Trimmings

Michael Tavaler

I’d had two hours of intermittent sleep over the past three days, the last two nights caring for Jack’s pressure-wound – I honestly couldn’t take much more. That was the deal when you went on holiday – no rest, no half-hour lunch breaks, no getting away. And mine wasn’t the worst of it. Jemma, fifteen years my senior, working as a carer for  Jack’s partner, Mads, couldn’t find time to take a shower. Between the morning and evening sessions of snooker, I pleaded with Jack for a break; just an hour’s nap would do a world of good, for both of us. He figured between 5 and 6 pm so we could catch the snooker action at 7. He would hang out in Mads room. Keeping Mads’ door slightly open in case Jack needed to leave, I laid my head down on my bed at 5:05 but was instantly woken up. It was an ordeal to arouse myself, even with a few second’s sleep. The foot of Jack’s chair was banging on the bottom of my door. Mads wanted us downstairs at Café Rouge. I trudged on after Jack, barely hanging on to his chair to hold myself up.

Mads and Jemma, appeared genuinely surprised to see us. “Thought you eluded me!” Mads exclaimed.

“You said to be here right now,” Jack protested.

“I did,” she laughed. “I thought Ben had you wound around his little finger but you’ve come through.”

I looked at Jack in exhaustion. If Jack was any kind of man, he’d leave right now, but he sat down, had me open his menu. If I was any kind of man, I’d leave too, but that would place Jack in a difficult situation.

Mads didn’t trust people. If I worked an extra half hour, she’d make sure it was exactly 30 minutes. And now on holidays, every spare moment was devoted to caring. The thought that I would do anything for Jack’s sake, without compensation, never entered her mind. She’d taken over the time sheets we handed in to get paid and then complained about how difficult the work was. I and the other male carers were confined to emailing her in “office” hours: up to 5 pm weekdays and no communication on weekends. Jack wanted to take control back from her but then she’d assail him for all the inconsistencies he endured.  There was no winning when it came to Mads.

Her hesitation did come from an honest place. They’d had, for example, one new carer who did not listen to Mads’s dog instructions. Playing with the Dachshund in front of their German Shepherd, the big dog growled at the carer. She claims he attacked. No one was in the room at the time. Mads sent her home right away. The woman threatened to sue them – taking two quadriplegics through the court system – but it didn’t amount to much in the end. I’d been working for years, though, had never taken advantage of Jack, did extra hours on Mads’s behalf helping with the dogs. Why was I still a threat?

When we finally got Café Rouge’s service to notice us, making our order and urging that it be at the table within twenty minutes, we couldn’t get a guarantee for it to be ready and so we left, headed for an evening session of Snooker. I wanted to complain that the extra hour I would have slept was now wasted but Jack looked so far-gone, I couldn’t bring it up.

Jack and I were in our seats. “You look Fartsoret,” I said to Jack while Mads was getting a drink. “Jewish expression,” I added.

“For-so,” he tried pronouncing it.

“Ts, it’s like the tse sound you get in tsar or tsunami. Fartsoret!”

“Fartsoret,” he said.  “Meaning?”

Anything foreign or religious and Jack was all over it in the way I paid attention to Jack’s descriptions of cricket and, at the start, snooker. “It means troubled, afflicted,” I said.

“Oh I’m Fartsoret alright, Ben” he said. “No need to ask why,” he added.

Mads came back complaining about the bar service: with Jemma using the bathroom, Mads just sat in front of the bartender to see him take everyone else’s orders. “He might have thought I couldn’t pay without a carer or he simply didn’t see me.”   

I thought her righteous anger would be directed at the bar manager but she turned it on Jack - there wasn’t anything he could do that was acceptable. Jack wanted to hang out in the hotel lobby to talk to the snooker players but Mads was keen on getting a proper meal. She belittled his attempts at celebrity.: “You think these players can make your life a little easier,” she said and, in one of her more creative efforts, announced “a maximum break from player Trump doesn’t make him your fuckin president.” At our late dinner, the beer was too hot and the meal too cold, both a result of Jack saying he was in a hurry. Mads switched to shots of vodka and was soon thoroughly inebriated. Passing Steve Davis in the hotel lobby, she asked him if he could “fuckin eat my pussy.” That had nothing to do with Jack but the phrase had a firm conclusion, according to Jemma, who said Mads no longer wanted to be seen at this event.

“What am I supposed to do with your final snooker tickets,” Jack demanded.

 “Get a refund,” Mads said, “and make sure the money goes to me.”

“I paid for the tickets this year,” Jack complained.

“If I’d bought the tickets and you couldn’t make it,” she said, “the refund would go back to you.” I looked at Jemma and we both knew this was a lie.

