GARDENING

 

G A R D E N I N G

A DISTURBING TALE OF TRAGIC DISABLEMENT by strzeka

 

Rosemary was determined not to let Mark get away with ignoring the grass for another weekend. It looked awful. She was reluctant to nag and decided to use some male psychology on him.

            – Are you doing anything today, Mark? Got anything lined up?

Mark made another aeroplane for Cory, sitting on his knee.

            – Nothing special.

            – Well, don’t waste the day. Take Cory outside and play with him in the garden. You could give the lawn a quick once-over while you’re out there. It’s getting a bit long.

            – Good idea. Shall we do that, mate? Go and find some ladybirds and say hello to the worms?

Cory giggled at the idea of saying hello to worms.

            – Open wide – whoosh!  Alright, you’ve made your point. I’ll mow the lawn. I promised you I’d do it last week, sorry.

Rosemary kissed the top of his head, in his bald spot. It was her way of reassuring her handsome husband that it was perfectly fine to go bald at twenty-eight. And a confirmation that Mark could not escape doing his chores this time.

 

Rosemary dressed Cory is his favourite blue corduroy dungarees and let him play with a toy car in a corner of the kitchen. He was an active boy, inquisitive and advanced for his age. He would be three in two months. It hardly seemed possible. She cleared the breakfast things and went to fetch some laundry. Mark had disappeared into the garage and was out of the way. If he got the lawn done by lunchtime, she would let him off the other job she had lined up for him. Cory was trying to pull the tyres off his car.

            – Cory, love. Don’t break it or it won’t work any more. Cars need their wheels, don’t they?

Cory wordlessly agreed and settled for spinning the toy on its roof.

            – Shall we go and find daddy? Let’s see what he’s doing.

Cory jumped up and held out his hand. Rosemary took it gently and they went around to the garage where Mark was filling the lawnmower’s tank with petrol.

            – Hello, you two. Have you come to check up on me? Is that what you’re up to, little man? Come to see what daddy’s doing?

Cory broke away and ran towards his father.

            – Wooah! Careful! Mustn’t get this splashed on you. It’s burny. Just a minute more and we can go outside and find those worms.

Cory laughed. His dad always made him laugh. He gave him a big hug and stood back watching, looking at the odd machinery. Red and green. Curvy bits. What was it for? Daddy would show him.

 

Mark pushed the old lawnmower out of the garage onto the lawn. It had belonged to his father-in-law and had been unused for two decades until Mark offhandedly mentioned needing one. The men checked to see if the old machine still worked and after a little tuning and a clean-up, it was found to be perfectly serviceable. Cory wandered out of the garage and called to his father.

            – Find the worms, daddy!

            – Alright. Let’s go and see if there are some butterflies to look at.

Mark lifted his son onto his shoulders and strolled to the bottom of the garden where there was a low hedge of brambles. Peacock and tortoiseshell butterflies bred in it. Cory seemed to show a genuine interest in the small creatures he saw around him. Mark pointed out a fresh spider’s web in the shade still glistening with dew. Cory spotted two ladybirds on a leaf and watched them closely. Mark found a large iridescent beetle and they studied it moving soil around for a couple of minutes. Mark remembered why he had come outside.

            – I have to do some work now. Will you be a good boy and look at the butterflies?

Cory pointed at the brambles.

            – That’s right. Now your old man had better get some work done or mummy will be cross with me.

Mark returned to the mower and persuaded the old motor into life. The blades whirred and Mark pushed it to the left-hand edge of the grass. He kept an eye on Cory and guided the mower down the length of the lawn. Cory watched the grass flying out of the machine. Now he understood what it was for. Mark turned and began to cut another strip. He had walked a few paces when he caught a glimpse of Cory dashing toward him. He let go of the handles in a futile attempt to grab his son but Cory was too fast. He wanted to know if the whirring blades were warm and held out his hands to feel their heat. The blades snatched both his hands and turned them into a miasma of flesh and blood. Mark screamed in horror. Cory understood he had done something naughty and began to cry. He looked at his bleeding stumps and his mouth dropped open. Mark grabbed his arms and shouted for Rosemary. Their neighbour came outside carrying some clean laundry to hang out to dry and heard the commotion.

