Wheelchaired Lover from Liverpool

I arrived at Watford Junction for the Liverpool train with 15 minutes to spare. I settled down to wait. The electronic arrivals screen was saying that it was expected on time. I was looking up the track for no particular reason, when a female voice on the other side of me said

"'scuse me, could you do me a favour?"

There beside me was a very pretty, slim young woman, probably in her late 20s, with shoulder-length, wavy red hair, pale skin, and masses of freckles, wearing a sleeveless, knee-length red summer dress, and a yellow silk scarf loosely tied round her neck, the ends lying across her breasts. My love of girls with red hair and freckles is only just this side of pervy, and if they're also pretty, slim and athletic, my joy is complete. This young woman ticked nearly all those boxes, but not, sadly, the "athletic" one: she was sitting in a powered wheelchair, with her hands on her lap, her head against a shaped headrest.

"I know it's a cheek... to ask, but could you... adjust my scarf?"

She spoke quietly, in short bursts in between shallow inhalations.

"Yes, of course" I said.

It looked fine to me, but I was pleased to help, though I wondered why she couldn't do it herself. That should have been obvious, but illogically I couldn't believe that someone so pretty could be that disabled.

"If you can just... pull it a bit tighter... and put the ends... on either side of... my boobs..."

I did so, with shaking hands.

"Lovely day" I said, for the sake of something to say.

"Yeah - nice day for... a run in the park." She smiled, and winked. "Do you go all the way?" she asked.

"To Liverpool, I mean."

Good heavens - was she flirting? I replied that I was.

"Oh good" she replied. "I'm glad you're not... getting off at... Edge Hill."

Yes, she was - we all know what "get off at Edge Hill" means in Liverpool. Cheeky young minx!

"You can... keep me company... on the train. Your voice has gone all wobb..."

She ran out of breath, and mouthed "-ly" silently.

"I seem to have... that effect on men. Must be because... I'm so gorgeous."

She had a slight Liverpool accent. I was about to make a flippant reply, when a station employee approached, and said

"Excuse me, are you Miss Huskisson?"

He was carrying two long, flat pieces of yellow-painted metal with raised edges, obviously ramps.

"Yes, that's me," she replied.

"Oh good", he said. "Well, you're in the right place. I'll help you on when the train comes. I'm afraid it's a bit delayed. Point failure at Harrow and Wealdstone."

I looked at the arrivals board. Sure enough, it was now being shown as seven minutes late. He discreetly walked a little distance away.

I had been looking at my new friend's chair during this exchange. I'd seen powered wheelchairs before - I had fond memories of little Sally from school, who'd had some kind of muscular dystrophy, and had died when she was 15 - but they had always had joysticks to control them at the end of one arm. This one didn't. What it did have was a rigid arm, attached to the chair on the left, suspended in front of and just below her face. In the middle was something that looked like a joystick, but which had a soft, moulded cup on the end. To the left of that was a short plastic stick in a holder, with a wide, flat, dovetail-shaped extension facing her, and to the left of that a mobile phone - a slightly old-fashioned model, with push-buttons. On the other side were two circular plastic holes which were obviously cup holders, the smaller with a section cut out - I guessed to admit a wine glass stem. She was sitting on a sheepskin on top of a thick cushion, and the chair back was also well- padded. Under her armpits were two flat, vertical, padded extensions, which I guessed were to hold her torso upright. There was a strap round her torso, just below her breasts.

"Admiring my dashboard, I see."

What? Was that a euphemism? Oh - I saw what she meant.

"Let me demonstrate. Joystick."

She put her chin into the moulded cup and pushed it forward. The chair moved forward a few inches, and she then moved it back again.

"Mouthstick."

She took the stick in her mouth, and mimed pressing keys on her phone, then

put it back.

"And they're my cup-holders", she said, nodding towards them. She rested her head back on the headrest.

"I'm Fiona, by the way", she added.

"I'm Alan", I said. "Alan Bennet."

Like an idiot, I instinctively put out my hand to shake hers, realised what I'd done, and converted it into a nose-scratch. She wasn't fooled.

"You can shake my... hand if you like", she said. "Just pick it up."

