Wheelchair Bound?

"You what?"

"Disabled Action." He grinned, clearly a proud memory. Apparently it was one of many stunts performed which eventually convinced national museums that possibly their precious old listed buildings could perhaps be adapted to have step-free access after all. They pretty much all do now, with the exception of the odd office and balcony. The one he'd swept down the grand gilded stairs of, taking the curve too fast, will remain nameless.

"You're mad!"

"Worked, though. It was an old manual chair, not this power-assist one -- I'm not totally stupid."

I raised an eyebrow, suggesting contradiction.

"Direct protest is the only way to get things to change! It was more fun than sit-ins handcuffed to railings in the rain, I tell you... Enough politics. What your Ali needs is a lightweight chair designed for self-propelling. Probably you still want handles to give her a hand, but tell her it's completely appropriate to cover them in prickly stuff so you don't get idiots shoving her about the place."

I added that to my notes. "That's not going to help convince her no-one's going to be all patronising at her, is it?"

"Nah, don't tell her that. Cos they will be. Or the whole 'does he take sugar' thing -- you remember the radio programme?" I shook my head. "You didn't have Radio 4 non-stop in the background, growing up? It was the BBC's weekly attempt to cover disability issues. They called it Does He Take Sugar? because of how if someone's in a chair with someone else, people will talk to the person they think is the 'carer'." He spaced out the two syllables in a high squeaky voice. That 'Special Caring Voice' he'd ranted about before.

"Oh, god. How am I going to persuade her to give it another go?"

Malc considered.

"Try this company I know. They know what they're talking about. Also I know they do chair hire, where what you've paid counts towards a purchase."

"She's not going to want to think about that, yet."

"True, but if you get her down there, they're good at the persuasion. About heading off the 'you're so brave' contingent -- well, there's a reason I always wear smart suits to work," - he did, always perfect pinstripes and posh tie, no idea how he tied it - "or outside, punk hard-case time. Get people thinking you must have been a biker, probably an Iron Maiden fan, and all your mates are Hells Angels; amazing how the respect level goes up..."

My disbelieving eyebrow couldn't rise any further.

"What? I don't suppose you've ever seen me outside work, have you?" He pulled a non-work phone from a pocket and started jabbing at it. "Look."

"Impressive hair." The six-inch Mohawk would certainly help avoid the 'I didn't see you down there' problem. The metal-band T-shirt, guy-liner and large stompy boots certainly weren't what I'd expected Malc to wear on a weekend. "You'd dress like that even without a wheelchair, presumably?"

"Course." He shrugged. "I might not bother with the hair, otherwise, I imagine, but the height comes in useful. Don't tell the whole office, if you don't mind."

I looked more closely at him. Under his usual floppy hair, you couldn't see that much of the sides and back of his head was shaved, until he brushed some aside with his upper arm. I wondered who helped him with the hairspray and all.

"Your Ali -- she's all spikey-haired blonde, isn't she? More Tank Girl than Barbie, yeah?"

"Not Barbie, no way! You seen Starbuck in the Battlestar Galactica remake? Arsy as Tank Girl but stunningly gorgeous."

"Your job to say that. I wouldn't know."

I hesitated. What was my colleague telling me?

"You didn't know I was gay, either? Yeah, well, I don't use the rainbow wheel decor outside Pride. Really not a good idea if you're out late by yourself and can't run away. Anyway, pass me my bag."

I lifted a messenger bag off the back of his chair. He wrestled with it and eventually got a wallet out of a pocket and a business card extracted from it. "Here you go. Tell her it's good practice at management skills, getting people to do what you need, opening doors, calling in advance to establish access, all that sort of thing. Helped me to more than one promotion, having my own PA..."

"Ali doesn't have a PA."

"She's got you. Trust me, if she uses a chair a bit and is less knackered, you can be more girlfriend and won't have to be her carer as much as you are at the minute. She hates relying on you so much, right? Well, then! Hit her with that logic."

During the next week, I managed to tactfully suggest that if she didn't want me doing so much for her, then it would be worth her trying anything that might make things easier. I'd already acquired a folding perching stool for the kitchen and some GoodGrips utensils, claiming they were on an irresistible special offer at TK Maxx. She'd pretended to believe it.

"All right, I'll try again. Just for you, babe. What's the name of this firm?"

