INDEPENDENT OR NOT

 

We take those of our applicants who, we assess, are likely to need some support or help during the week on the Spring Holiday, but this can be more a matter of guesswork rather than a rational decision.  Firstly, folk’s information about themselves can vary according to the weather, or out of which side of the bed they had rolled that morning.  To the question “Are you disabled?”, the answer is either yes or no.  If the applicant has little accurate knowledge of our objectives, he may answer in the negative just because he feels if he hides his faltering gait behind an assurance of well-being, he is more likely to be acceptable.  Whereas another, who knows that the party is always attempting to include as many lame dogs as possible, will explain something to the effect, “Can only walk a few steps”, or something similar.  Without visiting everyone individually to view the true potential of every disabled body, it is only possible to make a snap judgement of what assistance may be required, and organise accordingly.  Sometimes, having included five or six wheelchair pushers, it is discovered that most of those who pessimistically decided that they would need pushing from their chalets to the dining-room, are seen to be crawling slowly from one door to the other on sticks or crutches without waiting for someone to collect them.

 

But there can be other less obvious disabilities.  Cecily, for instance, arrived agitated and breathless, at the station, having omitted to discover, until she had shut and locked her front door, that she did not know where to find the railway station.  After asking several strangers for directions, she had been collected by a kindly car driver and delivered at the gate to the platform with little more than five minutes to spare.

 

This gives everyone concerned a clue about what is likely to be needed.  Cicely must not be trusted to be able to arrive on time for meals; must not be allowed out of sight when on a midweek outing; must have her unpacking and packing done for her.  Metaphorically, she must have a lead attached to her to ensure that she does not get lost or mislaid.  Even with all the best laid plans, something gets overlooked.  On the last evening, everyone is told what to do in the morning – to pack cases; to stand them in the doorway of the chalets so that the doors cannot slam shut and report to breakfast at 8 a.m.  While the last meal is being consumed, the cases are being collected and stacked on the big railway ‘brutes’ – all, that is, except Cicely’s.  She has packed her case and has left it tidily beside her bed and has locked her chalet door behind her.  The luggage boy, finding the door locked and no luggage in view, supposes that the chalet has not been in use and passes to the next open door.  It is only when the party returns to the home station and the cars are calling to take the guests to their homes, that Cicely, in tears and buzzing around like a blue-bottle being chased by a flailing newspaper, bewails that her case is lost.  “It must have fallen off the train somewhere”, she declared belligerently.  The station foreman looks aghast and a thorough and diligent search is arranged.  Still no case with chalet number 102 on its label is among the rapidly disappearing piles of luggage.  Cicely is meticulously questioned and confirms that she obeyed all the instructions to the letter.  She goes further: she saw her case actually loaded with the rest on to “that big metal cage”.  All we can do is to await a message from some penitent returning guest that he or she has inadvertently taken a case which does not belong to him or her.  But no message comes.  Instead, a call from the Camp that the case has been found, left behind in one of the chalets.  Cicely, faced with this information, ‘remembers’ leaving the case beside her bed, agrees she must have locked her chalet door and still shedding showers of tears like a stormy April day, appeals for help.  So the commuting proprietor of the Camp undertakes to bring the missing property from the Isle-of-Wight on his next visit to his London Office and it is collected from there and returned to its relieved owner.

 

Clearly, such an irresponsible guest has to be protected from her faulty memory.  She is just as much in need of care and attention as are the wheelchair passengers and the partially sighted who need leading from one point to another.

 

Then we have the epileptics.  Outwardly as stable and safe as most of our ambulant clientele, they are subject to sudden, frightening attaches of loss of consciousness.

 

Dulcie was one such guest.  She came with us regularly and, although normally stabilised and subject to an attack only very infrequently – or so she told us – nevertheless ‘indulged’ once during every week away with the party.  One year we thought we had escaped.  Dulcie had a splendidly free week from trouble.  She participated in all the outings; danced jauntily every evening until nearly midnight; went on rambles and shopping trips and kept alert and fit for the whole week.  It was when the train deposited us at the home station that the incident occurred.  The cars were all lined up along the exit route from the platform.  Two St. John’s Ambulance men in uniform stood by their vehicle for instructions.  They had been detailed to take home a load of elderly guests who had no relatives to meet them and offer them a ride home.  A stampede of people were milling around the big luggage ‘brutes’, trying to identify their cases and make a dash from home.  Then a small contingent peeled itself off the large group and formed a posse away from the crowd.  This seemed strange; within seconds a message came back, “someone has collapsed”.

 

“Not surprising”, thought Maggie, standing by, waiting to offer what help might be useful when most of the party had departed.  Then the white caps of the St. John’s men began to weave to and fro.  A stretcher was being brought out of their ambulance and unrolled.  A path formed to allow the rescue crew to reach the figure on the ground and Maggie had a quick glimpse of the patient.  Within three struggling seconds, she had pushed her way through the onlookers and stood, like a guard dog over Dulcie.  “Leave her there”, she directed.  “She’s an epileptic”.  The St. John’s men hesitated.  Their instinct was to take charge and collect anyone on the ground and deliver it to hospital, but obviously, someone who seemed to know what was happening, was there to control the situation.

 

Within half-a-minute, Dulcie opened her eyes.  Maggie bent over her and enquired how she felt.  The response was a blank stare, but Dulcie, still with a ‘Dead pan’ expression on her face, struggled to get to her feet.  She began to stagger away, but Maggie took her arm and handed her over to one of the St. John’s men.  “Look after her for a minute”, she requested.  “I’ll find someone who lives near her to take her home”.

 

The commandeered driver was given specific instructions.  The address was handed to him on a slip of paper.  He was to take Dulcie to her flat, and see that she let herself in.  If she seemed capable of unlocking her front door and walking inside her dwelling without hesitation, she would be alright.  If she made no attempt to go inside, or seemed inclined to wander, she should not be left.  Either she should be brought back to the station or taken to hospital. 

But within twenty minutes Dulcie was back to normal.  She still seemed vague and confused, but she was pleased to be back in her flat.