Her hands were on her lap, crossed at the wrists, right over left. They were small, smooth and delicate, and had bright scarlet nail-varnish on them, which matched her lipstick. Her fingers were almost straight, and slightly splayed out. Her forearms were pitifully thin - I could see the shape of her radiuses and ulnas - and her upper arms were no better. Her narrow shoulders sloped downwards, and also seemed to have little muscular structure. I could see her legs from the knees down. They too were very withered, and she had no calves worth talking of. Like her face, her limbs were pale and freckled. I picked her right hand up, somewhat diffidently, and felt its soft smoothness.

"Give it a proper squeeze, then. Ooh - lovely strong hands."

I put her hand back, and turned away, wiping my eyes.

"Must be hay fever", I said.

"Yeah, right", she replied.

The train finally arrived, eight minutes late, by which time we had exchanged the usual jokes about Virgin Trains being so-called because they didn't go the whole way and acted as though they'd never done it before. The door to the carriage stopped about six feet beyond Fiona's chair. She put her chin on her joystick and her chair described an elegant S, bringing her in line with the door. No-one got out, so the station employee put the ramps in place, and, after a bit of adjustment to align them with her wheels, she moved cautiously forward. I pushed her chair from behind, which probably wasn't necessary, but I felt I ought to do something. I noticed another, ordinary, joystick behind the back of her seat, no doubt to allow someone else to move her chair. In the carriage were two tables, each of which had a seat on one side, and a wide space for a wheelchair on the other. A bit of toing and froing got Fiona behind one of them, and I sat down opposite. As the train moved off, I asked her if she was being met at Lime Street.

"I've got to phone my... helper to come and... pick me up when... we get there"

she replied, then, perhaps guessing what was on my mind, added

"I like travelling... on my own. It's an adventure, and... there's always lots of... nice strong men to help."

I looked at her pretty, freckled face, her large, blue eyes, her little retrousse nose, and her pointed, Anistonesque chin. I deliberately didn't look directly at them, but I also saw her narrow, sloping, withered shoulders and her thin upper arms, and was shocked to realise that I had an erection. I told myself that I was just attracted to her lovely face, but I didn't quite convince myself. We chatted about this and that, and at one point, she jokingly said that she liked my plays.

As the train sped through Hemel Hempstead, I asked her if she'd like a drink.

"Thanks. Coffee, white, one sugar."

she replied. Without thinking, I then asked if she'd like anything to eat.

"Well, a Danish... pastry would be nice,... but you do realise... you'll have to feed me?".

I felt my face warm up as I blushed.

"You forgot, didn't you?"

she said with a smile.

"Good. I like it... when people forget... I'm a cripple!"

A few minutes later, I returned with two coffees and two pastries. I put her coffee in the larger of the two cup-holders, and she asked me to get a straw out of the bag behind her chair. I did so, and put one end in her coffee, and the other between her lips. In between her sips, I held her pastry for her to bite, and also managed to drink my own coffee before it went completely cold, and eat my pastry.

"You're good!", she said, when we'd both finished.

"You'd make a good... carer, with a bit... of training."

I excused myself, and went to the toilet. Inside, I tried to analyse the powerful and complex emotions this woman I'd only just met aroused in me. A lot of it was pity, of course: not a fashionable word these days, but a natural human emotion. There was more to it than that, though, and sexual attraction was a big part of it. I still found this a bit shocking: I knew it wasn't just her lovely face, but how could I be attracted to her frail, wasted body? I also simply enjoyed her company: she was clever, articulate, and witty. I don't believe in love at first sight, but I was, at the very least, rapidly becoming infatuated. Good heavens! I'd only met her about half an hour earlier! I told myself to pull myself together, and went back to our table.

We soon discovered that we both had English degrees, she a first from Birmingham, I an upper second from Manchester. I told her that I was a bookshop manager, and had been in Watford for a conference. She'd been spending a couple of days with her older sister, brother-in-law, and three-year-old niece. She worked from home, as a freelance writer, writing "this and that".

"Well, it was that... or be a super-model,... and I have got... an English degree!".

I asked her what kind of writing she did.

"Come round here"

she said, nodding downwards to indicate her side of the table. I got up, and went round.

"Now, pick up my hand."

Mystified, I did as she asked.

"OK, now take my... forefinger, and tap the... side of my nose with it."

I laughed, as comprehension dawned.

"Sorry" she said, "Confidential."