At 7 am the next morning, we were driving Mads and Jemma from Sheffield to Doncaster so Mads wouldn’t have to change trains. I’d had both wheelchairs clamped to the camper floor with seatbelts on the way up here but since it was a short trip, Mads wasn’t secured in. I had real difficulty with that decision. “I’m not comfortable,” I declared.

“It’s a short drive,” she said, already annoyed.

“We get in an accident and your chair flies right into me.”

“Clamp it at the back so we can protect your precious self,” she said. I took that as a yes and secured the back of her chair to the floor, then quickly clamped another seat belt: two clamps were better than nothing.

“Let’s go Ben,” Mads commanded, upset by the time I was taking.

We were heading out of town and Mads was already impatient.  “Can you speed up,” she said belligerently.

“We’re in a 30 mile per hour zone,” I said.

As soon as we were in 40 mph zone, she was on me to move.

Arriving at Doncaster, we were very close to the departure time – Mads was angry about my spineless demeanour – and we arrived on the opposite side of the street from the station. I’d have to get to the next roundabout and head right back but this was too much of a delay: Mads wanted out. I pulled over, got the side door open, pulled down the ramp and waited for Jack to squeeze his way out which took quite a bit of time, Jack being rushed, trying to roll backwards on the ramp in the shortest possible time – he had to go back up and down several times with me directing him to make sure he wasn’t falling off. This incensed Mads – why did Jack even have to come. She drove her chair straight out, scraping the bottom of her footrest on the way down.

The front rigging collapsed, making her sit in an upright position. In normal times, Jack would fix wheelchair repairs but today Mads was several paces ahead of him with Jemma trying to keep up behind her, carrying their two pieces of luggage. Mads saw a break in the traffic and crossed the street, Jemma keeping up, both of them being narrowly missing by a bus coming out of the station. Jack was left on my side of the street, waiting for the traffic to clear.

I put the ramp back, shut the door and drove, turning at the roundabout and driving a long way back to pull up in front of the station. Jack was at the turnstiles, waiting for me.  “Didn’t wait for me to get here,” he sighed. “I hope she’s alright,” he said.

We arrived at the hotel at 9:50 – breakfast was served till 10.  “I’ll be five minutes,” I cautioned Jack.

“Take the time you need,” he said. “Just give me Mads’s unused tickets on my tray,” he said. “This afternoon’s semi-final,” he announced.

I took out two sets of tickets, placed them on Jack’s tray that was attached to his chair and placed a bottle of coke Jack had in a knapsack, to weigh the tickets down.

It was 10:15 when Jack got back to me, having returned the tickets and been compensated. Jack never ate breakfast at hotels but he had me put together a toast with marmalade that I fed him while I finished off my meal. I was ready to head back to the room, get ready for the afternoon of snooker but Jack wasn’t keen on moving.

“You want anything else,” he inquired?

“Sleep,” I said, half joking. He told me I’d have an hour’s rest.

We set Jack up at the bar, making sure the bartender knew his room so he could pay for the beer. Two men were already on stools around the bar with Jack instantly having a rapport. I slipped away to our room, set my alarm, lay my head down and was out.

When I came down, somewhat rested, Jack was in the middle of a discussion with a biomedical engineer. “Man says we’re doing things wrong with our pissing routine,” Jack said, slightly drunk.

To get Jack to urinate, I had one hand on his bladder while using the other to hold a plastic urinal. I was up at least five times a night eliminating waste and, with the responsibility of Jack’s wound on my mind, I was getting very little sleep.

“He says we run the risk of knotting up my stomach,” Jack elaborated.  “What would be the alternative?” he asked the engineer.

“Maybe a catheter,” the man volunteered.

“I’m not wearing no fuckin catheter, especially when I don’t need one,” Jack said.

“There’s a thing they can do with your penis,” the man continued.

“I want to hear this,” Jack said ruefully to the engineer. He said to me, “I need this engineer’s guidance. Why don’t you go swimming?”

“Swimming? I don’t even have a suit.”

Jack motioned his head towards the window. On the opposite side of the street was a sports shop. “Use my cash,” he said, indicating his wallet that I had in my back pocket.  “up to twenty pounds.”

“How long do I have?” I inquired.

“Let’s say an hour, but take your time, we’ll work it out,” he declared.

I bought the cheapest pair of swimming trunks I could find but they still came up to over twenty pounds. I went straight to the pool, put on my trunks in their changing room and then headed right into the water. The pool was empty. I was going to swim laps but then thought of my chores with Jack and simply lay flat on my back. This felt perfect, just letting my body take in the width and length of the pool, not having to worry about Jack, the kind of total freedom I felt every time I’d closed the gate behind me and leave Jack’s Sussex house.

When I looked at the clock, somehow, an hour and a half had passed. I changed into my old clothes, went upstairs and showered. When I got to Jack, he was deep into a conversation with a physician.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said.

