DECKARD’S WOODEN LEG

 

DECKARD’S WOODEN LEG

A tale of self‑reliance by strzeka (12/24)

 

Richard Arthur Philpot stood six foot three on his seventeenth birthday. He leaned down to inspect his face in his shaving mirror to see if he had missed anything. He rinsed his face, bared his teeth in a mock grimace and chuckled. His green eyes crinkled at the corners. He wiped the remains of shaving foam from his face and stood up straight, distracted by a dull ache in his left shin. It felt like a bruise but there was no discolouration. He rubbed it and ignored it.

 

            – Good morning, darling! Happy birthday. What would you like for breakfast?

            – Morning. Just the usual, thanks mum. Two sugars, please.

            – Alright. Sit down and breakfast will be in two ticks. Anything special planned for today?

            – Well, Mr Evans wants us at practice by ten thirty but other than that, nothing planned.

            – Oh yes. I’d forgotten about that. It’s strange he wants you there on a Saturday, isn’t it? What’s that in aid of?

            – I think he wants to go through the whole work in the actual hall so he can check the acoustics.

            – Yes, I expect so. Are you looking forward to it? The concert, I mean, not the practice.

            – Of course I am. A bit nervous though.

            – That’s perfectly natural. Don’t worry about it. Here’s your bacon and eggs.

            – Thanks.

 

St Mary’s Chapel had been built in the late nineteenth century and had immediately been ridiculed for its enormous size. It could seat a congregation of three hundred, which at the time of its construction was almost the entire village. Banford had grown considerably since then, especially in the nineteen fifties when bombed out east enders were offered council houses, red brick semi‑detached three bedroom homes, rows of which still blighted every English suburb. The chapel had one redeeming feature. The chapel had been carefully preserved over the decades in order to maintain its unexpectedly excellent acoustics and had gained a reputation as an ideal venue for classical performances.

 

Richard checked his instrument was securely seated in its enormous black case and snapped the locks closed. Taking care not to bash it against a door frame, he carried it to rest next to the front door and called out a goodbye to his mother. She peered out of the kitchen and checked he was suitably wrapped up. It was cold out and there had been a frost. She chided herself for still acting like a mother hen guarding her chick against the big bad world. Despite his size and apparent maturity, Richard was still a child, her child.

            – Take care out there, Richard. It might be slippery.

            – I will. I’ll see you about two o’clock.

 

Richard opened the door and manoeuvred his cello out. He faced a half mile walk to the chapel. The pavement still had spots of frost on it. Richard paid them little attention. He favoured his right side in an attempt to lessen the bruised sensation in his left shin. It was annoying not to put his full weight on it. His cello was not especially heavy but still required two sturdy legs to carry. When he arrived at St Mary’s, he was beginning to limp but the rehearsal and the anticipation of the  following week’s concert put the matter from his mind.

 

Most of the orchestra was already in place. Mr Evans greeted him in the disconcerting way teachers often did outside school hours. It made Richard feel more grown‑up, sort of special. It was a hint of what being an adult might be like. Richard took his coat off and stuffed his beanie into a pocket. He said hello to everyone he passed in order to position himself in his accustomed spot and set up his cello, screwing its steel support into the bottom of the instrument. He tuned it, loving its deep resonance and timbre.

 

Deckard was a nickname from school, ever since his classmates tried inventing new names for themselves when they were fourteen. Richard Arthur became Dick Art and then Deckard, after a character in a sci fi film which had aired recently. Unlike the other invented names, most of them obscene, Deckard had stuck. It seemed more grown‑up and suited Philpot, who was easily the tallest boy in their class. He had toyed with the idea of changing his surname to Deckard. He disliked Philpot. But he had no idea how to change his name. It was one of those things you just had to put up with.

