Next morning, the weather was perfect for our jaunt into
Bournemouth and Liz was in her wheelchair waiting for me in the reception area.
The staff had dressed her in a blouse and skirt, and had given her a cardigan,
just in case. It was lying across her lap. As usual, she was wearing her
slippers. She always wore her slippers when she was out of bed, whether we were
staying in the building, or going outside, because her feet had swelled and
none of her shoes would fit her.
Walking her in the wheelchair wasn’t easy, in fact it could
be downright dangerous because it didn’t have brakes, and I knew it wasn’t
going to be easy walking into Bournemouth – short distance though it was –
because there were some downhill gradients to negotiate. As I planned the route
quickly in my head, I realised that some of them were quite steep. The
wheelchair did have a parking brake, but that was only usable when the
wheelchair was stationary. It couldn’t be used to slow the chair down.
The driveway from the Riseborough to Branksome Wood Road was
the first of my challenges. While no more than seventy-five yards or so in
length, it was fairly steep and I had to negotiate it like a yacht tacking in
the wind. And it was a good thing I happened to be wearing rubber-soled shoes, because
one slip and Liz would have been careering off into the traffic. My heart was
in my mouth by the time we got to the road. Why on earth didn’t wheelchair
manufactures put brakes on the damn things? Surely they knew the dangers.
I waited for a break in the traffic and then crossed to the
pavement on the other side on the road. And that was another thing: getting a
wheelchair with a heavy occupant up and over a kerb. Still, I couldn’t blame
anyone for that. Then there was a downhill gradient of a couple of hundred
yards until we turned into the Upper Gardens under the enormous concrete
structure of the Wessex Way flyover. There was a short sharp gradient down to
the tennis courts, which caused me a moment of panic, and then we were on level
ground.
We made our way to the little hut which served as pavilion
for the tennis club and café for passers-by, and we sat and watched people
playing tennis for a while. The courts were open to the public and some of the
players looked as if they had never before held a racquet. Mostly
holidaymakers, judging by the way they were dressed. We watched how tennis
should not be played for a while, and
then wandered off in the direction of the Square.
The Square, as anyone who has ever been to Bournemouth will
know, is the centre of the town. It used to be a traffic island, but it had
long since been pedestrianised.
The Square was heaving. I negotiated my way through the
masses then across the road, first waiting for a couple of buses to pass, and
on down the ramp into the Central Gardens. The gradient was sufficiently
gradual that I had no difficulty holding the wheelchair back
I stopped at the hut that sold New Forest ice cream and
bought two rum and raisin ice cream cones. I looked for somewhere to sit. Most
of the bench seats were taken, but there was a space at one of them and I
hurried over and grabbed it before someone beat me to it. I parked the
wheelchair beside me and we sat there and enjoyed our ice creams. Liz smiled at
some of the passers-by. Most of them smiled back.
Next, we headed off in the direction of the beach. It would
have been icing on the cake if a band had been playing in the bandstand, but it
wasn’t to be. We walked across the bridge over the stream and down by the side
of the Pavilion theatre. Seeing the building towering over us reminded me of
all the shows Liz and I had enjoyed in there, and I had a moment of sadness
when I realised I would never be seeing another show in there with her.
There was an uphill gradient, which left me breathless, as
we approached the Pier Approach, then it was a level walk to the rail which
overlooked the beach.
There wasn’t so much as a suggestion of a breeze, so the
sea was a flat calm. A commercial speedboat was giving people rides off the
side of the pier. The beach was packed with people.
We stayed until I noticed Liz’s face turning pink from the
sun. She had a fair complexion and burned rather than tanned, and I mentally
berated myself for not thinking to bring some sun blocker. I suggested we get
back. She pulled a face, but agreed.
Gradients which had been downhill on our way out, were now,
of course, uphill and I was exhausted by the time we got back to the
Riseborough.
But Liz had enjoyed her outing and that was all that
mattered.
Extract from my book WILL YOU TELL HER, OR SHALL I? A true
story. My story. The story of how I lived with the ten-year terminal illness of
my wife. Available on Amazon Kindle. www.amazon.com
Twitter: Maximillian19
FB: facebook.com/Booksthepublishersmissedcom
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