I say ‘sit’ but that probably gives the wrong impression. What I actually have to do if I want to be anywhere lower than my wheelchair is ‘transfer’ from it – which all sounds very measured and controlled. Which, of course it is. What I like to call ‘controlled falling’. So I whump down, and immediately see a tactical error: I’m going to have to do this every single time we work on it, since the coffee table is too low for me to do anything from my chair.
But so be it. It’s either that or relocate back to the dining table, and now we’ve started … And, hey, it won’t be for long.
It’s already dark outside, the remaining snow a silvery carpet in the back garden, and sitting here with Ellie, the two of us working at a shared endeavour, feels exactly the right sort of thing to be doing. Something to keep us occupied for the few remaining weeks till spring comes along. And I don’t doubt, looking at the box, that it will take us all of that.
‘Dad, I will, of course,’ Ellie says with conviction.
And, since she’s probably right, I’m not about to argue. Together we carefully pour the pieces into a heap in the centre, taking care not to let any spill onto the carpet, our dog, Berry (named by Ellie – being the youngest, she got her way there), not being fussy when it comes to unexpected potential food gifts. And yes, cardboard does fall into that category. I don’t get much in the way of further conversation after that as Ellie, being Ellie, is too busy trying to beat me. In only minutes she’s amassed an impressive pile in front of her – a pile that I notice is bigger than my own.
‘There,’ she says, as she pushes across a row of four she’s already slotted together, niftily outranking the first corner piece I’ve just unearthed. ‘Can we finish it tonight?’ she adds, lining her handiwork up along her edge of the table. ‘I bet we can, Dad. This is going to be so easy. Easy peasy.’
‘That would be great,’ I agree. ‘But I think it might take a little bit longer.’
Around three weeks, I decide. Three weeks, tops.
* * *
As my condition progressed, so did the wastage of the muscles that had prevented my toes from straightening out as a little boy. So much so that by the time I was eight or nine, I was constantly falling over.
There’s nothing positive about falling over, ever. Though it often made for unexpected entertainment for my classmates, for me it soon became the bane of my existence, as there was never any warning about when I’d next keel over. One minute I’d be walking along happily and the next I’d be flat on my face – literally. There was hardly a day that went by without my sustaining some sort of injury – usually a fat lip or a bloody knee.
I hit the dirt so many times in my formative years that it’s a miracle, looking back, that I’m not a criss-cross of ageing scars, with a nose like that of a battle-hardened prize-fighter. As it is, I got lucky, because my nose is still intact – or perhaps it was the copious application of Germolene and ice packs and plasters that saved me. I only have to get a whiff of that pungent pink ointment to be transported straight back to my primary school playground; to the feel of grit embedded in my palm, the tears welling in my eyes and the suppressed giggles of my mates, who couldn’t stop themselves. The girls, on the other hand, being more sympathetic creatures, would gasp in shock at what had happened, and disapproval, while some teacher or other ran to the rescue.
The reason for this sudden increase in falls was a condition I’d now developed called bilateral foot drop. If you can imagine losing all the muscles that surround your feet and ankles, the resultant floppy appendages – which they’d be, should you try to flap them around a little – will give you an idea of just how infuriating my feet had become. And once a foot doesn’t do what it’s supposed to – i.e. adopt the angle you tell it to – falling over becomes the easiest thing in the world.
But if my pride was wounded by having become someone who could no longer walk properly, that was nothing compared to the alternative I was given: a set of orthotic boots and calipers.
Most kids who grew up in the 1960s will remember calipers, mostly because at that time polio was still a significant problem in the UK. By the beginning of the decade, of course, vaccination had become widespread, but almost everyone knew one kid who clanked around in calipers as a result of having contracted the disease. (I always recall the first time I saw Ian Dury, perhaps the most famous musician of the modern era to be afflicted by polio. I remember thinking two things: what a brilliant bunch of pop songs he’d written, and how did he stop his calipers from squeaking?)
Calipers are designed to support the lower leg, and back then they consisted of a heavy, orthotic ankle boot (which looked very much like the kind of footwear Frankenstein’s monster favoured, on account of its thick sole and bulbous, rounded toe cap), which contained a pin in the heel that connected to a pair of twin steel posts that ran up either side of the leg. These were attached at the top to a leather strap that sat just beneath the knee and could be adjusted to sit snugly around the calf. At the base of the steel bars there was a spring mechanism. This was what would allow my feet to extend, while at the same time, when I lifted my foot from the floor, pulling it back up to prevent foot drop and, therefore, all my falls.
Despite being made to measure, the orthotic boots – which came in black and brown (which was at least one more colour than Henry Ford offered, I suppose) – were extremely uncomfortable. And once fitted up with the calipers (they weren’t the easiest thing to get on and off, either) even more so. Yes, they did their job – they kept my feet at right angles and prevented them from doing the dirty on me – but they also made me walk with a curious, Woodentops-style, stiff-legged gait; so while my older brothers were buying all sorts of trendy footwear in town, I had to endure the indignity of spending my time – in school and out of it – looking like Frankenstein’s monster. At least from the knees down; from the knees up I tried to compensate madly, by adopting a winning smile. Though, given the discomfort, this was probably more of a grimace.
From the day that I donned those boots and calipers I felt different. I was suddenly, and irreversibly, conspicuous. Yes, I could walk around now without fear of falling flat on my face, but with the ugly footwear, the creaky calipers, and the steel bars that fitted attractively to the back of the boots, I now realized that I wasn’t like any other child I knew. While the falls were just a part of me – and, let’s face it, all kids fall over sometimes, some of them often – there was nothing else about me that made me seem any different to any other kid. But now there was. The boots singled me out.
It saddens me now, thinking back to my young self. I was so keen to fit in, so anxious not to let it get to me. But it did. How could it not? Suddenly – and it really did feel as if it happened the very day I first had to don them – my new legwear meant I became a pitiable individual. I was now the boy who was always picked last for a team in football. If I was picked at all, that is, for my ears began ringing with new phrases: ‘Sorry, you can’t play our game because you’re not quick enough,’ ‘Sorry, we’ve got enough now,’ ‘Sorry, we need someone who can kick a ball straight.’
So off I’d trot, trying not to let the hurt I felt show, trying to pretend I had better things to do anyway, trying not to let it get to me. But it did, and my mother could see that all too well. My ‘don’t care’ carapace wasn’t thick enough for me to hide under – not with her.
‘You know what?’ she said one day when she picked me up from school, ‘I was in town earlier, and I was looking in C&A, and they have some really nice new trousers in stock. Very modern.’
And she took me, right away, back into town so that I could try some on. She was right. They were very much the look of the moment, sporting, as they did, the widest flares imaginable. And crucially, as well as being achingly cool, they were wide enough to almost completely hide my calipers. I have a lot to thank the early 1970s fashion extravagances for, I guess. And even more to thank my mum for. I’ll never forget that.
But even though the flares help to boost my flagging self-esteem, now I was in calipers I was officially