‘Yes, okay,’ said Nicola. ‘I’ll be up here at six o’clock. Don’t be late!’
Barry laughed and walked off to find the nurse-in-charge. He was given a timetable and now his routine was set - speech therapy, occupational therapy and physiotherapy were all intertwined throughout the week, but he was not given any swimming to do. He discussed this with Nicola, that evening.
‘Do you know what,’ said Barry, with some indignation. ‘They haven’t given me any swimming lessons at all. Do you swim?’
‘Yes. I swim every day.’
‘Well, why not me? I wonder if I should ask a nurse about this?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t bother. They are professionals. They know how to get our bodies going again. Maybe you’re too fit and you can almost walk properly.’
‘True. I suppose they’ll put me in if I need it, later.’ They spent the evening watching television and chatting and Barry settled into the centre in a happy frame of mind.
The time, however, did start to drag after the third week.
‘The process of recovery was terribly slow and repetitive but at least Nicola’s presence made it bearable.
On the fourth week, Barry was just finishing his last lesson of the day when the physiotherapist came up to him.
‘Right, Barry. Shake hands with me.’
She was standing a little way away so Barry went to move closer to her.
‘No, stand where you are just reach out with your right hand.’
Barry did as he was told and, to his amazement, his arm straightened out almost totally.
‘How did I do that? Look, my arm’s straight!’
‘Yes, I have seen your progress when you are exercising and I suspected that all you needed was a reason to stretch out. Well done.’
‘Does this mean the end of physiotherapy? asked Barry, hoping to start some other, more interesting therapy.
‘No, no, Barry. You need a lot more exercise to help the arm to stay as it is. We’ll see you tomorrow.’
That evening, when Barry saw Nicola, he proudly held out his right hand.
‘Look at you!’ said Nicola, delighted at the change. ‘How did you do that?’
‘Oh, just my natural skill,’ boasted Barry. ‘I wonder if I will be able to write with it?’
‘I don’t see why not. You can move it again and writing does not mean you have to exert too much pressure on it.’
‘I’ll find out after dinner. Did I tell you that I am writing a diary?’
‘No. What have you written about me?’
‘Ah, now, that’s for me to know and you to find out!’
‘And how are you writing it with a paralysed arm?’
‘I decided to practise writing with my left hand. It’s very slowly getting better, but I had to learn to write or I couldn’t finish school.’
‘Oh, well done! I’m lucky because my paralysis is down my left-hand side and I’m right handed so I can still write. We’ll have to test you after dinner.’
They quickly ate their dinner and rushed down to Barry’s room.
‘Go on then, let’s have a demonstration’ said Nicola, excitedly.
‘Okay, left hand first,’ said Barry and he slowly scrawled some words on a piece of paper. ‘Bit messy, isn’t it?’ he said, embarrassed by his writing. ‘Now let’s see what the right hand can do.’
He grasped the pen it his right hand, but the hand went really stiff immediately. He tried putting pen to paper and his biceps began to ache.
‘Crikey, what’s happening?’ Barry shouted. ‘I can’t get the bloody pen to move, ooh, ouch!’
‘That’s odd,’ said Nicola. ‘The arm is working again, but the muscles are not’.
‘Well, something wrong. Cor, dear, no, I don’t think I can continue with this. It really hurts!’
Barry threw the pen to the floor, got up and stomped out of his room into the games room. He was standing by the snooker table when Nicola came in.
‘You mustn’t worry about this,’ she said, in a soothing voice. ‘It’s part of the long road to recovery. If it’s nearly better, it will continue to get even better still.’
‘Yeah, I suppose so. I was looking forward to a game of snooker, when my arm had recovered but I don’t think I can do that, now.’
‘Oh, have a go, please.’
Barry thought that he might as well try it so he got a cue out, put the balls on the table and aimed a shot at the black. He tried to push the cue forward with some power behind it but the nose of the cue lifted and the force of the shot was weak.
‘Oops, well, that was no good,’ said Barry, reproaching himself for the error.
He tried again, but the muscles were so wasted from four months of inactivity that the power of the shot was too weak again.
‘You tried, Barry, you tried,’ said Nicola, trying to prove her faith in him. ‘Maybe next time you’ll do better.’
‘Maybe,’ said Barry and he dejectedly went to his room.
The next day, Barry was pleased to go to his occupational therapy class, for he had varnished a small book rack on the previous day ‘Now, that’s not bad,’ he exclaimed.
He looked at the rack from every angle and decided that he liked his woodwork. The varnish had made it look as though it was made of mahogany - such was the colour - and the joints were nice and firm.
‘Can I take it away, Jill?’ he asked the therapist.
‘It’ll cost you,’ joked Jill. She noticed the forlorn look on his face and quickly corrected herself. ‘Only joking, Barry. Yes, you can take it away with you today, if it’s fully dry.’
One of the reasons for the therapy was to give the patients the satisfaction of making things for themselves, once more.
At lunchtime, Barry rushed to show Nicola, hoping to impress her with his skills.
