad and Jamie don’t have an answer to that.
‘How about insurance?’ Dad asks.
‘All sorted.’
‘Is it expensive?’
‘I’ve been working for Mrs Henderson, writing her memoirs. I’ve been saving up for months.’
‘Go for it,’ Mum finally says. ‘I think it’s a great idea.’
‘Dad?’ I turn to him but he’s looking at her with a new admiration across his face. We’ve both seen a side to her that we now depend on. She has this eternal optimism, something I hadn’t been aware of before my accident. Mum throws tantrums and argues much of the time, but she puts one hundred per cent into everything she does, and expects other people to do the same. I’m relieved she makes no allowances for me.
‘When did you say you were going?’
‘Beginning of March, for a week.’
Mum nods. ‘Why didn’t you tell us about this before?’
‘It was something I had to do on my own,’ I confide. ‘Ticket and I went to the Back Up office and met the team.’ Their office is in London, along Wandsworth High Street in East Putney. I remember that day, returning home on the train, full of information. The Back Up Trust is passionate about transforming lives, wanting to help people with spinal cord injury get the most out of life again. It gives career advice, runs mentoring schemes, organises courses throughout the year, and Paul had strongly encouraged Dom and me to attend one of their wheelchair skill classes when we were at Stoke Mandeville. Back Up supports people like me to become independent again. When I tried to persuade Guy and Dom to come skiing, Dom said he couldn’t take time off work so close to Easter. Guy said he was a good skier before his accident; it would kill him doing it on some seat. ‘But don’t let me stop you,’ he’d added. I’ve never skied before, so this feels like a new challenge.
‘I guess I didn’t tell you, Mum, in case I lost my nerve and pulled out at the last minute. But I do have a favour to ask. Will you come shopping with me? I need to buy all the right kit.’
‘I’d love to.’
Dad and Jamie nod. Jamie says he’s broke so he’ll buy me the smallest item of clothing. Maybe some pink goggles.
‘You’ll be the best-looking girl on the slopes,’ Dad says, finally warming up to the idea.
‘Oh … there’s just one more thing.’
‘Oh no,’ Dad says, as if he can’t take any more.
‘Can you sponsor my bungee jump off Niagara Falls?’
Dad throws his napkin at me.
‘What other thing, Cass?’ Mum asks.
He’s lying under the table now, his face close to my feet, as if almost sensing my imminent departure. ‘Will you look after Ticket for me?’