I’ve always liked going to disabled toilets; it’s just something I like to do, a bit of a treat. They’re bigger with extra knobs and buzzers. The lighting and whole ambience is kinder, there’s a softness added to the rigmarole of ablutions. I admire the superior standard of workmanship that you don’t see in regular public conveniences. The flush mechanisms are always a delight: some are push buttons, some flush when you stand up, some when you put the seat down. There’s a wide variety of taps, too: some you twist, others you pull, some you wave near them, others you simply stroke. It’s like an interactive quiz, I give myself marks out of ten. Everything is easy to use: big handles for arthritic hands, large signs for the partially blind, a set of white monkey bars for the legless, and buzzers here, there, and everywhere for emergency moments. I’d love to press or pull one of them, to try it out with ‘Please would you pass me the toilet paper?’ That sort of behaviour could get me banned for life – it’s not worth the risk. Instead I stoke the cords and switches gently.
There’s a frisson in going to a disabled toilet when you’re not disabled. People are very righteous about it, care needs to be taken. Often the disabled toilets are set away from the main run of cubicles, as if removed to a higher place of dignity. These are a doddle to slip into and click the door shut unnoticed. I like to linger. It’s so white and shiny and clean. The soap dispenser is usually full, and smells nice, instead of disinfectant. I run my hands along the squeaky clean tiles, touch the soft toilet paper, wipe my nose with the velvety hand towels and sit and ponder. It’s a little oasis of peace, like a prayer room.
Occasionally someone has knocked on the door. ‘Are you alright in there?’
‘Oh yes,’ I say in my well-practised frail voice, ‘I’ll be out as soon as I can.’ They usually leave, but if they persist in hovering outside, I give them an over-share: ‘I get terribly constipated nowadays. It’s my bowels, like hard gun pellets and…’
Twice, I’ve been caught out. I was coming out of the toilet and someone in a wheelchair was waiting. The first time, I was quick-thinking and incorporated a swinging limp and goofy grin. The lady in the wheelchair gave me a sweet smile of solidarity, a fellow comrade fighting against the odds.
The second time, I was met almost nose-to-nose by a red-faced carer ramming her charge into me. ‘What you doing using the disabled, eh? She’s just about wet herself.’
I was aware of women glancing over their shoulders as they did their lipstick. Some stopped and turned, frowning.
I did the only thing I could do – I stared through her. ‘Who said that?’ I asked, looking around blankly.
‘Don’t give me that,’ the Rottweiler barked. ‘You saw me clear enough when you opened the door. Gave you a start, didn’t I?’
‘I’m s-s-s-sorry,’ I stuttered, and even though I say it myself, I do a splendid stutter. ‘I’m, I’m…’ – a little crowd was gathering – ‘I’ve lost my white stick. I th-th-thought it would be okay to use this WC…’
A bony woman, who probably spent her youth on Greenham Common, came to my rescue. She shook her long, straggly hair and rattled her be-jangled arms. ‘You can’t victimise her – she’s disabled, too. Disability isn’t a competition. She deserves equal rights.’
‘Mind your own business,’ the unpleasant woman sneered, and with that she barged the wheelchair past me into the toilet. I obligingly tottered sideways so several of the onlookers rushed forward to steady me as she slammed the door. There was much ‘No need for that’ and ‘What a disgraceful attitude’, and so on. The righteous and the just were high on their horses. I blusteringly thanked them, and did some spectacular gurning. It did the trick and frightened away all further offers of assistance. I wobbled off, blinking, leaving them to discuss the finer details of political correctness.
Six months later, I’d more or less forgotten the incident and was enjoying a spot of shoplifting. A similar pleasure to using disabled toilets – in its thrill of possibly getting caught. I’d popped a very red, shiny, tarty number in my bag. I’d never wear it, of course, but it screamed take me with such urgency, I had to have it. I was on my way out when who should I bump into but Rotty the Rottweiler.
She snarled, ‘I remember you.’
It took me a moment or two, which was to my advantage. ‘Who are you?’ I asked innocently.
‘You know bloody well who I am. I was nearly lynched when I came out of the toilet after your little sob story. Not so blind now, are you? I saw you come up and down that escalator no problem.’
‘Yes, I can see now, but I couldn’t then – the doctors have cured me. Now excuse me.’
‘Not so fast.’ She grabbed my arm and hissed, ‘If I ever catch you playing that trick again’ – she nipped hard – ‘you’ll be sorry.’
She annoyed me intensely so I let rip. ‘Help, she’s crazy!’ I screamed like a banshee. ‘She’s attacking me. Help!’ I kicked her hard on the shin. The burly security men barrelled to my rescue and yanked her away from me. I cowered under the shower of rude obscenities she yelled over her shoulder as they hauled her out.
The department store manager, appreciating the trauma I’d undergone, insisted I had a cup of sweet tea before leaving: ‘Good for shock, my dear.’
I sipped the tea with a small smile, wondering where she was now. For good measure, I’d slipped the red dress into her bag, amidst the melee. The security alarm had bleeped furiously as she was ejected.
Months have passed since then and remembering the incident never fails to make me titter. I’ve considered notching up the disability lark with a wheelchair, but they cost a fortune – even for three-wheeled ones on ebay. I’ve tentatively looked into getting one on the NHS, but you have to have all sorts of tests and assessments. Instead, I settle for a spot of shoplifting; it always cheers me up.
It’s at the precinct I see her. She’s pushing the wheelchair. I watch her from the upper floor as she ploughs into crowds without so much as a by your leave. She’s like a gladiator tearing through. There’s an arrogant anger about her that irritates me, as if the world owes her. I watch her hurling snarls left and right, tutting and sighing, shoving and pushing. She catches ankles and toes as she charges along. I shake my head. I know if I was responsible for a wheelchair, it would be a pleasant sojourn. We would chat happily, perhaps laughing as we went; people would smile, I would return their smiles bashfully and they’d comment on my caring ways.
Rotty pushes the wheelchair to the lift and jabs the button. I head for WH Smith, which is next to the lift doors. I wait, and peep out from behind a magazine. They roll out of the lift and stop near the food hall at the top of the escalator. Rotty leans over her charge and says something. She points to a café, and the woman nods. Rotty puts the wheelchair brakes on, and goes into the café alone – I suppose to see if there’s a table free.
It is my only chance. I hurry out, slip behind the wheelchair, and undo the brake. I give the wheelchair the daintiest of pushes – it’s a careless accident waiting to happen.
I fly down the stairs, hot on the heels of Rotty, who is hysterically screaming. She throws herself prostrate on the floor, next to the carnage. A crowd gathers around the bloody heap at the bottom of the stairs. Everyone is pushing and shoving and elbowing each other aside for a nosy.
The spectators are stunned and an ambulance is called for. Rotty wails uncontrollably and clutches the flaccid body. There is an uncertain hush. I whisper to no one in particular, ‘She left the brakes off. Some people aren’t safe to be out with a wheelchair.’
A couple of eyebrows raise, a few heads shake, elbows nudge, mouths turn down. The crowd are soon casting mental stones. The police and ambulance arrive – both appealing for witnesses.
‘She left the wheelchair at the top of the escalator with the brakes off,’ says a middle-aged woman, pointing an accusing finger at Rotty.
‘Tragic, an avoidable accident,’ says a tweedy man with a cravat.
‘Shameful,’ mutters a young mother with a pushchair.
Rotty looks around the gathered circle. Maybe she sees me, maybe not – she has a strange, blank-eyed stare.
‘There’s something not right with her,’ a voice murmurs.
‘She’s not all there,’ another says, nodding.
I smile wisely. I already know – people can look normal, but often they’re not.