            – Whatever is going on? Are you alright?

            – No! Call an ambulance! Cory’s hurt.

            – Oh my lord.

She dropped her laundry and ran inside to summon an ambulance. Rosemary hurried out and approached them. She saw Mark’s agonised expression and the bloody remnants of her beautiful boy’s arms. She screamed and fainted. Mark held on to Cory, pressing his thumbs hard into the boy’s elbow joints in an attempt to staunch blood flow. Minutes dragged like hours until an ambulance crew ran into the garden accompanied by the neighbour. Mark looked at them in hopeless silence. Tourniquets were applied to Cory’s arms and a medic carried him to the ambulance. The neighbour tended to Rosemary who had regained consciousness and tried to sit up.

            – Take it easy. Stay calm. Cory’s in good hands. Mark, my love, you have to go in the ambulance. Go on. Go with Cory.

Mark sobbed and walked away in a daze of confusion. He was guided into the back of the ambulance and treated for shock en route.

 

The neighbour, Molly Page, helped the weeping Rosemary back inside and sat her down at the kitchen table. She sat opposite and held Rosemary’s hands. She was uncertain what had happened but had seen the little boy’s ruined arms before she looked away.

            – Have a good cry, my love. I’ll make some tea, shall I?

Rosemary looked at her as if in surprise to see a stranger in her own kitchen and nodded. Mrs Page busied herself with a familiar task in an unfamiliar setting, keeping an eye on Rosemary. Words seemed useless. There was nothing to say. Nothing which could be said. The women sat together in silence, their tea cooling in cups in front of them.

 

Cory was rushed into surgery. Mark was guided to a secluded room and made to sit. He was given two tablets of a fast-acting tranquilliser. A male nurse waited with him, ready to answer questions if possible and to summon assistance if needed. Cory’s stumps were washed and cleaned of debris. The hands had been severed about an inch above the wrists. In order to make viable stumps from both an aesthetic and practical viewpoint, an additional inch and a half of bone was removed and the stumps closed. The surgeon hoped the healed stumps would look presentable, well-rounded and with as little scarring as possible on the underside of the stumps. Toddlers healed quickly from trauma and their scars often faded to near invisibility. The boy would later grow hair which would further conceal the closure scars. Cory’s forearms had been reduced by half their length. Perfect for prosthetic use. The surgeon was satisfied with his work after three hours and went to explain to the parent what he had done. 

            – There is little you can do here at the moment, Mr Brady. Your son is sleeping and we will keep him sedated for several days. Here is a number you can call with any enquiries about your son and here is the number of a helpline which you and your wife may find useful. It is staffed mainly by other parents who have experienced trauma similar to what you are currently going through. Your son is now an amputee but I see no reason why he should not succeed with prosthetic limbs, being so young. It is unlikely that such a young child will genuinely remember the accident. It is traumatic for you and your wife, less so for your son. The less you and your wife refer to the injury as something exceptional, the better your son will recuperate. Talk to those other parents.

 

Mark waited an additional twenty minutes before he suggested he should return home. The nurse summoned a taxi and a bewildered young father left the hospital. Mrs Page was waiting for him at home. Rosemary had taken sleeping tablets and was upstairs lying down. She had quickly popped home and brought the lasagne she had made the previous day. She had also made a pile of sandwiches with what she found in the fridge.

            – How is he, Mark? Is he going to be alright?

            – The doctor said he’s an amputee. I can’t get it out of my head. He said he’ll be wearing artificial arms for the rest of his life. He’s going to have hooks instead of hands, Molly! I can’t stand it. I’m going mad. What can I do?

            – Calm down, Mark. There’s nothing you can do. You have to let nature take its course. Cory will soon be better and back home. You have to make him feel loved and cherished like before. He won’t understand what’s happened to him but I know that children make a fast recovery from all sorts of things. Especially when they’re as young as Cory. You have to be strong for Rosemary too. Don’t forget her in your worry for Cory. She’s taking a nap at the moment. I gave her a couple of sleeping pills. Let her rest for now.