‘That’s good. I didn’t know that you were a carpenter?’ she said, admiringly. ‘I could never do anything like that, not with this gammy hand.’ She looked, disapprovingly at her left arm.
‘But you can cook and knit, can’t you?’ said Barry. ‘Woodwork is more of a male subject, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. At the moment, I’m halfway through knitting a jumper for my father. I just hope that it’ll fit him.’
‘Of course it will. I’ve always thought that you were a great knit!’
Nicola looked at Barry, saw the crafty smile and burst into laughter.
‘Here, you have the bookrack. I will never use it as I don’t read much.’
‘Why thank you, Barry. I’ll treasure this,’ said Nicola, her eyes gleaming at the thought of having his handmade work in her possession. ‘I’ll make you a jumper, after I’ve finished the one I’m doing.’
They were obviously growing to like each other very much but neither had realised this yet. They were both intent on conquering their disabilities as soon as they could so there was no time to waste on other things.
‘I’m off to speech therapy now,’ said Barry, after lunch. ‘I might get a few words in, if I’m lucky!’
‘What do you mean? I find it quite good,’ said Nicola, mystified at Barry’s obvious dislike of the therapy.
Well, my class is crowded and I never get a chance to say what I want. I take a breath and someone else butts in.’
‘Have a word with her and ask for more of her attention during the lesson. She should be helping everyone.’ With the brain damage on the opposite side of her head Nicola could not understand Barry’s difficulty. If anything, her injury had made her talk even more than usual so she was eager to encourage Barry to do the same. She could not be expected to realise that Barry had been injured in the motor section of his brain - the motor that powered speech and it would take many years for him to learn to speak normally, if ever.
&nb
sp; Barry was one of the last into the class and so took a seat at the back of the room. His luck was in today as Elisa, the therapist, was asking everyone, in turn, what they would be doing that weekend. Barry’s turn came.
‘And you, Barry, what would you like to do this weekend?’
‘Err, I don’t really know. I think my friend, Thomas, will come around to my house and take me down to the pub. He’s got a favourite haunt which we always go to.’
Elisa, who had a very quick, sharp tongue immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion.
‘Going out with a boyfriend, eh,’ she said, looking at his long hair and big eyes. ‘I suppose you can’t help being gay. She turned her attention to the next patient and carried on with the lesson.
Barry was shell-shocked!
‘What did you say?’ he demanded, but without any power in his voice. Elisa did not pay him any attention whatsoever so he started to doubt what he’d heard and began to get embarrassed. He looked at the rest of the class, but no one was looking at him. Did she really say that? Why? was all that he could think.
At the end of the lesson, Elisa had gone before Barry could get up and confront her and he didn’t want to ask anyone else in the class about the statement, in case he had misheard her. He walked back to his room feeling very despondent and sat on the bed still racking his brains as to what she’d said. Rap, rap. There was a knock on the door.
‘Oh, who’s there?’ shouted Barry. The door opened and Nicola was standing in the doorway.
‘Sorry, I just thought I’d come down and have a game of draughts with you before dinner. If you’re not in the mood, I’ll see you later.’
‘Oh, sorry, come in,’ said Barry, in a dejected tone of voice.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ questioned Nicola. ‘You’ve finished work now, so don’t I get a smile?’
‘No, I don’t feel like smiling right now. Bloody Elisa!’
‘Oh dear! What’s happened?’
‘Well, err.’ said Barry, looking for a way out of this mess he was in. ‘It’s just that she said something that has made me so angry!’
‘What did she say? She should know how to speak to people having a job as a speech therapist. Don’t be shy. Please tell me.’
Barry was weakening and suddenly he blurted it out.
‘The bitch called me a poof! Me - a raving gayster!’
Barry spat out the words with all the fury he could muster. Nicola could see how this was hurting him so she sat down on the bed, next to him.
‘Don’t worry about it. She knows nothing!’ Nicola had grown to like Barry a lot and could see that he definitely was not a homosexual. Barry rested his head in his hands.
‘I only said that I was going to see my friend on the weekend and she said that. It’s not my fault that the hospital put him on my case when I was almost dead and that he has put himself out to help me.’
Nicola put her left arm around Barry’s shoulders, to comfort him, he looked up into her eyes when she did that and he saw the warmth in her expression.
‘Do you think that I’m a-’
Nicola stopped him right there and gently kissed his lips. Barry responded and immediately saw this as a way to prove that he was not gay. He put his arms around her and kissed her deeply. ‘They were soon lying on the bed, kissing and stroking each other fervently but because they had suffered paralysis on opposite sides, they couldn’t totally control their lips which made for very wet kisses with saliva trickling down onto the bed - but they did not even notice it.
Nicola undid Barry’s shirt and stroked his chest whilst he pulled her jumper off and was trying to undo her bra.
‘I never could work these damn things,’ moaned Barry, so Nicola did it for him. Her large bosoms fell out and he marvelled at their size.
‘You are beautiful, Nicola,’ he whispered. They kissed and caressed some more and within a few seconds, their jeans were discarded on the floor together with his pants and her knickers.
