Open Writing

It taxes credibility to believe that two people could stand and stare at these 22 steps for as long as we did - speechless with surprise, shock, disappointment and disbelief. We felt very sorry for ourselves, after all those miles and all that effort. Too drained even to be emotional, we were simply incredulous.

It was difficult to see how this could have happened. The hotel had been chosen because it was wheelchair accessible. We had obviously forgotten to say who required special access. Nobody had asked, and now they were all in their allocated rooms.

There were 22 steps between us and a bedroom. No matter whether or not the room was of honeymoon class, a bedroom was needed desperately. Somehow this problem had to be solved.

As I slowly assessed the situation I recalled what had happened while on holiday in France a year earlier. My husband, Phil, and his disabled friend, Roddy, had wanted to visit some caves. As the only able bodied person I asked at the entrance if this would be possible. The attendant looked at the two wheelchairs, then their occupants, and said “Non!”

I asked how many steps there were, and he had replied “ Beaucoup – beaucoup.”

“There are hundreds of steps, guys. Do you still want to go?” I asked.

What a stupid question that was. Of course they did.

Going down was fine, and we had help from the guides, but I have never done anything as difficult as trying to support one fully grown male up that number of steps. The guides very kindly carried Roddy in a fireman’s lift, or I would have had to repeat the whole episode.

Recalling that day started me thinking though.

“I can get you up a kerb from the street..” I began.

“What’s that got to do with the price of fish?” retorted an exhausted and overwrought Phil.

“Well, if we think of it as a succession of kerb steps, and just take one at a time, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t be able to do it.”

“Do you think so?” he asked, hope glimmering slightly.

“It’s all in the mind. I have taken you up loads of steps before. Okay, this is different. But I have taken you up eight steps on my own, with you in the chair. I’m sure I could manage more if I just had the right mind set.”

He thought carefully, and then nodded his assent.

So, the ascent was attempted, one step at a time. It was the height that was frightening. The further we climbed, the more we realised that should anything happen, one slip, one miscalculation, it was a long way down. However, it was done successfully and without mishap.

We grinned at each other like a couple of over-excited monkeys. You would have thought we had climbed Everest. I felt that I knew what Shackleton had felt like going over the mountains of South Georgia.

We fell exhausted in to bed. It may have been a superb room, but we were not able to appreciate it at that moment.

Getting up in the morning, things looked different.

“Good grief!” I couldn’t help myself exclaiming. “This is something else!” And it was beautiful. We had harboured thoughts of offering to swap rooms with anybody and everybody, but this opulence, this view... It made us think.

We were ready to go down to breakfast, when I emitted the second “Good grief!” of the day.

I surveyed the height to which we had ascended with astonishment. Father Francis’ language seemed appropriate to the situation.

We were perched up in the air, so it appeared, and somehow we had to get down.

Hearts in mouths, slowly, carefully, we began the descent. Phil assisted by hanging on to the banisters, which gave a sense of security. We needed complete control at every step. The ground came gradually ever nearer, and then we were there – landed.

We were to complete this up and down ritual three times a day and, with time, were astonished that we had been so intimidated at the outset. However, to our tale….

After breakfast, I sought out those people who had claimed to be fluent in Italian. There had been a bit of a misunderstanding, apparently. Every one claimed to have no other language. Could I not work with the hotel manager in French?

This was not at all what was expected. I had thought that when we arrived here, most of my work was finished, and I could relax. This was obviously not to be. We had a hastily convened meeting, where everything that people needed was specified – times of rehearsals – times for eating – packed lunches –times for buses- any problems etc.

The massive list was then taken by me, by now reduced to a trembling female, to the manager. It was now after the Siesta, and we were both working in our second language, attempting to be polite.

As we worked slowly through the requirements of the next few days, it became clear that there was a major problem on the evening of our dress rehearsal. The manager’s grandson was having his first Communion, and a celebration was being held in the hotel in the afternoon. There was no possibility of feeding ninety people at 5 pm, which was an unusual time to eat in Italy anyway. He was very sorry – he could not accommodate us.

I argued forcibly that we had a right to be fed. We would accept a buffet. It was for the sake of the children, first and foremost. They could not perform on an empty stomach. We had a slot on stage at 7 pm.

He was totally unyielding.

“Once more, into the breach, dear friends, once more,” I thought.

What other ploy could I pull to let these people eat? I still felt so guilty about the Lyons disaster.

I decided that the best approach was to throw myself on his mercy, and beg him to help me. He was so surprised at my distress that it turned out not to be a problem at all.

I achieved the 5 pm tea on Sunday.

Full of righteous satisfaction, I left to enjoy what was left of the day.

It was only then I became enlightened, discovering the extent to which I was to be tried and tested.

It was then I just wanted to go home and live an ordinary life.