By My Side

by Alice Peterson

  I look out of the window. ‘Where are we going?’ We’ve been driving for well over an hour now.

  ‘No idea! Let’s see where the mood takes us.’

  ‘Well, I’m not in any hurry. The television and biscuits can wait.’

  Things have been much better at home in the past month. I’m not miserable; nor am I happy. I’m neutral. I’ve slipped into a routine, and rub along well with Mum and Dad now. I’ve been doing some paid admin work for Mum in her office, typing up tenancy agreements and letters. However, there’s still this shadow hanging over us of what I’m going to do next. I can’t live at home forever.

  As Mum drives on, I turn on the stereo and think about my recent London trip to see Dom and Guy. This time someone was waiting on the train platform with a ramp. Guy told us that his father had broken down. ‘They’re old, you know. Just when they should be retired and happy they’re burdened with me. I’m pretty lucky I’m not in some care home for the elderly, you know. That’s where a lot of guys like me end up. So, I’ve decided I’m going to get my arse into gear and do an Open University course, study history. Before I got sucked into the City my dream was to be a teacher. I don’t want to do nothing for the rest of my life. I’m better than that. We’re better than that.’ I knew that comment was directed at me.

  Dom often tells me that I need to think about my future and maybe I should think about going back to medicine. However, hearing Guy say it was different. I was pleased for him, but also scared. Now that he was making plans, what excuse did I have?

  It’s getting late in the afternoon and I’m looking at a map. Mum drives down a narrow road in the middle of nowhere. ‘Caution! Please drive SLOWLY,’ the sign reads. We’ve been driving for miles and are now definitely lost as Mum parks us in some field. She unlocks the door, saying she’s desperate for the loo. I frown at her, thinking she’s about to squat behind a tree, but she runs on ahead, and soon is out of sight.

  I shut my eyes, feeling sleepy. I think about Sarah again. She promised she’d write to me. We want to form a new friendship, but I sense it’s hard for both of us when we’re still grieving for our past. Sarah is uncomfortable talking to me about medicine. The only thing she did mention the last time we’d met in London was: ‘Cozzi was asking after you.’ Mariella Cozzi was my favourite lecturer. She’s Italian, in her fifties with amazing legs, dark hair streaked with pink, and always wears heels like Mum. I picture her in the giant lecture room, giving a PowerPoint presentation. ‘If people are obese they eat too much, simple as that.’ I loved her un-pc remarks. ‘Get a grip. Go to the gym. Eat less! Get on a bike! Or if they can’t afford that, walking is free!’

  Walking is free.

  ‘What a strange place,’ Mum says when she returns to the car and puts her seatbelt on. ‘Dogs everywhere.’ She scratches her arm.

  I stir. ‘Dogs?’

  ‘Yes, dogs.’

  ‘It’s probably a kennel club.’

  ‘Well, they had these funny purple coats on.’

  ‘Coats?’

  ‘Uh-huh. And they were doing all kinds of weird things too.’ She turns the key in the ignition.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, I saw one poking its head into a washing machine and lifting out a pillow-case!’ Mum laughs, a laugh that could fill Wembley Stadium.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I know! I mean, who wants their linen covered in doggy fish breath? No thanks, mister.’

  Slowly we drive back down the bumpy track.

  ‘What kind of dogs were they?’

  ‘Labradors, I think.’

  ‘Maybe they’re guide dogs?’

  ‘Oh. Perhaps.’ She cocks her head. ‘Yes, that’s probably exactly what they are.’ Suspiciously I look over to Mum but her expression is deadpan. ‘Right. Home. Your father will be wondering where the heck we are. Have you found us on the map?’

  For the next few miles my head is buzzing. I think of Guy about to study history and Dom continuing his life with Miranda, Sarah working abroad and Sean who moved on a long time ago. Why is a voice telling me to turn round?

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Can we go back?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To the doggy place.’

  She slows down. ‘Why?’

  I can’t answer that exactly. ‘Please. Look, clearly it was a plan to bring me out here, wasn’t it?’ I throw the map back into the glove box. ‘You know exactly where we are.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter! Just turn round!’

  Mum pulls over at the next layby and it’s not long before we’re heading back down the bumpy track.

