The Promised Land
Every morning my stair lift takes me clanking and whirring into the arms of a new day. I pass two uncurtained windows which give me a clear view of next doors sterling attempts to build a Magaluf garden hangout and then my own rather disappointing potted specimens lodged amongst my assortment of coloured waste bins. I’d placed them in this hot spot desperately seeking sun in a typically changeable Scottish summer. I’m still not used to this weather.
And I’m down.
All this visibility.
Not like me at all. Curtains were always firmly shut in my old place.
My parents were lovely, but, strictly on the q t, not their fault, it was the times, between you and me deep down I was taught to be ashamed of myself.
Not to hide. That’s just how it turned out.
No.
If anything to be super visible,
“Get out there! Show them you’re the same as them just you walk a bit different, stand a bit different.”
Just don’t be too different.
Wheelchairs and stair lifts were a complete non - starter. They were for the old and infirm. When eventually I graduated to both I shut my curtains and they remained shut until…. well, quite recently really. At the moment you find me building up to the next step. Reclaiming the streets. Finishing what I started.
So anyway along with ashamed the other thing my upbringing made me was endlessly apologetic. I mean that’s not just a crip thing. It’s an English thing. Although I’ve been living in Scotland for a few years now I don’t feel particularly English or Scots. I suppose I like to think of myself as a “citizen of the world” and whilst that feels apt in a pandemic it also feels like being a bit in denial. Not to mention, I’m sorry to say, if the truth be told, I’ve never really denied myself anything. I am a selfish bastard. I usually get what I want. Crip smarts as they say.
Did you hear that? I snuck it in. Apologising.
“I’m sorry to say”. Ha! Of course I’m not really sorry.
Well except deep down inside where I am still endlessly apologising for me. Apologising not so much for who I am, I can switch hats with the best of them, but what I am. And what I did.
Sorry. Oh sorry. Sorry. Endlessly apologetic just for….well… being.
I used to like the comedian and raconteur Ronnie Corbett. He was a short man, would have been classed as a dwarf in some cultures. Anyway he had a sitcom on Telly called “Sorry”. The premise was that he was a Mummy’s boy, a bit dithery and was always apologising in that very English way. However with my unerring cripple gaze, my superpower, I used to think “come on Ronnie, spit it out what you’re really apologising for is being being small, below par, a half pint, not the full shilling, a titch, a midget.” That miniature elephant in the room was never mentioned.
So, just to get it out the way.
Sorry.
And apart from one last thing that’s it. I’m done with apologising.
When I caught my disease during The epidemic as it was then. It’s always The epidemic like there’s never been any before and never will be any again. Why do we do this? Read your history!
Anyway. When I caught my disease - the result of a toddling plunge into the polluted brook at the bottom of me Nans garden - we were in the midst of the said epidemic. I was feverish so our GP was called and immediately took me away in his car to The Mansfield. It was one of those places like loony bins you never referred to as a hospital just the name was enough to strike fear. The Mansfield.
So Dr Cathcart picked me up and plonked me in his car. There I was lying on the back seat of his Jag in a fever dream of seat leather, soap and his very beery breath. Then I don’t remember much more.
It seems that upon arrival all my best clothing me Mam had wrapped me in - that’s what you did then when you went to hospital, put on your best - all that was taken away and burnt and the next time me Mam saw me I was a shaven headed scabby little mongrel in someone else’s cast offs. Polio it was, served with a soupcon of impetigo , a very popular dish at the time. Me Mam found me shivering in a ward full or iron beds and iron lungs pushed outside in the January freeze to get a good dose of fresh air and as it happened in my case subsequent pneumonia.
Hospitals then were pretty much set up to suit the staff and this daily ritual meant the wards could be thoroughly cleansed before the advent of the Great God, The Consultant and his pimply disciples.
The ward smelt of disinfectant and piss. So although it was bloody freezing it was nice to be out. I just prayed that the shit balls I’d made in the night cleverly sculpted to resemble Maltesers had confused the nurses sufficiently that I escaped being hauled up for soiling meself again. They looked pretty real. As long as they didn’t try and taste one I’d probably be all right.
It’s funny what you remember.
Time for The First Ministers briefing. I won’t be long.
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So I’ve done it. I’ve been out. First time for …. God knows how long. I’m sitting here looking out the window with a big stupid grin on me face. I’m ridiculously pleased.
What the hell changed. I’ve thought about this a lot. I mean I’ve been building to it. I knew what I had to do but that had never helped before. I know this sounds daft but I think it was the First Ministers firmness. Telling everyone to exercise, to go out once a day. So I thought, why not. Only obeying orders guv. Ha! So I did.
What it was you see was that I had permission. Better still I was under orders. Like me Dad, I was always good at following orders. So out I went. I won’t kid you, it was really odd at first. Deeply strange but, you know, oddly normal.
I wheeled on the road, didn’t want to go on the pavement in case I met someone and couldn’t socially distance sufficiently and then it would be embarrassing and we’d dosey doe and they’d be scared because us wheelies were a threat – unclean, unclean! And I’d say sorry and ….. well, so, I wheeled on the road. Everywhere was so quiet. I felt like the first wheelie on the moon.
