Aversions

I suppose everyone must have a ‘favourite’ aversion, someone, who for some good reason they just cannot like.  This is not usually a temporary individual unpopularity but like a dislike of a certain article of food, remains a permanent hate.  But there are some folk who are generally dislike by most other people.  There seems to be no particular reason.  They are not universally bad tempered or grumpy or unpleasant or have any of the usual characteristics of unpopularity.  But everyone else who knows them expresses the same opinion.  “Don’t like her much” is the usual response.  Any attempt to elicit a reason is useless.  The reasons are numerous and can often apply to umpteen other acquaintances.

 

Such were two of our anxious applicants one year.  When their names were mentioned there was a groan of despair and several good excuses were proffered to refuse the applications.  None of them could be considered adequate.  One was Alice, a neat little person who delighted in making the best of her appearance.  She had more than a minimum income and did not stint herself on smart clothes and ambitious hairdos.  She had several disadvantages which ought not to have detracted from her attractiveness.  Her sight was poor and she relied on this to get the best out of life.  She could often be seen making her way quite easily, with a bit of help at the pedestrian crossing, to the long row of shops about half a mile from her flat.  But she insisted that she had to have special transport to visit her day centre which was about half the distance and on her route to the shops.

 

“My eyes are so bad”, she would bleat pathetically and lean heavily on the nearest arm wherever she was being escorted.

 

She had a forty year old spastic son who lived among other companions in a hostel for handicapped people.  This man had gone blind at well into adult life and should, logically, have been the unhappy one of the pair.  But he was as happy as a sand boy.  His mother used to refer to him as ‘my poor little handicapped son’.  He used to be invited to spend the weekend with his mother from time to time and by all accounts hated these visits.  His mother used to weep over him and reduce him to irritated blasphemy.  He had to tolerate these visits but both he and his miserable mother were thankful when the car came to take him back leaving his desolate parent in floods of tears.

No one had a pleasant or complimentary word to offer about Alice.

 

Bertha was completely different.  She was agile and alert but one thing she had in common with Alice; she used to scrounge a lift whenever she could manage it.  She needed an ambulance to get to outpatients at hospital or to the clinic or anywhere where a special vehicle was sent to collect disabled people.  On these occasions her arthritis was dreadful but on the afternoons which she attended the local Bingo palace, her limbs worked painlessly.

 

With applications from two such people, it was a problem to decide with whom they should share.  They were put beside a selection of tolerant companions and invariably a move had to be engineered in order to allow the unhappy chalet companion to enjoy her holiday.  But with both these antisocial people as possible holiday makers, it seemed like a golden opportunity.  They were allocated a large chalet, with three beds and every luxury item holiday accommodation could imagine.  The carpet was thick and colourful.  The bathroom was tiles from floor to ceiling with pale green and the wash basin and toilet matched exactly.  They had an electric kettle, tea bags, milk and sugar and small packets of biscuits ready for an early morning drink.

 

The evening went quietly.  Alice insisted on an escort back to the accommodation.  Bertha stayed on to see a bit more of the jollity still proceeding in the big ballroom.  But she eventually began to droop and, since Alice had been escorted, she had to demand the same service.  After that all was quiet and most of our problems had apparently been dispelled.

 

It was seven fifteen the next morning when most of the busy helpers were occupied in washing, toileting and dressing the wheelchair folk.  There came and urgent message.  There is a dreadful noise going on in chalet 9B.  Someone detached herself from a paralysed guest, leaving her seated on the ‘loo’ wrapped in a voluminous blanket and sped across to try and quell the rumpus which had three or four chalets with their doors wide open and heads in varying stages of preparation for the day peering out to see what was happening.

 

Two voices were screaming in discordant chorus.  The insults were loud, descriptive and penetrating.  The screams wafted like urgent wails across the dewy lawn even through a tightly closed door.  An urgent knock brought no response; in fact it could not be heard since nearby neighbours had been thumping on the walls either side in an effort to stop the turmoil.  At last the door was opened a crack and the helper pushed her way in.  The two combatants were seated on beds either side of the large room.    One was still clothed in a white nylon nightie with pink ribbons encompassing her neckline and a matching boudoir cap resting on a battery of curlers.  The other one was dressed except for her shoes and was sitting on the side of her bed like a grim noisy witch.  After about thirty seconds, it was possible to reduce the onslaught to begin to seek explanations.

 

“We agreed that she should make the tea last night”, screeched Bertha.  “I can’t”, was the shrill response,” I’m ill”.

 

“Be quiet”, she insisted’ “You’re disturbing all the rest of the people for yards around”.