 

Mr Evans walked by and stopped to listen to Richard’s tuning and a few trial chords. He approved and smiled. Richard had a good ear, as the saying had it. He could tell instantly if a note was slightly off key and took pride in the fact that his cello was always impeccably tuned. The remaining members of the orchestra arrived and found their places. By eleven o’clock, the orchestra was ready. Mr Evans reminded them that this was a dress rehearsal, that they would be playing the entire piece from beginning to end without interruptions or pauses. The orchestra members understood and watched Mr Evans for their cue to begin the performance of Elgin’s Cello Concerto.

 

Richard’s cello featured immediately and prominently. His long fingers moved skilfully and coaxed the music from his instrument. He alternated his weight from one foot to the other unconsciously emphasising brief passages where appropriate. His left shin felt as if someone had kicked him. There was no time to worry about it. His mind concentrated on the progression of the concerto.

 

Mr Evans was satisfied and congratulated his young musicians. There had been two glaring discordant mistakes but the offending members acknowledged their errors and promised it would not happen again. Evans said he was glad to hear it. In fact, he was impressed by the performance. Only the most knowledgeable audience members would have noticed. He spent a few minutes answering questions and assured the orchestra that he was quite sure they would surpass themselves during tomorrow evening’s concert. The hall had sold out and a few standing patrons might be allowed.

 

Richard left his cello at St Mary’s. It was locked in a storage cupboard with other cumbersome instruments. He caught a bus home. His leg was becoming distinctly uncomfortable. Bending his ankle up and down actually hurt his shin. It seemed strange that the front of his leg was sore and not the muscles in the calf. There was no sign of a bruise, though.

 

Richard’s problem was a rare bone cancer which often lay dormant for months, growing slowly but surely. It was not metastatic and affected only concentrated areas of bone tissue. However, it eventually became aggressive and one of its symptoms was localised pain, like a bruise. It weakened bone tissue and was most often discovered in x‑rays after a fracture revealed tissue abnormality.

 

Neither of Richard’s parents had any great love for Elgar’s music. They owned a few recordings of classical music and his mother had once enjoyed listening to Mozart while she ironed. Once or twice, Bach once provided an elegant background when they entertained but they had both changed jobs since then and their present colleagues were not the type of people one would voluntarily invite into one’s home. But the concert in St Mary’s was unmissable. They had seen how much time their talented son, whose love of the classics was a mystery to them, had devoted to learning the cello and after seeing how much pleasure he derived from the instrument which had stood taller than the boy himself, they decided to support him and had altered their schedules to ferry the boy to practice and rehearsals with his over‑sized cello, which itself had cost as much as a decent second hand car.

 

This time the orchestra performed perfectly. There was room for improvement in the timbre of the violins, for example, possible by investment in much more expensive instruments. The same applied to the wind instrument section which never achieved the rich resonance which typified professional performances, But the concerto sounded magnificent in the village hall, an unexpected treat in a minor venue in a minor bedroom community. The audience applauded for four minutes, and Richard wished they would stop because his leg was really hurting and he wanted to sit down to take the weight off it. His mother noticed his discomfort for the first time in her son’s face and determined to ask him later what was wrong.

 

Richard arrived home an hour later, carrying his unwieldy instrument case. Its weight had caused him to favour his left foot resulting in a limp. His mother watched him remove his shoes and inspect his shin again, looking for the source of the pain.

            – That was a wonderful performance, wasn’t it? Did you enjoy yourself?

            – It was fine. Mr Evans had a chat with us after the audience had left and he said we played better than ever.

            – I think it’s true. Richard, you didn’t look very happy. Is there something wrong?

            – I’ve got this funny pain in my leg. It doesn’t hurt unless I put weight on my ankle. I keep thinking it must be bruised but I can’t see anything.

            – How long has this been going on?

            – About six weeks.

            – Oh! Why didn’t you say something about it before? You are silly. Have you knocked it somehow? Did something fall on your leg?

            – No, nothing like that. I don’t think so.

            – Look, I think you ought to let a doctor look at it. Would you like me to make an appointment for you?

            – Well, yeah. I suppose so. It’s starting to really hurt now.