“A small rotation for me but a giant revolve for wheelie kind.”
I got out the estate all right, I knew where I was heading. Down to the left and then left again down the wee unused road which took me to the railway track and the railway bridge behind the houses. It’s a lovely spot. Quite remote, a little overgrown, full of Hawthorn hedges, stingers, Irn Bru cans, wild flowers and a big green mesh fence closing off the railway tracks. I felt at home.
Then bugger.. Down the road came an elderly lady and her dog.
“Morning” she said.
“Morning. Lovely day””says I.
“Aye” says she
So of course the dog runs over starts sniffing away at the chair, and me and the old lady strike up a conversation. Boy she’s a talker. She clocks me as an incomer and tells me that this used to be a level crossing, man in a hut and all, but when they made the new road it was closed up and the footbridge built. As we chatted she notices me looking at a fresh wild daffodil woven into the green mesh fence.
“ it’s a Mary’s Star” Sez she
“Like an ordinary daff but white on the outside and yellow in the middle. All about self - sacrifice and resurrection.
She laughs
Nowadays its all about chocolate eggs and Easter Bunny’s. ”
She then tells me how a young man had died at that spot several years ago at about this time just after the new footbridge was open. He’d been at a party in the pub and had wandered away at some point in the evening came down the hill and thrown himself from the bridge into the path of a train. After the expected “how terrible” and “how sad” the conversation dried up. The wee dog was getting restless so we said our goodbyes and she headed on up over the footbridge to the promised land beyond and I made my way home.
Once I’d been out I couldn’t get enough of it. I just loved it. As I couldn’t go up to the right as the hill to the village was too steep so my daily wheels took me down to the bridge every day. Anyway turns out my “remote spot” was a regular hive of activity. A popular route for dog walkers, joggers and the teenage doobie crowd . Cross the railway footbridge and you’re in a bit of a wilderness. An old farm track with pasture either side. A local beauty spot known as Promise. Short for The Promised Land.
Most days I think about the young man. Trying to imagine what a terrible state he must have been in to do what he did. The white flower with the golden heart always stays fresh. As soon as it dries and starts to droop there’s a new Star, the old one cast to the other side of the fence beside a lost tennis ball.
As people start gradually drifting back to the world I’ve ended up meeting more and more folk from the village. Joggers break their stride to exchange a few words, dogs and their owners stop to talk, the Doobie boys mumble a greeting and wee kids on their bikes fidget restlessly as their Mums chat to me about this and that. Till they all disappear across the bridge to the other side of the tracks.
One by one they begin to notice my plight. Stuck on one side like the little lame boy who can’t make it into the mountain with the Pied Piper and all the other kids.
I can see them thinking “poor bugger can’t get over the bridge.” From the active community members there’s even talk of a petition, maybe even a protest.
“Write to the council. The bridge should be ramped. Plenty of space. It’s just unfair.”
I’m quiet at first, stoic, tragic but brave. Then eventually I start to talk of how much it would mean to me. Just to be like everyone else, see what they can see, go where they go. There’s a few tears at that, some anger and soon a plan. Some of the local Dads will lift me in my chair up to the centre of the bridge and we’ll string a banner with the words “Access for All to The Promised Land”. Then we’ll close off the steps on either side so no-one can get to me and I’ll stage an all night vigil alone on the Bridge. My cohort will stay below protecting my solitude and talking to the Press. It’s exciting. It’s active. It’s just what the village needs to pull us out of lockdown.
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So here I am up on the bridge. Do you like the banner.
The local mothers group used a blue parachute cloth the youth club didn’t use anymore and made the letters out of old white sheets.They also packed me up some sandwiches and a flask of coffee. The dog walkers gathered these chains to lock my chair to the bridge, not to tight, mainly for show, and the Doobie Kids rolled me a big one should I need some comfort in the night. Finally some of the fitter joggers carry me up wheels and all. And here I am.
Its all gone like clockwork. There’s been a barbecue, live music from Davy the local guitar hero, loads of Press and the police have kept their distance.
The sound of chittering and chattering is finally fading away. I should bloody hope so its 3 in the morning.
There’s the lights going off in the tents. Finally just me. It’s so quiet. No trains now till the morning. Lovely. Time to think. Reflect.
I’m quite snug up here in me Artic Parka, a gift from the local ramblers group. Its time I reckon.
Here’s the tricky bit. Loosen these chains a bit more, hold on to the bridge, pull meself up. Lean out. Cmon you can do it. Now lean out as far as you can. Rise up, rise up!
Where is it. Bloody big pockets in this thing. Sorry Mary’s Star you’re a little bit crumpled.
And I grab the railings pull myself up
And this time I do say sorry. And this time I mean it. I need to. But after this I’m done with apologising.
And as the Mary’s Star falls from my fingertips to the track below.
I finally.
At last.
Bid farewell to my boy.