Jack said goodbye to the physician and moved over to me. “This guy is in agreement with the engineer only they don’t offer me a better way to piss.”

“Let’s do the snooker,” I advised. “They’ll let us in on a break.”

“It’s over,” Jack said, indicating the TV that was announcing Murphy as the semi-winner. “They just played two games to finish it off.  We have the afternoon free.”

“Shit, sorry about missing the 1 pm start,” I said.

“No big deal,” Jack said, smiling.

We headed away from town to some of the scuzzier streets of Sheffield. I had no idea why we were here.

Jack kept scanning each new street corner. After 15 minutes, he announced we had arrived. It was a bar with some betting at the back. I got Jack a beer, Jack keeping an eye on the gambling. After half an hour, a man stepped away from his machine and Jack was on top of it. I’d seen this before, Jack playing a used machine and getting £400 while playing £20. He had me change twenty-pound bills four times and was just about to go to a fifth when he won.

“With the money I paid, this comes out to £320,” Jack said. “It’s trimmings.”

“Sorry?”

“You know my mother’s religious, right?” Jack said. “Celebrates Christmas with ornaments, the silver stuff you hang on trees. With Mads’ gone this is the reward.”

I thought about this bar, the loud voices, the dinging of the slot machines. “So we’re kind of on a winning streak,” I said, “with what you earned.”

“And your swimming.”

“Swimming’s a part of all this?” I inquired.

“It’s what makes you feel good,” Jack declared. “I know you think I’m crazy but we ride this as long as it goes.”

We had a lovely early dinner using Jack’s newly earned cash and then we were at the evening session with Bingham versus Selby. When Bingham won in the 17th deciding game, Jack was ecstatic. “I knew Bingham had it in him,” he said.  “At his age it’s his first world championship final.”

“This part of the trimmings,” I speculated.

“Well no, but maybe,” Jack said.

Jack hung out in the hotel lobby, looking to meet players. Most had left but Jack did have a conversation with an older man who looked like he should be on television, a combination of Steve Davis and Stephen Hendry. And Shawn Murphy finally showed up.  I always hung back, letting Jack take the limelight, but I heard the conversation with Murphy.  “He’s a really nice guy,” I said to Jack as we were heading up to our room. “Shots of Murphy on TV, I didn’t think he’d be that generous.”

“They’re all nice,” Jack admitted.

I took Jack’s pad off – it was soaked – and lifted him with our portable hoist.  Normally, I would move him up and down to change him but today I was carrying Jack across the room, taking him to the bathroom, shifting the hoist left and right to get him over the toilet. The movement completely exacerbated my back.

When I got Jack back over the bed, he just had me put on another pad.  “I’m going to sleep in my chair,” he declared.

“Because of what the engineer said,” I confirmed.

“And the physician.”

I put another pad on, got Jack dressed, placed him back on his chair where he made a neck adjustment to make himself comfortable. I lay down on the bed and slept for a good six hours without waking. I could have slept more but Jack was keen on moving out. “Forget your brushing and shit, we need to go,” he ordered.

I got dressed and followed Jack to the Crucible Theatre. There was a huge line    waiting for the box office to open. Jack announced that he had two tickets for the entire final.  The customers kept their place in line but were bidding, a lot of orders from the end of the line that couldn’t imagine getting tickets on the day. Jack ended up getting three times the ticket value. Mr and Mrs Craig were the recipients. We all had to go to a bank to retrieve the money while I handed them the tickets, Jack not being able to wipe away his sly look. One of the tickets was a regular seat but the other was for a carer so one of the Craigs would have to go in with Jack. If anyone asked, they were there to take care of Jack. On the way up to the hotel, Jack said I should come to the auditorium last and, if questioned, show them my carer’s badge. The carer’s ticket was a compliment to the main ticket so he didn’t want to tell Mads about that or anything about the Craigs, Jack simply went to the box office and got a refund. I asked Jack if he didn’t feel guilty, selling a free ticket and overall receiving three times the value. I was, honestly, expecting Jack to give me a sob story about everything railing against him, that he should be allowed this one victory but Jack simply agreed with me; most times he’d be happy with the box office refund, but this was like adding one, no three, no six ornaments to the fucking Christmas tree. We went in four times with the Craigs and no one questioned us.

I wanted to check out Jack’s pressure wound on the middle part of Jack’s leg but he cautioned that it would be hard to see with the pad on. He was right. I would need to hoist him out of his chair, move him back on the bed, turn him, take off the pad with the full likelihood of tearing it, just to get look at his leg. Next time I change you, I stipulated.

There were lots of celebrities at the final including Nicko McBrain, Iron Maiden’s drummer, who already knew Jack and had a conversation with him before the match started. For Jack, meeting Nicko was as awe inspiring as an encounter with one of the players. The Craigs were impressed.