            – You’ve been very kind, Molly. Thank you.

            – Are you going to be alright now? My old man will want some supper so I ought to get back before long, but if there’s any way we can help – if you need some company, you can come in next door – just knock on the door. Try not to worry, love. Cory is on the mend. It’ll be alright. You’ll see.

 

S I X   M O N T H S   L A T E R

 

Cory spent five weeks in the hospital. He was transferred to a paediatric ward after the first week and turned out to be quite a handful despite his heavily bandaged arms. His parents both received time off from their jobs and singly or together spent much of each day with him, reading stories or looking at picture books of butterflies and beetles. They became accustomed to seeing the bandaged truncated arms, although their shame and distaste never waned. Neither of them had seen Cory’s naked stumps yet.

 

Cory’s stumps shrank to an acceptable size for him to be fitted with artificial cosmetic hands. Their only purpose was to make the lad appear as normal as possible. He disliked wearing them.

            – Mummy!  These fingers don’t move. What’s wrong with them?

His parents persuaded him to wear them when they visited the grandparents or Rosemary’s sister. Cory’s hooks were still a little too shocking for polite company. He had a pair of artificial arms fitted, attached to a harness and terminating in fat pink fingers. Cory took to them like a duck to water. He found out how to work the fingers on his own, by stretching his back and shrugging his arms. It was a funny way to do things at first but after a few weeks, it was like he had never done anything else. Mummy helped him put the hooks on every morning and then he could go and play in the garden with his cars and things.

 

It was time to enrole Cory in a kindergarten. Rosemary had recovered from her depression and wanted to return to work as a sub-editor. Cory was three and a half and it was time he had more contact with other children his age. For the first time, the Bradys found it necessary to plead on behalf of their amputee son for something any other child would be granted without a thought.

            – He uses his hooks just like kids use their hands. He doesn’t appear disabled in any way unless you actually see his hooks. There’s nothing he won’t try and if he finds the hooks inconvenient, he slips them off and uses his stumps.

            – It’s very irregular, Mrs Brady. He should ideally be in a special school for the disabled.

            – But they don’t take new pupils until the age of seven and the closest is fifteen miles away. We can’t wait that long or manage daily journeys like that.

            – I suppose we could take Cory for a probational period. If we find we cannot cope with the boy’s disability after four weeks, we’ll have to ask you to transfer him elsewhere.

            – That’s very kind of you. Thank you very much. I’m sure Cory will fit in with the other children.

 

Cory did fit in. On the first morning, their teacher asked him to come to the front of the group of twelve under-fives and show off his special hands. The children watched in wonder as Cory opened his hooks and pulled his shirt sleeves up so they could see the pink plastic sockets. He was very proud of them and sat down again with the little group of boys who reached out to touch his arms. Soon the children were invited to choose a toy from the play box. Cory picked out a toy crane with little handles on the side which could be turned to raise and lower the jib and operate the scoop. The teacher had been asked to keep an eye on Cory and report back on his progress. So far, he was her favourite of all the boys. He not only behaved as if his disability did not exist, but was open, lively and was a beautiful boy too. He had a mass of curly blond hair and dark eyes. He was going to be a ladykiller. She watched him raise the jib of his toy crane with a hook and made a note – Dexterity: normal.

 

Cory soon made friends. There was a pretty girl he liked but his best friends were Jamie and Eric. Eric said he had a Scalextric at home and that Cory could come and race cars with him if he wanted. It was the first thing Cory spoke of when he got home.

            – Eric wants me to race his Scalatrix cars, mummy. Can I go round to his house, please?

            – Where does Eric live?

            – I’m not sure.

            – Well, if you’re a good boy, you can go home with him after school and race cars with him. But I must write a note for Eric’s mummy so she knows it’s OK for you to be there. Promise you’ll give her the note?

            – Yes mummy. I promise.

            – Good boy. What would you like for tea? Beans or bubble and squeak?

            – Is it beans on toast?

            – Yes.

            – That’s what I’d like, please. Beans are my favourite.

Cory had the habit of picking up the slice of toast and nibbling away at the edges while beans dripped off it onto his plate. When the toast was gone, he swivelled a spoon around until he could grip it and used it to eat his remaining beans.