I had to be satisfied with that. She told me that she lived in an adapted flat, looked after by professional carers, had an adapted van with a wheelchair lift, and used a computer, typing with a "sip-and-puff" (which, she explained, was a flexible tube with a mouthpiece) with which she could type quite quickly.

A few miles North of Rugby, she said

"I know you're dying... to ask what's... wrong with me, but you're... too well-brought-up, so... I'll tell you".

One day at school when she was thirteen, she'd developed a severe pain in the neck. At the end of the first lesson, she'd been unable to stand up. The teacher, realising that it was more than an attempt to get out of double Maths, had called an ambulance, which had taken her to Alder Hay Children's Hospital. By the time she got there, she couldn't feel her body, and was having trouble breathing. She was given an emergency tracheostomy, and attached to a ventilator. Her parents rushed over, and spent the night with her. Eventually, she was diagnosed with Transverse Myelitis, which, she explained, was inflammation of the spinal cord across its width at a particular point, causing paralysis and loss of feeling below that point, the same as with a spinal cord injury. In her case, it had been high in her neck. Her parents were told that some people recovered, completely or partially, from Transverse Myelitis, but nothing could be predicted In the event, she recovered limited use of her neck and chest muscles, enabling her to breath shallowly, and partial feeling throughout her body.

That was 15 years ago - she was 28, same as me (I discovered later that she was three months older than me).

She invited me to look underneath her scarf. I did so, and saw a white plastic plate with a hinged cap, closed, at the base of her throat, attached at either end to a black band that went round the back of her neck. That was her tracheostomy, via which she was attached to a ventilator at night.

We chatted about literature. We shared a taste for the poetry of Keats, Hopkins and Duffy, and the novels of Jane Austen and Elizabeth Gaskell. She asked me what I thought of the gothic mystery novels for teenagers by 'Midnight Blake'. I replied that they certainly sold well. They were not really my kind of book, of course, but I'd read the first two out of curiosity, and thought they were well-written. I was surprised to hear that she'd read all of them, and thought they were brilliant. I told her that as it happened, I was going to a booktrade do at the Adelphi Hotel in a week's time, organised by the publisher, at which the identity of the mysterious 'Midnight Blake' would be revealed.

"I might be able to wangle an extra ticket. Would you like to go?"

"Oh, I'd love to", she replied, "but I've got something... on that day".

Changing the subject suddenly, she said

"Of course, with a... surname like Huskisson,... I ought to be... terrified of trains."

"Ah - the Liverpool-Manchester Railway opening!" I replied.

"Very good!," she said.

"Actually, I'm... descended from him."

As we approached Warrington, I said

"When we get to Liverpool, can I buy you a drink?"

She happily accepted, then got serious.

"You're not getting... sweet on me, are you? Because you can't. I know I'm a... terrible flirt, but... it's just fun. I can't get serious... for obvious reasons."

"Well, OK," I replied, "but I hope I can see you again - just as friends, of course."

"Well, maybe - as friends," she replied.

She texted her carer not to bother meeting her - she lived about 15 minutes' walk from the station ("or roll, in my case"), so maybe I could walk her home, and come in for a coffee.

"I don't think you're a terrible flirt, though", I said.

"You're quite a good one!".

We went to a bar near the station. I bought her a white wine, and had a pint of bitter. She asked, a little diffidently, if I'd mind doing her a favour. She hadn't moved for hours, and was getting uncomfortable, and she could feel her bottom getting warm, a prelude to soreness. Could I lift her and change her position? Following her instructions, I released the catch at the back of her control arm and swung it out of the way, undid the strap below her breasts, put my hands under her armpits, lifted her a few inches and held her there for a minute, and put her down again. She was as light as gossamer. Then I straightened her legs at the knee, one at a time, before putting her feet back on the rests. To my surprise, her right leg started jiggling up and down slightly.

"Ooh, you've given me a... spasm, you naughty boy."

It stopped after a minute or so. I rearranged her hands on her lap, put her control arm back, and did up her strap, then excused myself and went to the toilet. I was shaking a bit myself by this time, with sexual desire I was still rather shocked by.

When I got back to our table, I saw that her right leg was jiggling up and down again. She asked me to move it slightly to stop it. I lifted her narrow thigh, and moved it a little to the right, which seemed to do the trick. We walked and rolled to her flat, where her carer for the day, a tall, dark-haired woman of about 40 called Sheila, let us in and made us a pot of tea. Finally, reluctantly, I left. We exchanged pecks on the cheek.

