The Carers, a true story by Liz Kitching…
The sea, the seaside and the beach were Julie’s most treasured places. Julie was my best friend from age thirteen. She changed my life. She could look at the sea for days at a time and often did when at the North Coast – places like Scarborough, Whitby and Sandsend. She wanted to end her days at the hillside cottage at Sandsend but that wasn’t to be and also a whole other story.
As was often she and hubby invited me to share in their seaside trip one weekend. I packed for an overnight escape and they picked me up in their car – I noticed Julie’s wheelchair in the boot and asked her if she was feeling especially unwell.
“No worse than usual,” she said, “…but I want to have as much fun as possible so will need to be pushed around for some of it!” and we set off to Whitby.
“We’ve come into a few quid so we’re going posh”, hubby said.
Hubby had a voice not unlike Alan Bennett’s so he was very nice to listen to.
We had rooms at a swish hotel overlooking the bay, swish menu and swish prices. We went down for dinner and drinks that night and Julie as only she could – brought her assorted medication with her.
“I can only swallow this lot with several large pints of good lager and an enormous feed,” she said.
I was chewing on a bit of scrumptious garlic bread and nearly choked laughing. Copious tears streamed down my face.
“Julie! stop it, you’ve ruined my mascara,” I spluttered. Only she could make such arty fun out of her illnesses.
She was very cheeky to our waiter that night too and bless him, poor young thing didn’t know where to put himself. Hubby was able to make it all ok and understood and gave a splendid tip – I was so proud of that, having been in service myself. Tips are ace. We all kissed night night on the landing and went off to sleep like lucky buggers.
Next morning after a ridiculously lush breakfast we packed up and set off for Scarborough.
“The sea should be really wild today – can’t wait to look at it,” said Julie, followed by a coughing episode of at least five minutes. As usual I projected my worry.
“She’ll be ok, she always is,” hubby said.
Hubby had done the most amazing acts of love for Julie over the years, ones involving such imagination and planning. He once woke her at 4am, and without speaking, carried her out to the car, wrapped her up and strapped her in.
“We’re going to the East Coast to watch the sunrise, then we’ll have your favourite breakfast then we’ll come home”.
The coughing fit ended, she drank some water and we arrived at Scarborough.
The sea was wild, crashing magnificent waves and dotted spectators took it all in as did we. We did a good amount of walking, me and hubby sharing the pushing of the NHS wheelchair with Julie in it.
“It’s wonderful to stretch your legs isn’t it?” I said out loud to no-one in particular.
“Piss Off!” Julie was winding me up. I offered my profuse apologies at my insensitivity nevertheless. “Piss Off” with a hearty chortle.
“Let’s park up just along here and watch those great waves breaking onto the promenade.”
“Yes, let’s” – me and hubby. We gazed at the spectacle for a couple of hours. It was September and it was cold under the sunny brightness of the landscape.
Julie got more daring. She wanted us to get to the eye of the storm for a proper look. We watched and whooped as the waves broke and crashed by our feet. Then one great enormous wave didn’t break.
“Push me nearer – I need to see – where has that massive wave gone?”
A wall of water, the size of a great ship rose above us. It showed us its size and strength in a moment of silence with no movement. Then it fell. A great enormous gushing sea descended upon us. Well not us exactly. Hubby and me made a run for it to the back of the promenade wall. Julie got thoroughly drenched and yet she was guffawing wildly.
“You pair of fucking bastards!”
We laughed. Onlookers obviously thought we were actually a pair of uncaring bastards. We dashed her to the car and dried her and dressed her and wrapped her in the car blanket.
“I want a big feed at a country pub with a real fire on the way home” demanded Julie.
“We will,” said hubby.
All the way home, Radio 2 was playing Frank Sinatra back to back with no commentary. We were all fans, big fans. We assumed he had died. He had been very very poorly. So that night during my shift at the bar – I told the DJ to play some Frank as he had passed away. So he did. Frank Sinatra had not passed away so why the bloody hell was the station playing his work back to back?!
We will never know. He did die soon after so there you go. Of course this was before the Internet.