 

Rosemary wrote a brief note to Eric’s mother. She thanked her for letting her son visit her home and explained his disability. She asked her not to make any special dispensations for Cory but to treat him like any of Eric’s other playmates. She would love to host Eric in turn, perhaps for tea one day.

 

Eric and Cory marched down the road from school to Eric’s house hand in hook. Eric explained all about motor racing and who his favourite was. Cory knew what a Scalectrix was but had never played with one before. Eric said he would show him and then they could race their cars. They reached the house and Eric used his key to open the front door. His mother peered out from the kitchen and saw two little boys.

            – Hello! Who are you?

            – This is Cory, mum. He’s my friend from school. We’re going to play with my Scalextric.

Cory knew you should always shake hands and say hello. He proffered his right hook and Eric’s mum grasped it automatically. She immediately recoiled.

            – Oh, good heavens above! You gave me such a surprise.

            – I have hooks instead of hands.

He lifted them up for inspection.

            – But it’s alright. You don’t need to be afraid of them.

            – Well, I’m glad to hear it. Eric, take your shoes and jacket off and help Cory. I expect you’d like a piece of cake, wouldn’t you? Go upstairs and I’ll come up in a moment.

Cory fished around in his pocket until the hook grabbed Rosemary’s note. He held it out for Eric’s mum.

            – Thank you, Cory. What’s this? Oh, I see. That’s thoughtful of her.

 

            – She’s nice, your mum, isn’t she?

            – Well, she’s quite nice. Do you want the blue car or the red car?

 

Every eighteen months, Cory’s prostheses needed renewal. The boy grew fast and his stumps kept pace with the rest of his body. At the age of seven, he was on his third pair of prostheses and his prosthetist asked him if he wanted the same kind of pink fingers as on his old pair or if he would like a pair of steel hooks like the grown-up boys wore. Cory immediately chose the steel hooks. A pair of junior hooks was placed on order and new sockets in a slightly more realistic flesh tone were crafted. Three weeks later, Mark took his son to collect his new arms and was surprised to see the steel hooks.

            – What’s going on here? Why are the hooks like this?

            – Oh, I assumed you knew. Cory said he’d like steel hooks from now on rather than the plastic covered models.

            – Good grief. They look so adult. Well, if that what the boy wants, that’s what he shall have. This is one area where I really feel out of my depth.

            – Children grow up, Mr Brady. We can’t keep them as we would like them. This is one of the unique transitions a young amputee can make. Wait and see – he’ll soon have a pair of sockets with his favourite metal band’s logos plastered all over them.

            – God forbid. Is this what you ordered, Cory?

            – Yeah. That’s alright, isn’t it? I can’t wait to try them out. They look really good.

            – Come on, then, young man. Take those off and let’s see if these fit you.

Cory shrugged his harness off and pulled his stumps out of the unnatural pink sockets. The new ones looked more natural and they were less shiny than the old pair. The prosthetist fitted the new pair and adjusted straps on the harness.

            – Lift your arms for me. Open the hooks. OK. Now see if you can twist the hooks around for me. I need to check the cable. Open the hooks again. Do they feel loose? They look alright to me. Will you call me if they don’t feel right, Cory? Only you can tell. You know the sort of thing. If you go to pick something up off the floor but the hook doesn’t close. That sort of thing. Give me a call, alright?

            – Yup. Thanks very much.

Cory opened and closed the hooks, pleased with the metallic click they made on closing. The plastic fingers did not make a sound like that. He felt like a big boy now with the new steel hooks. They were really special. Mark watched his son testing them and saw the pleasure in his eyes. No-one would ever have wished such a fate for his beautiful son but he was intensely proud of him and realised that without the maiming, none of his and Rosemary’s constant pride nor Cory’s own continual sense of achievement would have ever happened.

            – Ready, Sunshine? Let’s go and show mummy your grown-up hooks. Thank you, doctor.

 

Rosemary was surprised when her boy walked in with steel hooks glinting in the afternoon sunlight.

            – What the devil? Cory! Did you ask for those?