 

His mother looked at his shin and agreed there were no outward signs of bruising. She used the health system app to book an appointment with her GP, eight days hence. It was the first stage of a months long process which would shake their comfortable suburban lives to ruins.

 

Christmas fell in the intervening period. Richard, an only child, spent as much of the time as possible with his parents, having been chided a couple of years ago for gaming alone in his bedroom. Christmas presents, almost exclusively books, were distributed and Richard received a pair of the latest trainers which he had expressed a wish for. A large turkey roasted to perfection for seven hours on Christmas Day, starting at the ungodly hour of five in the morning. Its aroma filled the lower floor of the house. The family had always preferred turkey and Richard’s mother served it with a wide variety of sauces and relishes for variety. It was an enjoyable holiday, low‑key but relaxing.

 

Richard’s mother accompanied him to the doctor’s appointment. She briefly described Richard’s symptoms and apologised for presenting such a seemingly minor problem. The doctor, however, was aware of bone cancer in otherwise healthy teenagers and listened to Richard describe how he had first noticed the ‘bruise’ and how the symptoms had developed. Without wishing to cause alarm, he professed himself uncertain of the cause and suggested that the best course might be for an x‑ray to make sure Richard’s tibia did not have a hairline fracture, which might well cause similar discomfort. It was a white lie. There was something more serious going on but he did not have the equipment nor expertise to delve into the matter further. The hospital appointment was made for the very next afternoon when Richard was to announce himself to the oncology department for x‑rays.

 

Oncology was a vaguely familiar term, the meaning of which evaded them. Mrs Philpot assumed it had something to do with x‑rays and the like and by the time she and Richard arrived back home from the hospital, they had both forgotten the word and explained to Mr Philpot that their son was to see some specialists the next day for more tests. They returned the next morning. Richard’s x‑rays had been pored over and the general consensus among the oncologists was one of the non‑metastasising cancers which could either be treated with lengthy and expensive radiology or by a much less expensive amputation. The presence of active cancer cells would seal Richard’s fate. More tests were needed and with any luck, the cancer could be eradicated and the boy would be fitted with a prosthetic lower leg.

 

Richard, accompanied by his mother again, was welcomed by one of the oncologists and his situation was explained.

            – You see, the x‑rays pictures only show us what your shin bone looks like. It seems to us that there is a kind of discolouring of the bone itself and whatever it is, that’s what has been causing you pain. We’d like to take a closer look at it and take a few tests. Don’t worry—it won’t hurt. We’ll scrape a few cells off your shin bone and have a good look at them. Is that OK? Mrs Philpot, there’s no point in you sitting around any longer. We’re admitting Richard, and he’ll be here at least overnight.

            – Oh! I had no idea. Richard darling, don’t worry. The doctors will do everything for you.

            – Of course we will. Well, if you’re ready, we’ll show you to your bed and get started.

 

Richard was confused by the speed at which everything seemed to be going. His bed? Was he being admitted to hospital? And staying overnight? What was going on? It must be more serious than he had thought. The doctor was trying to get rid of his mother, reciting platitudes about wanting to be sure and having nothing to worry about.

 

Richard quickly became a favourite of the working staff. He was not only their youngest patient, he was compliant, inquisitive and intelligent on top of his physical attributes. His doctors convened to agree on a plan of diagnostics, after which they would meet again to discuss their options.

 

Richard’s leg received a local anaesthetic and a doctor obtained a two cubic millimetre sample of his bone tissue. Microscopic analysis revealed active, living cancer cells which were further studied to reveal their exact nature. It was not good. The cancer was not especially dangerous at this stage but it was resistant to treatment by both chemical and radiological methods. His doctors considered the boy’s youth and stamina and decided that the quickest way to return him to full health and an active life would be amputation of his foot and lower leg, some eighteen centimetres above his ankle. His calf muscles would be reshaped to cushion the severed bone and with luck, the patient might be fitted with a below‑knee prosthesis within eight weeks.