  8

  Mum and I are in the reception area. On the walls are framed photographs of yellow, black and chocolate-coloured Labradors with their purple coats on. Some of them have their paws resting on their owners’ laps. In other shots, the dogs sit by the wheelchairs, looking noble and proud, the owners wrapping an arm around them. I wheel myself down the line, reading the inscriptions beneath the photographs. ‘Rachel and Elvis’. Rachel is wearing a graduation gown and mortarboard and holds a degree certificate that Elvis also touches with one paw.

  On another wall, next to the bathroom, is a pinboard with press cuttings and more pictures of dogs reaching for tins and cereal packets in supermarkets. I hear music coming from one of the rooms; it’s The Black Eyed Peas. I glance at Mum. There’s no way we could have stumbled upon this place by chance, could we? Cautiously I wheel myself towards the door, before it gets flung open by a plump woman wearing jeans, trainers and a T-shirt, who sweeps past Mum and me without seeming to notice us. I peer into the room and my heart melts when I see golden and black puppies with floppy ears, wearing tiny purple bibs. One of the Labrador pups is jumping through a yellow hoop. ‘Wait wait … back … Good boy!’ says a busty woman in a purple T-shirt, as the puppy moves backwards through her legs. ‘Oh look at them,’ I sigh out loud.

  ‘Can I help you?’ says a voice. Mum and I turn and see a tall dark-haired man behind us, wearing a purple fleece.

  ‘Hello. We were just looking around,’ says Mum, as if we were browsing in a clothes shop.

  He shakes his head regretfully. ‘We’re in the middle of training. I’m afraid we don’t like people wandering about unless they’ve made an appointment.’

  ‘An appointment?’ Mum queries.

  ‘Yes. We’re a charity. Canine Partners.’ He gestures to the logo on his fleece of an abstract person in a wheelchair, a dog by their side. ‘We train our dogs to assist anyone with a disability. Are you interested?’ He repeats the question and I look up, surprised he’s directing it at me. Normally I am addressed via my mother, with comments like, ‘Doesn’t she look well!’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I reply. Yes you are. Tell him you are, a voice urges.

  His face softens. ‘Stuart Harris. Chief Executive.’ He shakes Mum’s hand. ‘How do you do, Mrs … ?’

  ‘Brooks.’

  ‘And you are?’ he asks when I don’t think to say my name.

  ‘Cass,’ I mutter.

  ‘Sorry?’ He’s so tall he has to bend down to hear me. He gives his ear a tap. ‘Bit deaf in my old age.’

  He can only be about forty-five. ‘Cass,’ I repeat, my mouth as dry as straw.

  ‘Now look,’ Stuart says, leading us away from the door and across to the other side of the reception room. ‘This isn’t strictly allowed but if you promise to be quiet you can come in and observe the older pups.’ Gently he opens the door. ‘These little superstars are in their advanced training,’ says Stuart proudly. My heart melts again, this time at much bigger but just as bouncy puppies of all different colours, dressed in their purple coats. There are six dogs in this room, each with their own personal trainer.

  We position ourselves in the corner, where there’s a desk, computer and filing cabinet. It’s a simple room, with a grey floor and white walls.

  ‘We have to
keep the room pretty basic,’ Stuart says. ‘We don’t want to distract our heroes. What are you doing?’ he whispers, watching Mum brushing the cushion on her chair, her gold bracelets causing a distraction.

  ‘Dog hairs,’ she says. ‘They make me come out in a rash.’

  ‘You’re allergic to dogs?’ Stuart asks in disbelief.

  ‘Sit down, Mum,’ I beg.

  She does one final sweep before tentatively planting her bottom on the chair, as though she were about to sit on a bed of hot spikes.

  Stuart leans towards me. ‘As you can see, most of our pups are retriever-type breeds but we do select some crosses between poodles, Labradors and retrievers too.’ He gestures to a black Labradoodle with bright eyes and curls to die for, picking up a set of keys and handing them back to his trainer, a woman, in a wheelchair. I notice the trainers are mostly young women and they are all dressed in purple T-shirts with jeans.