"Wheel Freedom."

Ali rolled her eyes. Cutesy motivational messages never went down well with her. But she did, a week later, call them.

They asked loads of questions about her life and where she might want to use a chair, grilled her about her commute to work and other journeys she might make, and finally her lap measurement. The guy on the phone put her at ease with his relaxed manner. "Eighteen inches! No wonder you had problems with a Red Cross-type monstrosity -- those things would be way too wide for you! No worries, pet, we've got plenty in your size. Do you want it delivered or to collect? I recommend collect if you can -- we can check the fit and you can do a few spins in the car park and all."

I told Ali I'd drive her to Battersea. She stuck her tongue out at me. I took that as acceptance.

That night in bed, she found the energy to climb on top of me and then stroke me with her exhausted hands, which was nice -- the effort, I mean, not just how it felt.

The lack of hand strength was the worst for her, I thought. Public transport and cabs could compensate for lack of energy to stand or walk, but while the dry-cleaner adapted clothes so they didn't need buttons, and pre-chopped veg and ready meals were great, there's just no substitute for being in bed with someone and squeezing and stroking and kneading their body just how you want to.

As she told me regularly, despondently. It might sound off, but as long as I could feel her body against mine, smell her sweet skin, hug her as gently as necessary, I was content. The times when she could run a hand along my side, or a finger up my thigh, became ever more special. It was a bit like a first date every time, starting chaste, getting dirtier, not actually hoping for more because it was so good already.

Almost completely content. I did hugely miss the bondage, and was somewhat sad about the rest of the BDSM we were no longer doing. But not, as Ali still feared, so much that I'd ever dump her over it.

I pulled into the near-deserted industrial estate, parking in front of the correct sheet-metal building. The guy came out to greet us.

"Don't you bother coming in, it's just a glorified shed, unless you need the toilet. Who's getting the technology? You? That's grand, should be the right size and all. Here you go. I'll make the leg rests a bit shorter -- you can take them off if you find you like pushing with your feet, but I'd keep them for now. Handles the right height for you? Right, take it for a spin. Go round that tree and come back. No running away, mind, or I'll have to sell your friend here into slavery..."

Ali grinned as she gave the wheels an experimental push, and zoomed across the parking space. In no time she was back and excitedly testing the turning circle.

"One way is always easier than the other. One forward, one back, twist. You've got it. Grand." He showed us how to fold the thing for easy storage, how to apply the brakes, and how to stow the foot-rests out of the way.

"Now, if you're going down a ramp, like a bus or train, go backwards until you've had practice. Or a steep dropped kerb. Don't want to end up flat on your face. Ah, you've learnt that one already? You doesn't need me, then! If you start using it a lot outside, alone, come back for training in wheelies and hopping over low kerbs, but you'll do for now.

You said your hands are banjaxed too? You may want gloves to help grip the wheels -- just call and I'll put them in the post, but that's only if you're using it a lot outside by yourself. Which you might! Remember, it's a tool to help you travel further, just like a bicycle or a car. Happy with the black? No blinging it up unless you've paid for it, but after four months hire it's yours with one final payment. OK. Have fun, girls!"

It was with some difficulty that I got Ali to stop doing circles around the car like a petite demented Jenson Button, so we could fold the chair in half and drive home.

The excitement of easy mobility faded by the time I'd heated up dinner.

"People will stare at me."

"Yeah, 'cos you're gorgeous."

"You know what I mean. Tutting. 'Ooh, you're too young to need that!'. 'Wouldn't happen in my day.'"

"Screw 'em. Ask which hospital they're a consultant at, that they know so much about neurology. Or, just smile sweetly and give me a snog. That usually shuts people up..."

She chuckled weakly. "True. Especially if I stand up to do it."

"You'd better. Don't want to do my back in, do I, love? 'It's a miracle! My girlfriend is cured! God loves us dykes after all!'"

Ali glared. "You're a liability, you are."

"Come on, you've got to roll with it, woman! Sorry, 'roll with it', that was bad..."

"Yes. It was."

"Sorry."

"So you should be, babe. I'll have to see if I can run away in it if you make jokes like that."

"Or, you could dress to shut the tutters up." I was thinking of Malc. "A Slayer T-shirt and a bunch of silver jewellery and leather... Or go kinda drag queen, all sequins and feather boas?"