            – Yeah, it’s what the big boys wear.

            – Oh good grief. And so you’re a big boy now, are you, young man?

Cory raised his arms and opened his hooks at her twice.

            – What’s for tea?

 

S I X   Y E A R S   L A T E R

 

Cory grew tall. His gangly teenage frame changed month by month. He reached puberty early and slowly his adult features began to emerge. His chin became stronger and his forehead broadened. A light blond fuzz appeared on his cheeks. His mother noticed it and loved it when Cory stood against the sun, his face outlined by his oncoming beard. She had not seen her son naked for two years but knew from her husband that Cory was showing other signs of puberty. They still showered together, Mark seeing to things like ears and toes which Cory could not easily manage with his stumps. It was a good time for them to talk about the birds and the bees and morning erections and ejaculations and masturbation. Mark explained the latter and answered Cory’s halting questions. But there was nothing wrong with it. All men did it. It felt good. Cory’s stumps were a tad too short to reach his genitals unless he sat. But now he knew about wanking and that it was alright. Mark was pretty certain that his double amputee son would find a way to satisfy himself soon enough, no problem.

 

Cory was already almost as tall as his father. He was five foot nine at thirteen. He might well be over six foot by the time he left school. He began to show an interest in sport. Since he had moved to high school, his phys ed teacher had let him off athletics, handing him a football and telling him to go and kick it around in the yard instead. He ran around, stumps flailing to keep balance, kicking the ball and persuading it to go where he wanted. An almighty kick usually landed it in the back of the goal. The teacher watched him for a minute or two while fetching some equipment from the storeroom and was impressed with his skill. He had not given much credence to the amputee before. Now he thought about asking the lad if he would be interested in joining the school’s football team. It needed a decent striker.

 

Cory was a popular classmate. He was clever without being a swot. His favourite subject was science, especially biology. His arts and crafts teacher was interested in Cory’s drawing technique. Not having the same range of motion as other students, Cory had developed a style reminiscent of cubism. He had produced some interesting work using charcoal. The teacher graded Cory on his ideas rather than on concrete results. There were several things which Cory could not be expected to do – linocuts, throwing pottery – but he stood by at a sensible distance and watched his friends, making suggestions and asking questions, learning. Cory had no memory of being able to feel and never asked what it was like to plunge your hands into a lump of spinning clay. But he watched and learned, never missing his hands. He used hooks, liked the look of them and knew no other way of being.

 

T H R E E   Y E A R S   L A T E R

 

Cory was depressed at not being able to find a Saturday job. All his friends had managed to get at least something, helping out in a supermarket or at a filling station. For the first time in his life, he began to experience societal prejudices against the visibly disabled. There was no reason he would be unable to work at a check-out desk, for example. He had asked at three local supermarkets and been told that they had no vacancies, hearing later that one of his classmates had landed the job on the same afternoon. He knew why. It was unfair. His mother felt his disappointment more strongly than he did himself.

            – Cory, I’ve got an idea which might get you a bit of pocket money. Your art teacher said you have a unique style of drawing and I was thinking that you could do some drawings and put them on display for sale in a couple of coffee bars in town. You know the sort of thing – medium sized pastels or charcoal works. What do you think?

            – Well, I suppose I could. I’ve got enough time on Saturdays, haven’t I? When all my mates are working.

            – Don’t be down on yourself. Put your jacket on. We’re going out.

            – What? Where?

            – Into town. We’re going to make a day of it. We’ll ask in a few coffee places and wine bars if they’d have some of your stuff on their walls. And then we’re going to the art supplies shop to get you some decent materials. How does that sound?

Cory laughed at his mother’s enthusiasm.

            – OK. You seem to have this all worked out. For what it’s worth, I think it might be a good idea.

            – Of course it is. More people need to see your work.

Cory put on his black leather motorcycle jacket, his main present last Christmas. The metallic zips and buckles matched his hooks perfectly.

 

Two establishments said they would be delighted to see some new work by a young artist. Rosemary had a few examples of Cory’s art which he had produced recently for school projects. They asked for pieces no larger than A–three. One of them suggested always creating three pieces on the same theme in the same style. They often sold best as a set. Cory could charge what he liked but they suggested seventy pounds minimum for a charcoal work. It was an affordable price, even for a complete set of three. If the works proved popular, Cory could up his price.