 

His doctor retrieved the standard explanation from the hospital server and reviewed it, noting the most assuring progression of the conversation and preparing himself to break the news to the handsome young future amputee.

 

            – Hello, Richard. How are you feeling?

            – I’m OK. Getting hungry.

            – Ah well, breakfast should be on its way but I think it would be better this morning to stick to water, tea or juice. You see, we may take you in to surgery a little later this morning and it’s better if your tummy is empty for that.

            – Surgery? Why’s that? Have you found something serious?

            – Sorry to say that we have.

The doctor explained what the bone sample had revealed. He described the reason for the pain in Richard’s leg and, in accordance with the decision to amputate, assured him that it was a persistent strain of the disease, difficult to eradicate by normal methods and that its successful treatment could easily take years. In fact, some patients described the cure as worse than the disease. He paused to let that sink in.

            – But there’s another way, Richard. It might sound shocking and we will need one of your parents to approve.

            – What is it? Are you going to cut my leg off?

            – I see you’re ahead of the game. Yes, I’m afraid the best way forward as we see it is to amputate your lower leg from about mid‑shin to prevent the cancer from spreading any further. And with any luck, you’ll have an artificial foot within a few weeks. I’m sure that a guy as fit and young as yourself will take it all in stride and be back on your feet well before summer.

 

Richard was silent while he processed this new information. It was not what he had expected to hear but he had imagined something similar when he lay awake at night in pain. He knew doctors sometimes cut limbs off if there was cancer. Now they wanted to do it to him and judging from what his doctor was saying, they were ready to do it right now. He was going to lose his leg! But the pain would be gone. He tried to imagine what the artificial foot might look like but had no real idea, never having seen anybody wearing one. Although that was unlikely. He had probably seen lots of people wearing an artificial foot but had never noticed. There was nothing obvious or special about them. The realisation reassured his mind and he looked the doctor in the eyes.

            – OK. You can cut my foot off if you need to.

            – Thank you, Richard. It means a lot to us to have your approval. Unfortunately we have to get the permission of at least one of your parents.

            – Ask my dad. My mum might be too upset and would waste time thinking about it.

            – We can send him a permission form for confirmation by email if you know his email address.

Richard dictated it and the doctor thanked him. He summoned a nurse while he sent an email, its standard text also retrieved from the server. Mr Philpot need only sign the form electronically and the operation could be underway. The nurse chatted with Richard, not knowing that the boy was facing the imminent loss of his left foot.

            – What’s it like to have an artificial foot?

            – Ah! Is that what they’re planning? Well, there’s nothing to worry about. You’ll place your stump into a socket which has a foot at the end. You can put your favourite trainers on it and after you get used to the feel of it on your leg, you’ll be walking around like anyone else.

            – So no‑one else could tell it’s an artificial foot?

            – Only if you make a big show of limping on purpose or if you wear your jeans folded up so the leg shows. Some people do that. They like to show off their artificial legs.

            – I’ve never seen anyone doing that.

            – No. There aren’t many amputees who like to announce it to everybody.

            – I don’t know if I would.

            – Well, you’ll have the choice. You can either look completely normal or show off a bit. Have a bit of fun with it.

            – I might just do that.

 

Mr Philpot phoned his wife with the unwelcome news.

            – Apparently, if they operate now, they feel certain they’ll catch all of the cancer before it spreads any further along his leg or deeper into the bone. I’m not happy with the situation but I think that Richard’s old enough to face it and I don’t see why he shouldn’t come through it all with shining colours with a bit of support from us. The hospital needs my signature for approval, you see, and I want to know your opinion before I give my consent.

            – This is all very sudden, isn’t it?

            – I suppose they need to act fast in cases like this. I think we should give them the go‑ahead. What do you think?

            – I’m too dazed to think straight.

            – Well, look at it this way. Richard can be back home with us in a few weeks recovering or stuck in chemotherapy for the next two years or however long it takes, and you know what cancer treatment does to the body. I think he’ll be better off with an amputation and an artificial foot.

