I turned to face Mrs Traynor, wriggling so that my jacket covered as much of the skirt as possible.
‘No.’
‘Have you been a carer for long?’
‘Um … I’ve never actually done it,’ I said, adding, as if I could hear Syed’s voice in my ear, ‘but I’m sure I could learn.’
‘Do you know what a quadriplegic is?’
I faltered. ‘When … you’re stuck in a wheelchair?’
‘I suppose that’s one way of putting it. There are varying degrees, but in this case we are talking about complete loss of use of the legs, and very limited use of the hands and arms. Would that bother you?’
‘Well, not as much as it would bother him, obviously.’ I raised a smile, but Mrs Traynor’s face was expressionless. ‘Sorry – I didn’t mean –’
‘Can you drive, Miss Clark?’
‘Yes.’
‘Clean licence?’
I nodded.
Camilla Traynor ticked something on her list.
The rip was growing. I could see it creeping inexorably up my thigh. At this rate, by the time I stood up I would look like a Vegas showgirl.
‘Are you all right?’ Mrs Traynor was gazing at me.
‘I’m just a little warm. Do you mind if I take my jacket off?’ Before she could say anything, I wrenched the jacket off in one fluid motion and tied it around my waist, obscuring the split in the skirt. ‘So hot,’ I said, smiling at her, ‘coming in from outside. You know.’
There was the faintest pause, and then Mrs Traynor looked back at her folder. ‘How old are you?’
‘I’m twenty-six.’
‘And you were in your previous job for six years.’
‘Yes. You should have a copy of my reference.’
‘Mm … ’ Mrs Traynor held it up and squinted. ‘Your previous employer says you are a “warm, chatty and life-enhancing presence”.’
‘Yes, I paid him.’
That poker face again.
Oh hell, I thought.
It was as if I were being studied. Not necessarily in a good way. My mother’s shirt felt suddenly cheap, the synthetic threads shining in the thin light. I should just have worn my plainest trousers and a shirt. Anything but this suit.
‘So why are you leaving this job, where you are clearly so well regarded?’
‘Frank – the owner – sold the cafe. It’s the one at the bottom of the castle. The Buttered Bun. Was,’ I corrected myself. ‘I would have been happy to stay.’
Mrs Traynor nodded, either because she didn’t feel the need to say anything further about it, or because she too would have been happy for me to stay there.
‘And what exactly do you want to do with your life?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Do you have aspirations for a career? Would this be a stepping stone to something else? Do you have a professional dream that you wish to pursue?’
I looked at her blankly.
Was this some kind of trick question?
‘I … I haven’t really thought that far. Since I lost my job. I just –’ I swallowed. ‘I just want to work again.’
It sounded feeble. What kind of person came to an interview without even knowing what she wanted to do? Mrs Traynor’s expression suggested she thought the same thing.
She put down her pen. ‘So, Miss Clark, why should I employ you instead of, say, the previous candidate, who has several years’ experience with quadriplegics?’
I looked at her. ‘Um … honestly? I don’t know.’ This met with silence, so I added, ‘I guess that would be your call.’
‘You can’t give me a single reason why I should employ you?’
My mother’s face suddenly swam into view. The thought of going home with a ruined suit and another interview failure was beyond me. And this job paid more than £9 an hour.
I sat up a bit. ‘Well … I’m a fast learner, I’m never ill, I only live on the other side of the castle, and I’m stronger than I look … probably strong enough to help move your husband around –’
‘My husband? It’s not my husband you’d be working with. It’s my son.’
‘Your son?’ I blinked. ‘Um … I’m not afraid of hard work. I’m good at dealing with all sorts of people and … and I make a mean cup of tea.’ I began to blather into the silence. The thought of it being her son had thrown me. ‘I mean, my dad seems to think that’s not the greatest reference. But in my experience there’s not much that can’t be fixed by a decent cup of tea … ’
There was something a bit strange about the way Mrs Traynor was looking at me.
‘Sorry,’ I spluttered, as I realized what I had said. ‘I’m not suggesting the thing … the paraplegia … quadriplegia … with … your son … could be solved by a cup of tea.’
‘I should tell you, Miss Clark, that this is not a permanent contract. It would be for a maximum of six months. That is why the salary is … commensurate. We wanted to attract the right person.’
‘Believe me, when you’ve done shifts at a chicken processing factory, working in Guantánamo Bay for six months looks attractive.’ Oh, shut up, Louisa. I bit my lip.
But Mrs Traynor seemed oblivious. She closed her file. ‘My son – Will – was injured in a road accident almost two years ago. He requires twenty-four-hour care, the majority of which is provided by a trained nurse. I have recently returned to work, and the carer would be required to be here throughout the day to keep him company, help him with food and drink, generally provide an extra pair of hands, and make sure that he comes to no harm.’ Camilla Traynor looked down at her lap. ‘It is of the utmost importance that Will has someone here who understands that responsibility.’
Everything she said, even the way she emphasized her words, seemed to hint at some stupidity on my part.
‘I can see that.’ I began to gather up my bag.
‘So would you like the job?’
It was so unexpected that at first I thought I had heard her wrong. ‘Sorry?’
‘We would need you to start as soon as possible. Payment will be weekly.’
I was briefly lost for words. ‘You’d rather have me instead of –’ I began.
‘The hours are quite lengthy – 8am till 5pm, sometimes later. There is no lunch break as such, although when Nathan, his daily nurse, comes in at lunchtime to attend to him, there should be a free half an hour.’