 

They went to buy some top quality parchment and a range of pastels. Rosemary always loved seeing the rainbows of colour and their hidden promise of even greater beauty. Cory chose what he wanted, pastels, charcoal in several thicknesses and some top quality paper. He knew what subject he would concentrate on. Bugs, beetles and butterflies. He really had only one style – the sweeping curving lines his rigid sockets allowed him. It was unique and distinctive. Cory spent the rest of the weekend searching out subjects.

 

Cory had been on the school football team for two years, first in the Junior Division and now in the Senior. He was one of the tallest boys on the team, fast and agile and an excellent goal scorer. A couple of local newspapers had got wind of the promising young sportsman without hands and featured photo essays of him on their sports pages. Cory played with pleasure. He could be with his friends and teammates and felt one of the gang for once. He usually asked for help tying the laces on his football boots but otherwise he was on a par with the other boys. Those who had known him for years paid his stumps no attention but he showed them off to the others in the showers without self-consciousness. Cory’s forearms were covered in dark hair and his chest and legs were also becoming hairier than his teammates’. His beard remained mostly blond and he shaved once a week. At sixteen years of age, the future adult Cory was becoming apparent.

 

He worked on his pastels. He illustrated butterflies and moths, exaggerating their colour on one wing for artistic effect. The finished pictures were presented to the make-shift galleries in inexpensive glass frames and the owners handed over a few pounds for them, to be deducted from the final sale price. One set sold the following day and Cory received a text message stating that he had a couple of hundred pounds waiting for collection from Café Bolo. Cory wanted to experiment and bought some acrylic paint. He smeared paint on his stumps and used them to create indistinct backgrounds for more detailed work later. It was an interesting technique and he would experiment with it. In the meantime, he produced more butterflies and iridescent beetles.

 

T W O   Y E A R S   L A T E R

 

His hobby turned into almost a business. He dared to offer abstract works to the bistros produced simply by carefully selecting colour and using only his stumps to create credible land and seascapes. His mother watched him working, full of admiration for her son who had recently insisted on growing a moustache, which she felt ambivalent about. There was no other reason for her to dislike it other than it being a symbol of the end of his childhood. Cory was almost an adult. The blond moustache she privately admired was full and curled naturally into a handlebar. In his final year of school, Cory was one of two senior classmates who sported moustaches and Cory’s was by far the more handsome, the more flamboyant, the more impressive. He wore his wavy blond hair long and with the handsome moustache, his leather jacket and steel hooks, he was a stunningly attractive man and she loved him to pieces.

 

The phys ed teacher was sour about Cory withdrawing from the school football team. Cory thought he had explained his situation well enough. There was little time for him to both attend practise at weekends and to work on his art. The teacher’s remark on Cory’s final school report was disparaging and ungrateful.

Cory’s refusal to represent his school is disappointing and does him no credit.

Cory’s father was livid and wrote to the school board to demand an apology but none was forthcoming. Cory himself was not concerned. He could do football but had grown out of it. It was time for something more challenging.

 

He celebrated his eighteenth birthday. He invited his best two friends and the pretty girl whom he had known since play school, Eric, Jamie and Julie. His parents were willing to arrange a proper celebration, to book a cabinet in a posh restaurant, for example, but Cory said he just wanted to be with his friends in the local for a few beers. Mark and Rosemary joined them for the first hour and then left them to their own devices. Mark slipped Cory an extra fifty quid when Rosemary’s back was turned.

            – Buy your friends a round, mate. Make sure Julie gets home safe, understand?

They had a good time. They needed only a couple of pints to start feeling the effects and Jamie was wary of drinking too much. He wanted to be able to drive the next day. The three boys escorted Julie to her home and she kissed Cory, thanking him for inviting her. It was his best birthday surprise.

