The carer

I was sixteen when Alun left for the mainland to study for his medical degree. Alun’s father had died just a few months before, meaning I was left to care for my mother by myself.

 

It was a difficult time for me, one I tend not to talk about. Without Alun my life lacked the adventure he always seemed to find. Whether it was discovering the secret stash of spare monks the mainland church kept in a hidden cave on the island ‘for use in emergencies’ or the invention of a new language, solely with the purpose of using it to insult mainlanders. It’s the only language with 157 different words for describing someone who lives in a crowded place.

 

My mother’s condition had deteriorated. I was responsible for her care every hour of every day. I, of course, longed to visit Alun on the mainland, to join in the fun and games, to meet girls, to drink beer, to watch mainland indie bands in noisy, vomit-strewn university venues and, above all, to meet girls. I was 16, I’d never so much as met a girl my own age (unless you count Alun’s father’s female owl Sylvie, who was born on the same day as I was and lived to the grand old age of 24).  Yes I had my reservations about going to the mainland, who wouldn’t, the stories you hear about it, but I was willing to take my chance with the inappropriately stored cheeses and numerous other hazards for which the mainland is famed.

 

The boatman became my sole outlet for my grievances, indeed my sole social outlet bar my mother.

 

“I’m sixteen,” I said, “I’m supposed to be at my sexual peek, yet I haven’t even met a girl, let alone reached my peak with her.”

 

“Well you should join Alun for a few days, he’s bound to know a few suitable mountains you can scale.”

 

“That’s the problem, I can’t join Alun. Who’d look after mum? She’s fallen three times this year, if I wasn’t here to watch over her I don’t know what would happen. And her mind’s going, I worry that if I’m not here she’ll get the surfboard down from the loft and head down to Surfers Bay again.”

 

The boatman laughed at the memory of my seriously disabled mother on her surfboard, wondering why she found six foot waves more challenging than she used to.

 

“She’ll be fine, I’m sure, for a few days. I can look in on her, you could get Mrs Tulperry to cook her supper.”

 

“It’s the stairs I worry about. And the kitchen. And the ocean, obviously. There are so many hazards on an island. It’s crazy that she kept living here all those years with her condition, she knew what she’d end up like.”

 

“If you’re really worried you could call the council.”

 

“The council?” As an off-mainlander I was suspicious of all official, council business. They had only ever brought trouble to our otherwise peaceful existence.

 

“They have a duty to provide social care, Master Wood,” he said. “They can’t insist that you care for her every single hour of every single day. They can send someone to look after her while you have a few days on the mainland.”

 

I have to admit, whatever concerns I had about mainlanders caring for my mother, it did seem a good idea. The boatman gave me a number to ring and I called several hours later, when the council offices finally opened.

 

“It’s about my mother I said, she’s got a serious medical condition and she needs 24 hours care seven days a week. I want you to send someone to look after her.”

 

“I see,” said the official on the other end of the phone, sounding concerned, “what sort of care does she need exactly.”

 

“Well every day’s the same. I have to get up at 6.15 to go and meet the boatman. Then I go home, with the mail and any provisions we’ve ordered, make breakfast for mother, help her to get dressed and take her medication.”

 

“Medication?”

 

I ran through the list of my mother’s pills. I won’t repeat it here as I’m trying to keep this book under 100,000 words.

 

“Then what?”

 

“Then it’s time to feed and milk the geep.”

 

“The geep?”

 

“They’re a goat-sheep hybrid, we keep them in order to get round the goat tax?”

“The goat tax?” (clearly she knew nothing of recent history)

 

“Anyway, then it’s time to make lunch. Sometimes I have to help her eat, usually she’s good but sometimes knives get too much for her.”

 

“And then.”

 

“Oh, a hundred thousand different chores. I’ve got a whole island to keep clean. I try to bathe mother every day, because she has a problem with her urine, and she sweats a lot.”

 

“I see.”

 

“And then it’s time for supper, and then it’s time for bed. It may not sound much of a life, but it isn’t. Every minute of the day I have watch to stop her falling, to help her do the simplest things. The worst thing is she forgets she’s unwell, sometimes she attempts the juggling with knives routine she used to do when she was young.”

 

“I see. So severe risk of falls, risk of knife-juggling injury, risk of surf-boarding catastrophe. Well I can do the assessment over the phone, she definitely needs 24/7 care.”

 

“I’m glad you agree.”

 

“Well, thank you for calling. I shall keep her details on file.”

 

“Er, but I thought you’d agreed.”

 

“Yes. I agree. She needs your care, you’re doing a brilliant job.”

 

“But I need a break. I’ve never even visited the mainland and I’m sixteen years old.”

 

“But you can’t have a break, you need to look after your mother.”

 

“I thought you had a duty to look after her?”

 

“Not if you are. You really are doing a splendid job.” She hung up.

 

Alun’s letters told of life on his course. They were full of obscure details about the human body, tales of drinking, women and of life with a mixed group of people in a world buzzing with life. “You’d love it here, Jed,” he said in every letter, “you must come and visit.”

 

Five miles separated me from the mainland, I could even swim that far, in my youth, though admittedly only when the tide was in my favour. But I could never make the journey. I’d have to catch the morning boat and even if I didn’t stay over I wouldn’t be back until late evening. I simply couldn’t leave my mother alone that long, even with the boatman and Mrs Tulperry helping out. Just imagine how I’d feel if she went surfing again and drowned.

 

Mum had had her condition for 14 years by this stage. I was just two when she was diagnosed. Until I met Mrs Tulperry I grew up thinking that women walked differently to men, that they weren’t as good at it.

 

Reading postings on websites now, written by people with the condition, I can understand why mother never went back to the mainland. The tales are shocking, people being refused benefits, people having abuse hurled at them in the street, accused of being drunk or stupid, mobility cars vandalised, parking places stolen.  It seems that the mainlander’s natural reaction to seeing a disabled person is to demand they snap out of it, grow their legs back or cure themselves in some other miraculous way. Then there are the religious mainlanders, who believe that god inflicted the disability as a punishment, and seek to top up god’s punishment with a good, solid lecture about how a bad life leads to a bad leg.

 

Sometimes I wonder why anyone stays on the mainland. It sounds a terrible place.