            – Alright, I agree. Sign for me too, if you can. I give my consent.

            – I’m sure we’re doing the right thing. I love you.

            – Love you too.

Mrs Philpot ended the call and burst into bitter tears.

 

Philpot senior’s consent was all the medical team needed. A surgical theatre had been reserved and the senior surgeon had delegated the operation to one of his younger colleagues. The patient was strong and otherwise healthy. There was no reason to anticipate problems. The procedure was straightforward enough, well practised and the patient would be up and about after two or three days.

 

Richard’s x‑rays revealed clearly enough the limit of he cancer. To be certain of excising it all, Richard’s tibia was severed four centimetres beyond the extent of the diseased tissue. In the miasma created by the bone saw, three malignant cells floated into the air and landed on the exposed tip of the bone in the patient’s fresh stump. Two of the cells died immediately on contact with oxygen but the third, shielded by the other two, survived. The surgeon closed the wound, protecting the lone cancer cell from atmospheric oxygen. A nurse continued the procedure with neat sutures and bandaged the fresh stump tightly. Richard was returned to the ward and allowed to sleep. The lone cancer cell divided after twenty minutes. So did the daughter cells. When he awoke eight hours later, there were eight million cancer cells doubling in number at the end of his stump.

 

As promised, he was allowed out of bed on the third morning. The stump was healing in perfect order. The wound was no longer weeping, inflammation did not present a problem at this stage and there were no obvious changes to the intended shape of the stump. Richard had not seen his naked stump yet and was curious to see it. It was bandaged tightly and seemed to extend a third the length of his shin. He tried to imagine himself walking on crutches. He thought he might prefer the long wooden sort rather than the elbow crutches which made an annoying clacking noise. Several of his classmates had turned up at school with a broken leg or ankle and almost the entire class had tried walking on crutches at one time or other.

 

There was the more advanced alternative—an artificial leg. Richard knew nothing about them, not even how one might attach to his stump. Did they glue it on somehow? What kept it on? He supposed he would find out soon enough. He could have googled it but preferred to hear what his doctor had to say before he got his hopes up.

 

Richard’s parents visited every day and a couple of his friends from school dropped in with a Get Well Soon card signed by everyone with some obscene comments. Reports of the footless shin and bandaged stump were relayed to everyone and his friends looked forward to Richard’s return on a wooden leg. The school had been founded thirty‑five years previously and Richard was the first amputee student.

 

In the grand scheme of things, his disease struck at the most accommodating period of his life, assuming that it was inevitable and unavoidable. It was much easier to miss a few weeks of school and catch up later than to miss the same time when he was studying at university or in a job. He was young enough to be ignorant of complications like phantom pain, bone spurs, poorly fitting sockets causing ulcers, stump shrinkage and all the other minor and major complaints amputees were susceptible to. His mind was curious about what it would be like to be a one‑legged man, an amputee, a cripple, a spaz. It depended on how other people regarded him. If he was on good terms with them, there would be no reason to denigrate him behind his back. He did not have any real enemies. There were boys at school who did not like him but it was due to envy. Richard was good‑looking and the rat‑faced pimply off‑spring of chronically impoverished generations sometimes called him toffee‑nose or stuck up. Richard ignored them but expected that they would gain some petty satisfaction in seeing him disabled, stricken by a bone disease with a long name.

 

He was discharged eight days after his amputation, kitted out with the long wooden crutches he preferred. His stump was still tightly bandaged but invisible inside the leg of his jeans where only the absence of a left foot revealed the reason for the crutches. His father collected him and carried his dirty laundry to the family car. His mother had spent days planning the celebratory meal consisting all Richard’s favourite foods. It was like a Christmas dinner in the middle of a February week. Richard was a little embarrassed about the fuss being made of him but instead of protesting, he simply enjoyed the extra attention and regarded it as compensation for the inconvenience of not being able to walk properly. It was slowly sinking in that he would never walk properly again, ever. He would always need an artificial leg and his doctor had emphasised the inconvenient need to keep his stump clean and healthy at all times.