"Hm... Yeah, good point. Though I'd need new clothes, now." She couldn't do the exercise she was used to, so was now less muscular in some areas and a bit wider in others.

That was when I had my genius idea.

I checked Google Calendar, then a few websites, made a couple phone calls, and got back to her the next evening.

"Ali, love? You were wondering where to go for your first wheelie trip out, right?"

"Mmm...?"

"Right. And you need some cool clothes now you've lost weight over the last year, something to deter people from making stupid comments, right?" She also wouldn't want to go anywhere that was all decorated to remind her of Valentine's Day; she'd been dumped on the day some years back, and still growled at the very mention of it. I knew better than to ever raise the subject.

This weekend was February the 14th, so our vague plan had been to get in some good food and be coupley for no ostensible reason, well away from the overcrowded restaurants of stressed staff and substandard set menus that I wouldn't miss either.

"Ye-es... What's your plan, Becs?"

"Saturday afternoon. London Fetish Fair. It's just by Clapham Junction station. Which has lifts and step-free access..."

"And the building? It's in that old theatre, isn't it?"

"I checked. It's level to the foyer, then you have a choice of a few low steps or being taken round to the fire exit. Then it's flat inside. You know fetish markets -- no-one cares what people look like!"

I'd been assured there would be no heart or pink decorations to be seen. 'We don't have a budget for decor, love. Some stalls might have offers, but otherwise it's the usual reprobates in black and the usual black walls.'

Ali nodded. She wasn't arguing, which was a good start. Then, "But what about our local station?"

"Ten minutes walk for me -- wheeling has to be easier, right? It's staffed, so they'll get you on the next train. I asked, the other day. There's one every fifteen minutes, so it's not like a crisis if they faff about and we miss one! Also, you can walk if necessary, so if we find a problem you just get up and I'll lift the chair off the train, or whatever."

I could tell she was scared, but she'd run out of excuses. Al dipped her chin, slowly. "OK. Let's give it a go."

We set off at noon the next day. Few people would be at the market before one, including the stallholders.

Ali struggled to stand and force the chair before her over the threshold.

"Why are you doing that? Just get in!"

"I'm not being bumped over the doorstep or down the front step! Let me get in in on the path!"

"Ah. Fair point."

She unfolded the thing, pushed it to the pavement, and sat down. It was a gentle but bumpy ride downhill, over tree roots in the tarmac and paving slabs that should have been replaced a decade ago.

"Whee!" she yelled, as I ran to catch up.

"Wait up!"

"It's going to be a bit of effort getting home," she remarked at the bottom of the road.

"Always is. The idea is you'll still have some energy left by then, remember? Or muggins here pushing you." I suspected the latter.

The next road was smoother and flat. We were at the crossroads by the station before I realised that usually, I slowed down to keep pace with Ali, but today I hadn't.

"Can you just keep hold of the handles while I go down the kerbs?"

"Sure. Though these ones look sensible and easy."

These dropped kerbs were. Ali pushed herself sedately into the road upon the green man's arrival, and only needed to push again once she reached the other side, where getting back up onto the pavement was less effort than I'd feared. She bumped herself across the entrance to the builder's merchant and into the station, where the automatic doors were most welcome.

"You got tickets? Which way you goin', love? Into London? One moment."

The chap at the barrier set the wide gate to be held open, and followed us to the lift, first up to the footbridge, then down again to the Up platform, towards central London. "This way. Four minutes."

We followed him to the middle of the platform where he used a giant key to loose the yellow ramp from the wall. "Not seen you before. Just moved? Oh, just the chair's new? Right, s'pose that happens, I guess... So same spiel, if you're going to be regular, during the week, let me know what train you get and then we'll see you on the platform. On your way home, tell the staff at Clapham to tell us, and we'll leave the gate and be ready to receive you. Here we go! Wait there, love."

The train halted, doors opened, one woman got out. The man unfolded the ramp as she did so, hooked one end onto the train. "Quick, now!"

Ali started to wheel, nervously. I pushed her. The moment we were on board, the ramp was whisked away and the doors began to shut.

"Whew! I guess you'd best be ready to alight before we get to the Junction!"