Over the final two days, I got to do more swimming and enjoyed great meals although Jack hardly ate anything. Jack got to meet Stuart Bingham’s family, so very pleased he was in the final. And he kept coming across the guy that looked like he should be on TV.

“What does he do?” I asked after their third meeting.

“He’s an organizer,” Jack said.

“You don’t know what he does?”

“Something!” Jack laughed.

On that first night, halfway through the final, I wanted to change Jack’s pad but he said he was fine. He hadn’t peed and hardly eaten anything so the toilet break yesterday was enough. I thought it was unsafe, depriving yourself of drink but Jack assured me he’d be drinking plenty tomorrow when Bingham won. I enjoyed eight hours straight of sleep that night.

The following evening, when Bingham won, I thought Jack would be on cloud nine but he simply said goodbye to the Craigs and, while the trophies were being awarded, asked me to follow him. We got back to the hotel that was practically empty, taking an elevator to the bottom floor. There was the man I’d seen with Jack.

“Just occupy a table,” the man said.

We walked into a huge room that again was empty. They hadn’t set up the reception table to see if you’re invited.

“We made it to the after-party, Ben!” Jack announced.

We waited and gradually the community came: first businesspeople, then the BBC anchor crew including the announcer who told us a story about introducing young people to Kenya and Uganda, followed by some of the snooker greats, Canadian Cliff Thorburn and Jimmy White with a young woman who might (or might not) have been his daughter, and finally Shawn Murphy and Stuart Bingham. They all passed our table as Jack had gotten a position right at the front. He’d raised his seat so he was on the same level as people sitting on the upright chairs or standing up. Bingham actually hung around to have a long conversation with Jack. This was Jack’s opus operatum, all the hard work wrought to this state of grace. 

Bingham gave his acceptance speech while his wife looked on and then the dance floor was suddenly buzzing, individuals getting drinks, Jack in a discussion with Ken Doherty about a particular Irish pronunciation. I went to order drinks but they were extremely expensive and so I had to ask Jack. Beside Jack was Ian Matthews from Kasabian who told me the free bar was behind the main bar, reached from the other side. I had to wait a while as the drinks line was large but overall it moved fast. I ordered four Southern Comforts for Jack.

When I laid the drinks in front of Jack, he was in an absorbing discussion with Nicko on the need to synchronise a band’s appearance. The Iron Maiden drummer said he had a special jacket he wore on tour, there were only four made for members of the band. He disappeared and came back with the jacket, handed it to me so I could put it on Jack.

“It’s yours, mate,” Nicko announced.

Everyone was drunk which was a fact Jack was aware of. “You’ll ask me back for it tomorrow,” he huffed, “but that’s fine.  I can wear if for one day.”

“Just so everyone knows,” Nicko said, projecting his voice over the next few tables, “the jacket is Jack’s.” Jack looked at me sidelong, as if to say this trip could not have turned out better.

It was 2 o’clock by the time we made it back to the room. Jack parked his chair in the far end of the entrance hall, ready to go to sleep, wrapped up in his Iron Maiden jacket but I wanted to look at the wound. There was a lot of back and forth about moving him but I managed to get my way, leaving Jack still wearing his jacket, hoisting him up, laying him on the bed and taking off a thoroughly wet pad. I turned him over and saw bits of skin that were trying to hold the two parts of his cheeks together. I turned my phone light on and peered in. “Holy shit,” I exclaimed.

“What is it,” Jack inquired.

Finding a desk lamp, I shone it on Jack, then took a picture and showed it to Jack.

“The wound’s twice as big,” Jack remarked.

“Look inside,” I urged.

“What’s in there?”

“Bone,” I said. “I need to get you to hospital.”

Jack sighed deeply. “We need to secure next year’s after-party from the guy who let us in. We’re meeting at 10 for breakfast.” Jack smiled as I saw him shiver. I put a hand to his forehead. He had a super-high fever.

“You call him up, tell him you had an emergency,” I said.

“I don’t actually know his name,” Jack said. “I gave him my phone to put it in but he couldn’t figure out my android. You weren’t around to input it. I could have used my stick to enter it but it was hidden in my bumbag at the side.”

“You don’t have his number because you couldn’t ask him his name.”

“It would be embarrassing,” Jack noted, “after everything he did for us.”

“Let me talk to one of the players,” I offered.  “They’re still around.”

“All left early, off to the next tournament,” Jack said. “When we meet the guy, you ask him what his name is.”

“We’re not really entertaining this idea!” I said.

“We’ve got trimmings set up for next year,” Jack said. “Make sure I get Mads to come,” he said.  He looked at me forlornly. “Just change the pad,” he said.