Spoon Feeding

In some Boroughs the attention given to some Handicapped people all but destroys there initiative, their power of thought and their independence.  Additionally, it destroys their normal ability to look after themselves in the absence of the all providing ‘Council’.

 

Daisy and Ron were such a pair.  Daisy was severely crippled with arthritis, just the kind of person whom we enjoyed having with us.  She seemed to be able to squeeze the utmost drop of enjoyment and happiness from every sparkling minute.  Ron was her son, supposedly mentally retarded but sufficiently alert enough to know what could be wrenched from all circumstances.  He had never been expected to plan anything.  Mum had done all the thinking since he had been a baby and his sole responsibility had been the physical care of Daisy and looking after himself.

 

We felt sorry for Ron.  He was encouraged to go on all the outings and to leave Daisy behind in our care.  So Ron had a ‘free week’ to please himself, to go off with the crowd and seek his own pleasures.  At fifty two years of age, we felt he had a right to get a bit more out of life than Daisy and her restricted interests.

 

Both of them must have been well aware that the holiday had nothing to do with the ‘Council’ because about two months prior to departure we received a phone call asking if we could arrange something to get them to the rendezvous as the earliest bus from their isolated village did not get them to the town until twenty minutes after the projected departure of our transport.  This was worrying news indeed.  We had another ten or twelve folk booked from the same village so we rang them all.  Some had not even realised their quandary; others had relatives able to ferry them in while others had intended to call taxis.  Enquiries revealed that a small coach, as well as being more reliable than a fleet of taxis, would be less expensive so most of the group agreed to share the cost of the coach which would bring them all in and the small group would all arrive together.

 

Daisy insisted that she needed Ron to sleep with her in the second single bed in case she needed help during the night.  We did not argue.  Bur first thing in the morning, we would creep into the small chalet; Daisy, following the effect of her sleeping tablet would be still snug in a final dose, Ron would be awake, making the tea or getting himself washed and dressed.  So Ron was chivvied into getting ‘out of the way!’  It may well have been somewhat demoralising for the first morning but after an hour’s freedom to wander about on his own, to enjoy a game of darts or snooker or to explore a small track off the road outside the Camp, he began to revel in the new experience.  Daisy, meanwhile, was a little despondent.

 

“Ron usually does that for me”, she would bleat wistfully, until the small reminder was voiced one morning, “Ron is on holiday as well”.  After that she accepted the unaccustomed help with patience and equanimity.

 

It was on the return journey that the snag occurred.  All our party had been given a sheet of guidance ready for their arrival back.  Some wanted us to phone their car drivers to tell them when we would be arriving.  Some could manage from the nearby bus stop; some arranged for hire car firms to be ready for a call and some asked us to provide transport for them.  The congestion of cars, relatives, friends and luggage had to be controlled as well as could be arranged in advance.  Our own transport ‘wallah’, his bright yellow armband prominent, directed the vehicles as they drew up, bumper to bumper, in a tidy crocodile leaving another line for those cars, full of united families to pull away past the stationery traffic and away.  Gradually the clustering crowd thinned, excited scampering grandchildren disappeared, the lines of cases ranged on the tarmac evaporated, until about twenty minutes after arrival, there were about four little groups left gazing along the road for expected ‘lifts’.

 

We interviewed these one at a time; yet, the grandson would be arriving and was taking gran and her friend; the next little group had ordered a cab and were expecting it within minutes.  We came to Daisy and Ron; they were not gazing along the road looking for an expected vehicle; they were looking at us.  Questions started.

 

“”Where is your transport?”

Bewilderment transformed their glances from expectancy.

“I don’t know”.

“What did you arrange?”

“Me?”  Bewilderment gave place to astonishment.

“Yes, you, how did you expect to get home?”

“I thought ---“.

“You thought ---“.

“We always have transport sent for us”.

“Transport? From where?”.

“The Council always see to us”.

“Does the Council know you wanted transport?”.

“Yes!  No!  I don’t know”.

“We had a coach to bring us over here last week”.

“That was because there was no bus”, a long pause, “Wasn’t it?”.

Daisy was now almost in tears.  Ron was muttering about inefficiency and neglect of the ubiquitous Council.

 

Pathetically Daisy now realised her own lack of self preservation.  Sitting in her wheelchair amid her several articles of luggage, she appealed for sympathy.

 

But our cup of tea sitting beside our own dining tables were receding.  We did not feel sympathetic.

“What can we do?”.

What indeed.  The little minibus which had been beetling from one end of the town, taking groups of passengers who had asked for help, returned and stood waiting in the big car park.  The driver approached.

 

We explained the quandary.  With martyred tones we expressed our exasperation.  Ron, still not willing to accept any responsibility, was still mumbling about the lack of attention to their position.  His mother cut in. 

“Oh! Shut up, Ron”.

 

Under the supervision of a long suffering driver, Daisy and Ron were loaded on to the minibus and we set off.  Along the main road, into myriad country lanes, with overgrown branches whipping the sides of the glass windows, until we came to a metalled surface which widened and emerged in the main road of the village.  Daisy and Ron had been silent and morose sitting behind us.  Within sight of her own cosy home, Daisy ventured a nervous “Thank you”.  With as much graciousness as we could muster we responded.

“That’s all right”.

Encouraged she offered us a cup of tea.

“No thank you.  We want to get home”.

Daisy, experiencing a faint thaw in the icy atmosphere, offered a meek apology.

 

As she struggled down the two little steps and sank into her wheelchair, we administered the final retort which should ensure that such an omission did not mar any future jaunts.

“Oh! We’ll survive; but remember that the Council cannot know where you are and what you want unless you tell them.  Besides – a timely warning – Council workmen do not always want to work on Saturday afternoons.  They probably have their own families and activities when they are not at work”.

Daily, with the chastened Ron pushing her, disappears into her own front door.  We embark on to our minibus and start the eight mile drive home.  A few days later, we receive a grateful letter from Daisy.  Tucked inside is a pound note.  Her short message ends appealingly;

“I do hope you will have Ron and me again next year”

Well of course we will.  It has been a bit of education for us and certainly must have been for Daisy and Ron.