 

Cory was entitled to update his non-adult prostheses for the last time. This time, the sockets would be adult size and the rest of the components would be better quality, more durable. He also wanted to have black carbon sockets rather than the flesh-tone versions, which were prone to discolouring and accumulating scratches. Cory did not try to keep his arms looking pretty. They took quite a beating and showed it. He called his prosthetist and made an appointment for the following week.

 

Cory and his senior classmates had more or less been dismissed from school. They were supposed to be revising for their final exams in mid-July but most of them started looking around at further education opportunities or actual jobs. Cory was in two minds. He was dubious about studying for three or four years and creating a huge debt and then not being able to find a position because of his disability. It was illegal to discriminate but it happened all the time. Similarly, he was reluctant to take the first job which accepted him. He needed some advice and guidance.

 

He turned up for his appointment with time to spare. He was Dr Carlton Hawkins’ first customer of the day. Hawkins had made Cory’s current pair of arms and remembered him well.

            – How’s life? You’ve got your exams soon, haven’t you?

            – Yeah. It feels like I’m stuck in limbo. I can’t decide whether to study or try to find a job.

            – What would you be interested in doing?

            – Ideally I would like to work in biology. But I’d probably need a degree for that.

            – It’s a dilemma, I know. Right. You know what I’m going to do, so take your shirt off and put those coveralls on. This is the messy bit.

Cory’s stumps had been casted many times before.

            – Have you thought about your new pair? Are you going with the current design?

            – No! I was going to ask if I could have black carbon arms and cuffs. The hooks themselves are OK. We can transfer them from the current pair. And I also want the sockets to extend back around my elbows.

            – I was going to suggest something a bit more macho for you this time. It looks like your arms take a lot of punishment. That’s what I like to see. Well-used prostheses. So yes, black carbon is just the stuff. It’s more durable than that pink stuff. We’ll go with that.

Cory watched Hawkins prepare the plaster moulds for his new sockets.

            – Next time you come in for a new pair of arms, this will all be done digitally. We’ll scan your stumps and feed the data into a three-D printer. Then the sockets are made around the prints. All very high tech. Now we wait for the plaster to dry. It’s not too warm, is it?

            – No, it’s fine.

Hawkins busied himself at his work bench for a few minutes, ticking work procedures off a check list as he completed them.

            – I have a suggestion you might like to think about. Dr Davis is retiring this autumn and we’re all moving to new positions. My apprentice is taking over upper limb prosthetics and he’ll then need an assistant. I was wondering if you might be interested in joining us, Cory.

            – What, work in here, you mean? Making arms for patients?

            – Yes, exactly that. As I said, we’ll soon have some new equipment which will mean less manual work. You’d be studying theory at college two days a week and then three days here doing practical work. The course lasts two and a half years, after which you’d be taken on as a qualified upper limb prosthetist. I think with your experience with prosthetic arms, you’d be the best possible candidate we could hope to find.

            – That sounds fantastic. I’d love to work here.

            – Well, think it over. It’ll be a couple or three months before the next course starts and you’d have to get decent grades in your exams first, especially for science and maths and English. Dr Davis will make the final decision and will want to interview you but he’s relying on my judgment to find a suitable candidate. We want an amputee, you see. A bit of positive discrimination there, so don’t let on.

            – No, I won’t mention that. It works both ways, obviously.

            – It does. So think it over. I can’t say anything about the salary or the cost of the course, if any. Those are things to discuss with Dr Davis. Will you let me know one way or the other when you come to collect your new prostheses? I’ll try to make sure Dr Davis is also present and you can have a chat with him then. Talk to your parents about it too. Don’t leave them in the dark.

            – No, I wouldn’t do that. This is great news. I’m really excited.

            – Don’t get too carried away just yet, Cory. But if you get good exam results, I’d say we’ll be seeing you here in September if you want to join us.

Hawkins removed the casts from Cory’s stumps and washed the traces of plaster off with warm water.

            – That’s all for this time, Cory. It’ll be about ten days before the new set is ready. I’ll send you a text message.

            – Thanks very much, Dr Hawkins.

Cory put on his T-shirt and donned his beat-up old prostheses. He was already looking forward to getting the shiny new pair with black sockets. He had a lot to look forward to.

 

G A R D E N I N G