Barry suddenly got the jitters and said: ‘Do you think we should do this? What if you get pregnant?’
‘Oh, don’t spoil it now,’ said Nicola, at the height of expectation. ‘Prove that therapist wrong!’
Barry needed no further encouragement so he grasped Nicola and mounted her, feeling that all was right with his world, once more. They made love, enjoying each and every thrust, Barry was the first to come and this gave Nicola a tremendous orgasm.
‘That was worth waiting for,’ said Nicola, indicating that she had been longing for that moment for some while
‘Absolutely superb,’ exclaimed Barry. ‘It’s a pity dear Elisa was not here to see it but never mind. Sod her! Cor, I really feel knackered after that, much worse than I’ve ever felt before. I wonder why?’
‘Come on, you’ve had a terrible knock on the head. It must have had some effect. Me, I feel more tired at the end of the day. I’m not surprised you’re exhausted after that session! You have a rest and I’ll see you at dinner.’
Nicola dressed quickly and after another meaningful kiss, she slipped out of the room. Barry lay back on the bed and went into a deep sleep. He missed dinner and didn’t wake up until 6.30 am. the next morning. He looked at his watch and smiled, smugly to himself. Things were improving!
Chapter Six
Nicola only had one more week at the rehabilitation centre and so she and Barry made the most of it. They saw each other frequently and enjoyed talking and relaxing but they both knew that it would be very difficult to see each other after she had left because of the difficulty of getting around. She lived sixty miles to the west and he twenty miles to the east and the eighty-mile journey seemed impossible for them. At that time, they were not even thinking of ever driving a car so they decided to live for the present and not the future.
Friday morning came and Barry was at the door to say goodbye.
‘I’m sorry to see you go - and then, again, I’m not,’ said Barry, trying to express his pleasure at her recovery and the pain he was feeling as they parted. I hope that I’ll be out of here soon and ready to start my life again.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you will,’ said Nicola reassuringly. Please write to me now and again and let me know how you are doing.’
Her father had come to collect her and seemed irritated that someone else had her attention
‘Come on Nicola, let’s not keep your mother waiting,’ he said stiffly.
Barry was holding Nicola’s hand and had to let go quickly, as she was pulled away. He watched as her father tried to help her - it was just too much. He supported her to the car, opened the door for her, helped her in and shut the door. He got in the driver’s seat and they were away with Nicola looking out of the window forlornly.
Barry knew about this attitude parents had towards a member of their family rendered almost helpless and he just wished that people would help the injured constructively and not treat them as though they were two years old. He had been told that when his own father had first seen him in hospital, he had treated him like a baby for some time. This really annoyed Thomas so he walked out of the ward when Barry’s father came along or made an excuse for Barry’s father to leave.
Barry had seen a good example of this in the rehabilitation centre when Bruce’s parents had visited the Centre. Bruce had just managed to stagger down a corridor on a walking frame and his father had made strenuous attempts clearing the way for Bruce. The father had looked as though nothing was important to him except his son and not, as Barry would have preferred a gentle helping hand letting Bruce try to walk on his own.
Barry stood thinking, for a minute, and then strode off to his next class - occupational therapy. He only had two weeks left at the centre and was then to be plummeted back into the rigours of normal life at school, the George Hopkins High School. It was not something that he
was looking forward to that much. He had just started the Upper Sixth form, before the accident, and would now have to go down a form into the Lower Sixth and work his way through again. He wondered if he really needed to lose this year at school. Surely, with a bit of hard work, he could catch up with his studies. He decided to discuss this with his mother when he saw her, later that day.
At 4 p.m., Barry went to get on the bus provided by the hospital to transport patients home for the weekend. He never liked this because the driver always took a circular route which made his house the last stop - taking two hours to get there. Never mind, only two weeks left.
The bus finally reached Barry’s house where he gladly stepped off. The house was a pleasant semi with nice views over the surrounding area. He went in to find his dinner waiting for him. Thomas was there making quite a crowd sitting around the table - four men and one lady. Barry decided to start the questioning immediately.
‘Mum, this thing about going back to school. Why can’t I join the Upper Sixth again? I could work hard and get back into the swing of things.’
Patricia looked at him with a worried expression on her face.
Before she could reply, Thomas quickly spoke, using his medical knowledge to sound perfectly in control.
‘No, I’m sorry, Barry. That is out of the question for you are only just beginning the long road to recovery. You’ve had one of the worst accidents possible and there is no way you can catch up quickly enough at school.’
‘But all of my friends are in the Upper Sixth - I don’t know anyone at all in the Lower Sixth. It wouldn’t be any fun.’
His mother joined in.
‘I’m sure you will be all right. You can make new friends and you will still see your mates in their remaining time at school. You have told me that you find writing very difficult.’
‘Yes, and there would be a lot of that,’ said Thomas. ‘You must look upon this as a continuing part of your rehabilitation. You will have plenty of time to catch up and be sure of your work. You must remember that you have missed half of the Upper Sixth year and so even if you worked twenty-four hours a day, it would be impossible to catch up quickly.’
Would You Believe Him? Page 6