  Stuart tells us the puppies in this room are anything from fourteen to nineteen months old. ‘If we’re lucky we get our pups from as young as seven or eight weeks. The beauty of starting their training early is they learn quickly. They’re like sponges, wanting to absorb everything.’

  I watch in fascination as a chocolate Labrador tugs gently at one of the trainer’s gloves. ‘Clever boy!’ she says, when he has it in his mouth. Proudly he drops it on to her lap and then waits for a treat, wagging his tail. Another Labrador is in one corner of the room by a washing machine, touching the door handle and being rewarded by his or her trainer with chopped carrots.

  ‘It’s important to reward them all the time,’ Stuart says. ‘Our dogs aren’t robots or slaves. They won’t do anything unless they want to, but matched with the right person there’s nothing they won’t do. It’s unconditional love.’ Mum and I watch one of the puppies closest to us looking at a small white pedal bin. ‘What kind of dog is that?’ Mum asks.

  ‘A Goldipoo.’

  ‘A whatiepoo?’

  ‘Goldipoo. A cross between a poodle and a retriever. Poodles are extremely intelligent,’ he whispers, as if letting us in on a top secret again.

  The trainer has this clicking device that she seems to use only when the puppy is doing the right thing. She stops clicking when he tries to open the lid of the bin with his teeth. The puppy rolls over, wants to be tickled, yelps in frustration when he doesn’t get any attention. I get the feeling he’s been trying to solve this pedal-bin problem for some time. He sits up again, cocks his head to one side. He lifts his paw, close to the pedal now, and is rewarded with a treat and more clicking and praise. He lifts his paw and presses down on the pedal and the lid swings open to a round of applause.

  ‘Wow! Isn’t that incredible, Mum!’

  ‘I wish I could train your father like that.’

  ‘Our dogs can learn to do the most amazing things,’ Stuart claims. ‘They can help dress and undress, operate a pedestrian crossing or a lift button, carry out a range of emergency response procedures … but they do so much more than that,’ he says, looking directly at me. ‘I tell you, Cass, when I see applicants for the first time they’re pale, often overweight and frankly depressed. There’s something dead in their eyes.’ He narrows his own. ‘Once they’ve bonded with a dog – this might sound rather simplistic, but it’s like they’ve been given a second chance.’

  I hear a whine, and notice a puppy in the middle of the room, attached by his lead to a small hook in the wall. Perhaps he’s bored waiting for his go at the washing machine or pedal bin? He has a bright red collar and when I wave at him, he wags his tail and attempts to move, only to realise he can’t get very far. ‘One sec,’ Stuart says, leaping off his seat to sort him out. ‘Ticket! Settle! It’s your turn very soon. There we are, good boy.’ Stuart returns to Mum and me. ‘He’s a live wire, that one. Sixteen months and full of mischief.’ Ticket’s a Labrador, his coat the colour of honeycomb.

  Ticket continues to whine and bark. ‘You’re going to have to forgive me. He’s clearly got something to say to you, Cassandra.’

  ‘To me?’

  He walks over to Ticket’s mat, releases the lead from the hook, and next thing I know, Ticket bounds over to me, jumping up against my legs. I laugh, a wave of pure joy. Stuart apologises for the disruption, but one of the trainers looks over at us, curious.

  ‘Ticket, I’d like you to meet Cass.’ Stuart introduces us as if we are about to go on a blind date.

  I reach to stroke and tickle him under his chin. ‘Hello, Ticket! Aren’t you lovely, yes you are, yes you are.’ His ears are velvety soft, his coat so smooth, and his eyes light up with playfulness. He jumps up again, giving me another wet kiss.

  ‘Cass, you don’t know where his tongue’s been,’ Mum points out, before receiving a stern look from Stuart.

  ‘Ticket! That’s such a great name and you’re so handsome.’ I take his face into my hands and kiss him back. I wish I’d brought a bigger bag. Then I could have taken him home. Surely no one would notice one puppy missing?

  Stuart stands back. ‘It’s love at first sight. He makes your tail wag, doesn’t he, Cass?’ I feel a warm glow inside me, but that’s quickly destroyed when the trainer takes Ticket away.

  ‘The next stage is trying to match him with the right partner.’

  ‘You mean someone else could get him?’ I blurt out.

  Stuart looks at me. ‘Well, yes, Cass. But you could apply?’