 

At this the disturbance subsided.  It had not occurred to either that their battle was being heard and broadcast to anyone else.

 

Finally, tea was made and was drunk in moody silence.  But it was apparent that Bertha was not going to allow Alice the luxury of an illness unless she could enjoy one as well.  Eventually Bertha was finally fully ready and was banished off to wait for breakfast and some kind of arrangement was attempted with Alice.  Surely she would not want breakfast if she felt ill.  No, in the circumstances her breakfast would not be brought to her bed; she would probably be better to wait for a meal till midday.

 

“But” stammered Alice, “I am due to go on a shopping trip this morning.  I bought a ticket yesterday”.  The heartless helper shook her head.

 

“Not today”, she decided “We can’t run the risk of you being sick on the coach”.

 

Alice was distraught.  She wept; she pleaded; her arguments were without avail.  She was solemnly tucked under her bedclothes and the fiendish visitor departed.

 

“Unless you are well enough to have your breakfast”, she announced as she gently closed the chalet door behind her, “we will have to keep you on the Camp to be able to look after you properly”.

 

Alice was at breakfast, after all. 

 

For the rest of the week an uneasy peace was maintained.  The two companions went to bed separately.  If they argued, they must have done it in hissing whispers or in semaphore because no one else complained about them.

 

But it was an unhappy mistake.  Instead of each of them causing unhappiness to one other person, they had managed to disturb another dozen otherwise contented colleagues.

 

There were many mistakes and every time we changed the arrangements, we found more snags and made more mistakes.

 

Lucy’s daughter stood irresolute beside the telephone, the large directory open.  She had memorised the number she intended to dial but she was hesitant.  She pulled her finger round the dial and allowed it to return slowly.  Then she paused and replaced the receiver.  A few minutes later, having made a definite decision, she returned and dialled the number.

 

She braced herself for a difficult conversation.  “It’s about my Mum”, she said.  “She went on holiday with you last week and had a wonderful time”.  The response relaxed her to some extent.  Her courage thus boosted, she continued, “Since coming home she has hardly moved at all.  We have even had to wheel her to the toilet in her chair.  She just doesn’t seem to be about to walk”.

 

This alarming report was raised at the ‘inquest’ meeting held by the staff flowing the holiday.  Lucy, one of the disabled guests on the recent holiday jaunt, admitted to being eighteen stone, but could easily have weighted twenty.  She was barely five feet tall and had she been black she would have resembled a round Christmas pudding.  Her sight was poor; her short legs crippled with arthritis, but she never complained.  She had waited with saintly patience to be collected for her meals.  She thanked everyone with genuine sincerity for everything which was done for her and she had been, as far as our helpers were concerned, and ideal guest.

 

But we learned from her; no more did we allow anyone with some degree of mobility to spend the week in a wheelchair.  Even if they had to struggle from one end of their chalet to the other, this we ensured that they did.  One arrangement was to instruct everyone pushing a chair to off-load any passenger who could put one foot before the other, inside the door of the dining-room and tell him or her to walk to the table.

 

Needless to say, this was usually an unpopular aspect of the holiday for many of our arthritics.  While waiting to lead a coach for an outing one fine morning, about half-a-dozen chairs were lined up in the queue.  All these comfortable passengers were assessed and someone was told to go and turn them out of their chairs and to tell them to walk the last two or three steps to the coach.  This suggestion was accomplished with some opposition and one discontented lady was heard to comment, after having her chair removed, “They must have forgotten, I’m supposed to be on holiday”.

 

But one dear soul had us all on the end of a string for the whole week.  She lived permanently in an old people’s home.  She was collected by car and announced that she could not walk at all.  Trying to lift her onto her feet, her legs gave way and she had to be lifted into a chair.  She was loaded onto the train in her chariot and she stayed in it for the week.  Getting her into bed, we ensured that two people were present every night to lift her; two people helped to dress her and to take her to the loo.  Not once did she give the slightest clue that she could use her legs at all.  On her return to the Home in which she lived, we loaded her and the chair onto the back of the Minibus; the driver and escort took their seats and she was driven back to where she belonged.  Carefully, the chair was lifted and lowered to the ground and the two hefty men pushed her into the big door.  Inside the foyer, they were confronted by one of the staff of the Home, who looked at the occupant in astonishment.  “What on earth is the matter with you, Mary?”, she enquired.  “Oh, she’s alright”, she was assured.  “Why on earth have you put her into a chair?”, was the puzzled enquiry and with that, almost as though she were the fortunate object of a miracle, the disabled passenger pushed herself up on the arms of the chair and walked across the wide floor of the foyer and through the door the other side without a backward glance.