 

Richard spent an extra week at home until the tedium became overbearing and his mother’s awkward attention started to pall. He was physically disabled, not a mental case. It was an introduction to the prevailing mindset amongst people who had never met an amputee. He had noticed it a couple of times when he accompanied his parents on their weekly grocery shop. People averted their eyes, not wanting to be caught staring at the cripple. He wished he already had his artificial foot thing so he could blend in like any other teenager.

 

Two weeks passed but Richard had returned to school and had either been accepted back as a hero by his friends who were fascinated by the hidden stump or as damaged goods by a few of the girls who could not understand how it was possible to show your face in public although one of your feet had actually been cut off. All his friends tried walking with his wooden crutches which were far too long for them. Richard’s abnormal height ensured that. Gradually, Richard discovered the most comfortable ways to use the crutches and developed an elegant rhythm as he swung himself along beside his friends. He could easily keep up with them and his friends stopped concentrating on his disability through the simple pleasure at having the old Richard back.

 

His rehabilitation began with the first fitting of his artificial leg. All his appointments had been booked for early Saturday mornings in an effort to keep he absences from school to a minimum. But he had to announce himself at eight in the morning to the outpatient’s department, from where he was directed into the bowels of the building, basement Level Three, where his prosthetist waited for and welcomed him.

 

David Goldshmit was a recently arrived refugee from Israel. After his team of surgeons had been outlawed by the ultra right-wing government for working in Lebanon and Palestine and their headquarters had been ruined financially, they sought asylum from Europe, being refused entry by most of the similarly right-wing governments. Britain still admitted professionals and Goldshmit found employment in London along with three colleagues, replacing British‑born prosthetists who had been coerced to work far beyond their expected pensionable ages. Goldshmit examined Richard’s stump and thought it a simple job. He had seen hundreds if not thousands of similar cases. He had not yet learned British habits well enough to know that a certain degree of useless small talk was expected but Richard was still too young to know what to expect from doctors like this extremely hairy expert with a huge black beard, impossibly dark eyes and a gleaming pate. He held his stump out and Goldshmit held it gently in his powerful hands, trying to feel the underlying layout of the muscles and the extent of Richard’s tibia.

 

            – I think this is clear. I make you a socket which support on your patella, here.

Goldshmit described an arc under Richard’s kneecap.

            – It will be black carbon. To it I will fix a short pylon, a short steel piece and it will have your foot. Wait! I show you.

Goldshmit retrieved a folder containing dozens of slim brochures from various manufacturers and flipped through them until he found the pylon and artificial foot which he envisaged using. The ankle would have no movement. He was of the opinion that new amputees should learn to walk on rigid ankles before advancing to more expensive prosthetics. Richard looked at the illustrations, not expecting to understand the technical terminology. A black socket, then a steel bit, then a rubber foot. He was uncertain but if his prosthetist was offering to make him something like that, he should probably acquiesce and agree. But then the prosthetist showed him an alternative from another manufacturer. The lower part looked more or less identical but there were two bendable steel bars at knee level which linked the lower socket to a big leather cuff which fitted around his thigh. From what he could understand of Goldshmit’s thickly accented speech, the big thigh cuff system was more comfortable because there was no pressure on the patella, which was his kneecap, but it was more inconvenient to put on and take off. Richard asked about pain on the patella, and after being told that it was fairly common, he opted for the long version. He would have to lace it up every morning and it would take time but he was prepared to tolerate it if it meant he would walk without pain.