  As we leave Stuart hands me an information pack, along with an application form. ‘Don’t give Ticket to anyone else,’ I plead into his ear. ‘Please keep him for me.’

  And I swear from the corner of my eye I see Mum winking at him.

  *

  Mum and I don’t talk about the dogs on the way home but I devour the information pack the moment we get back. I learn that the main role of the puppy parent is to train and socialise their dog by taking them out as much as possible from the age of two to fourteen months. They’ll go to places that an assistant dog is likely to find itself in, like busy streets, supermarkets, the hospital or workplaces – and they have to try and do this as if they were disabled, so the puppy parent would use the disabled access in a bank or the wide aisle in Tesco’s. A puppy is taught to problem solve, which is considered one of the most crucial qualities for an assistant dog.

  After leaving the puppy parents, the dogs are brought to Canine Partners to complete their advanced training, which takes a further four to six months. Thanks to generous sponsorship, the dogs are free.

  The form asks for information about me: my work, my home life and my disability. If I want a dog, my doctor must provide Canine Partners with my medical records.

  The last line is in bold. Please tell us why you would like a Canine Partner and how you consider you would benefit. This is a very important part of the application and we would like to hear it in your own words.

  I return to the beginning, filling in my name and address. I tick boxes; circle answers. I find myself running out of space and having to write on the back of the sheet too.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Mum asks as I finish the last question. She’s surprised to find me sitting more or less in the dark without the television on. ‘You can’t see a thing in here.’ She turns on the light by the sitting room sofa.

  I stop writing, black ink smudged across my finger. I can’t quite work out whether today was a set-up or not. Surely a dog is the last thing she’d want in the house?

  I hand her the application form.

  My heart races as I watch her turn over the page to read my last answer. She looks at me, and then back at the form. ‘Because I want a bond,’ she reads out. ‘I want to care about something again.’

  ‘I really want one,’ I say. ‘I want Ticket.’ Still Mum doesn’t say a word. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Cass, if it makes you happy you can fill the whole house with dogs.’ She smiles as she wipes an eye. ‘You don’t know how happy it makes me feel that you’ve even asked.’

  I thought
I knew Mum, but as she leaves the room I realise I’d barely touched the surface.

  9

  It’s early evening and I should be packing. I leave tomorrow to go on the Canine Partner Residential Training Course, which is held at the training centre in Heyshott, West Sussex. Since visiting Canine Partners three months ago, an occupational therapist, or one of the purple people as Mum and I call them, visited to see if any adaptations needed to be made to the house. I have also completed three assessment days. These days give the trainers a chance to see how we interact with the dogs. When I saw Ticket for the first time since that day when he’d jumped into my lap, my feelings hadn’t changed. If anything they’d grown deeper. He’d charged over and sniffed my boring old shoes, my tracksuit and wheelchair as if they were the most exciting things ever, and then he’d covered my hand in kisses. Lindsey, the head trainer, says it’s fairly clear from the assessment days which partners are going to get which dogs, but there’s always a small element of doubt. Occasionally we might not see what they see. But surely, surely I will get Ticket?

  I want to bring him home more than I’ve wanted anything for a long time. However, being away from Mum and Dad is a plunge into darkness.

  I’m nervous about so many things, but not being able to go to the loo properly is one of the worst side effects of spinal cord injury, almost worse than not being able to walk. London for the day is manageable but this is a whole fortnight. What if I have an accident?

  After being in Stoke Mandeville for a few days, I realised I hadn’t gone to the bathroom. I also knew, from my student days, that something else was terribly wrong but it still came as a shock when Georgina explained that when the spinal cord is damaged, you can no longer feel or control your bladder and bowels.

  I close my eyes, remembering how Georgina had talked to me about how to manage my bladder and bowel movement.

  ‘What I’ll be teaching you is how to use an intermittent catheter,’ she said in her usual matter-of-fact way. ‘You’ll need to be rigid about how much you drink, learn what your limit is. I suggest every three to four hours you’ll need to empty your bladder with one of these.’ She was holding up something that looked like a drinking straw. ‘They’re single use and you must keep them sterile. When you’re inserting a foreign agent into your bladder there’s a risk of infection.’