The next day was Saturday. Thankfully, it was sunny and warm, as I had already arranged to take Fee, as already called her, to Sefton Park. When I arrived, at 10 o'clock, she was waiting, wearing black, flat-soled, lightweight shoes, jeans, and a white T-shirt. Since she was not wearing a scarf, her trach was visible. At the park, we went to the pond and watched the ducks and geese, ate ice-creams, laughed (well, I laughed - sadly Fee can't, but she made "Hhhh-hhhh" sounds, which were her best approach to a laugh), wandered around, went to the cafe for lunch, and then found a good pub, where I introduced her to the delights of real ale.

On Sunday, I took her to see the new 'Dad's Army' film - not the first choice for a romantic mood, perhaps, but we both loved the old TV series. I knew that I was rapidly falling in love with Fee, and I also knew that she was right, and I mustn't, because it was hopeless, and I didn't care. During the following week, I met her a few more times, after work, and once at it, when she turned up at the shop with her carer and asked for me. I insisted on taking her for lunch. I offered to buy her carer lunch as well, but was pleased when she tactfully refused. Over Chicken Tikka Masala (her) and Lamb Rogan Josh (me) in the Star of India, she repeated her warning about not getting serious. In fact, she tearfully tried to end it then andthere, but I persuaded her not to, rather against both our better judgements. She then tried to insist on paying for our meals -

"I'm quite comfortably off, you know"

- but I absolutely refused. She insisted on at least paying next time.

"We'll see", I said.

On Friday, I went to the do at the Adelphi Hotel, where the identity of 'Midnight Blake' was to be revealed. A large room with a stage at one end was filling up with other book-trade people, journalists, and ten lucky young people, ranging in age from about 11 to 16, with their parents, who had won a competition to meet her, and receive a set of all the books published so far, hardback and slip-cased, with a special, personalised message printed on the title-page of the first volume. A buffet at the back with a range of food, alcoholic and soft drinks, and tea and coffee was disappearing quickly, so I filled my plate with salad and little dead things on sticks, and grabbed a glass of red wine. Eventually, we all took our seats, and a representative of the publisher waffled for a bit, and then said "and now please welcome - Midnight Blake!". He turned to his right, our left. Some applause started, but soon stopped again. The audience had been shocked into silence by the appearance of Ms Blake, but no-one was more shocked than me. Fiona had just rolled onto the stage.

She was wearing an elegant, long-sleeved, ankle-length blue dress and silver shoes, and a ventilator tube was attached to her trach, underneath the same yellow silk scarf she'd worn on the train. She was wearing a wireless mike. She positioned herself centre-stage, and said "Well - hasn't it gone quiet all of a sudden?". There was a ripple of slightly awkward laughter. The publisher's representative then introduced Dave Edwards, the children's TV presenter, who came on from the opposite side, sat down on a chair next to Fee, and proceeded to interview her, first asking her real name. The ventilator enabled her to speak more loudly, and with fewer pauses for breath. She told how she had become disabled, and after university had taken up writing. She'd wanted to be pseudonymous in order to succeed on her literary merit, not from sympathy, which the publisher had readily agreed to, as it fitted in well with the mysterious nature of the novels. all of which were called 'The [Something] Mystery', and were set in and around Liverpool. Then the journalists had a chance to ask questions, and the young competition winners went up on stage to meet her,

pose with her for photographs, and receive their book sets. Finally, it was all over, and Fee wheeled offstage, to an enthusiastic standing ovation.

As people began to leave, the man from the publisher appeared next to me, and said

"Mr Bennet? Would you like to come back stage and meet Miss Huskisson?"

Fee, still attached to the ventilator, was with a middle-aged couple and a woman of about 30 who were introduced to me as Fee's parents and sister, the only people who had known her secret in advance apart from her publisher (in fact, Fee told me later that her mother had only been told just before the event:

"If you want to spread some news as quickly as possible, tell my mum... and tell her it's a secret." She was alternately drinking white wine through a straw from a glass in her holder, and eating items from the buffet held for her by her father. I was still a little shocked, but I shook hands with her parents and sister, went to give Fee a kiss, thought better of it in the presence of her parents, and took her hand instead.