Ali didn't answer, practising her turning in the confined space and deciding she preferred the vestibule over the smell of the designated seat next to the accessible toilet. Those toilet doors always gave me the fear - I'd seen them open on a couple embarrassed souls. A few minutes later we approached Clapham Junction and I prayed the staff were there.

A hi-viz in orange blocked anyone from trying to board at our door by swinging his ramp wildly. "Come on, come on! Reversing? You must be new to this! Keep going, faster, off my ramp, cheers." He lifted the ramp free, blew his whistle, and turned back to the train. I didn't know where best to stand - to the side of Ali, or behind? - and Ali seemed paralysed in the crowd.

"Lift's that way, love," a middle-aged woman with drooling child in a pushchair remarked, as she manoevred past us. Ali beckoned me to her side and we went in that direction.

The lift took us to a walkway with various kiosks, but also an exit. It was further up the hill than the main exit, but much less crowded, and no further from the fair. The path to the main road was cobbled in the centre, but there was also a pavement. Half way down, another harassed woman with a pushchair came up and almost bashed into us - Ali remembered where her brakes were and I grabbed the folded-in handles too, just in time.

The woman suddenly noticed us, clearly accepted we had priority on the narrow path, bumped her child onto the cobbles, and we continued. "Thanks," Ali said to her.

The pushchair was bumped back onto the pavement behind us without the owner making any sound, not even eye contact.

Once on the main road, we crossed at a traffic light and I followed Ali through an open door into the carpeted foyer.

"Hallo! Are you here for the fetish fair?"

Our black clothing and Al's piercings made it pretty likely.

"Excellent. Three quid each. Been here before? Not with the chair? No problem. Now, once inside, it's all level, accessible toilet is just there on the right. The fire exit is ramped. Some stall-holders have some stock up on the stage, just ask them to get stuff down. Do you want to come round the back with me, to the step-free entrance?"

Ali considered. "May as well."

It turned out to be about a hundred yards and bumpy, so it might have been easier just to walk up the five broad steps, but you never really know in advance, do you? At least, once inside, Ali was sitting down.

"Anything in particular you're looking for?" The guy was taking his job as welcomer seriously.

Ali shrugged. "Some clothes. Magical hands," she said, as I replied, "Easy-access bondage gear."

"Sounds like a story, there?"

I sighed. "Al doesn't have much strength or energy, which makes BDSM tricky." I hoped that wasn't sharing too much personal detail for her. She shrugged, resignedly.

"Uh-huh. I'm no expert on that sort of thing, but sounds like you should go talk to the Prof."

"The Prof?"

"Professor. Mike Snow, his name is, but he was a university professor until he retired. Still lectures, I hear. But what he doesn't know about kinky stuff isn't worth knowing. Go chat to him."

"How will we find him?" I asked.

"He's probably near the tea stall. He's got totally white hair and he's over eighty, hardly difficult to spot. Tell him Gordon said you should talk to him. He's lovely, though, really."

We looked at a few clothes as we circumnavigated the fair, and eventually reached the various chairs and tables in front of a tea urn and array of biscuits. There was indeed a white-haired elderly man in a tweed jacket sitting there, looking most out of place among the mainly black-clad population with more piercings, dyed hair, and fetish gear than you could shake a stick at, but he appeared totally relaxed and content with that.

He looked up from his polystyrene cup as we approached, and smiled serenely.

"May I help you, my dears?"

"Um. Are you Professor Snow?"

"Indeed I am. Call me Mike, though. I'm not at work, here. What shall I call you?"

I decided to let Ali do rest of the talking, and sat down beside her.

"I'm Ali. This is my Becca. The guy on the door, Gordon, said we should talk to you." She paused. After a deep breath, she rattled off, "My body doesn't have strength any more. I can't do kinky stuff and it's making Becs sad." Glancing over at me, she added, "I know, love, you don't say anything, but it's true."

The old man nodded. "I see. What sort of kinky stuff did you like doing?"

He didn't sound creepy, like many old men would if they asked two young women that. It seemed a purely academic question.

"Loads. Hitting. Bondage." Ali spread her hands, encompassing everything, in despair.

I added a bit more explanation. "She's too scared to top me any more. We've got amazing EMT scissors, and poultry shears, but Ali wants to use restraints, not rope."

"I can't undo the buckles! It's too dangerous! I only just managed to undo your hands, last time, and that did me in for the next day!"