 

Goldshmit was satisfied with Richard’s choice. The old-fashioned limb would avoid the problems which often beset new prostheses, such as chafing and pistoning, due to the changing size and shape of the fresh stump. Richard’s prosthesis would allow his stump to recover fully, gently held inside the lower section while his healthy thigh took the pressure and weight. Goldshmit spent more time with Richard discussing his prosthetic options until he was certain the boy understood the advantages and disadvantages of his new leg compared with the more usual socket and pylon variety. He placed an order for the necessary components and promised to be as quick as possible. Maybe two or three weeks and Richard would be invited back to test his leather thigh corset before it was attached to the framework of the limb. They shook hands and Goldshmit watched Richard negotiate his way out, striding smartly on his single leg.

 

The artificial leg attracted comment from those involved in manufacturing it because of its unusual length. Goldshmit explained the boy stood a hundred and ninety centimetres tall. The artificial limb extended almost to his groin. Richard was not allowed to see the unfinished prosthesis when he paid a quick visit to try out the long black leather thigh socket. It felt odd and equally reassuring. There were two rows of a dozen brass rings through which he would thread long bootlaces, cinching them tightly at the top of the socket.

 

A week later, he returned to collect his first artificial leg, accompanied by his father. He had remembered to bring a left shoe, as requested. Goldshmit tied it onto the rubber foot before presenting the limb to his patient. He demonstrated how to roll a new liner onto Richard’s stump and how additional socks could be added if the lower leg felt loose. Richard slid his stump deep into the black carbon lower leg and arranged the stiff leather thigh socket around his upper leg. Goldshmit watched as his nimble fingers ran the lace through the eyelets to the top and advised Richard how to tighten the corset so it could not slip. The smell of leather hung heavy in the air. Richard was wearing his new leg for the first time and lifted it to feel its weight and sense how it balanced. He tested it between parallel bars, tentatively at first as he explored the new sensations. The leg felt solid and supportive. He could bend his knee perfectly well up and down but he was unable to twist it from side to side. Steel bracing extending from the top of the thigh corset to halfway down the lower leg effectively prevented any extraneous movement. Richard lifted his prosthesis and fired his leg muscles in an attempt to discover how much movement the leg would allow. He could move his thigh fairly normally but his knee was rigid except for back and forth and of course there was no movement below the knee. He had agreed to accept a rigid ankle and foot on this first prosthesis, understanding that more advanced options were available in the future. He walked back and forth between the bars, impressed by the appearance of his leather and carbon‑covered left leg. Few people would ever see it but he could already imagine how his schoolmates would beg him to display the first artificial leg they had ever seen. Richard felt quite proud of his status as a man with an artificial leg. It was unusual and there was no sign of his stump, or indeed any skin. No‑one would be able to tell how disabled he actually was. His artificial leg disguised it. Goldshmit broke his revery by inviting Richard to sign off for the prosthesis if he was satisfied with it. He could wear it home if he wanted. Goldshmit recommended wearing it only for a few hours until he felt completely comfortable with it. He should contact the lab if there was any discomfort or problem with the mechanical components.

 

Richard had to remove the prosthesis by loosening the thigh corset lacing, removing the prosthesis and the trainer and standing it to one side. He put his natural leg into his jeans’ right trouser leg and fed his artificial foot down the left leg. He replaced the trainer and stood carefully. His father pulled his jeans up for him. Suddenly his son looked completely hale and healthy. He was overcome with empathy and caught his breath in time, staving off tears of emotion.

            – Are you ready, son?

Richard nodded and picked up his crutches. He would carry them and try walking. He limped and rose too high on his toes to clear the way for the prosthesis to swing forward but Goldshmit thought he would quickly adopt a more natural gait.

 

Richard practised walking for the remainder of the weekend. The prosthesis was comfortable but restrictive. The rigid foot was not a great help when rising from a seat and its appearance when seated was distinctly odd, poking up motionlessly in contrast to his natural foot. Millions of cancer cells spread along and around the tip of Richard’s tibia, completely undetected. They had not yet become aggressive, content for the time being to extend the area of their malign presence.

 

As Richard had expected, his schoolmates were overly inquisitive to see his prosthesis on Monday morning. He pulled his trouser leg up to display the new black carbon shin and described the steel knee hinges and the thigh corset which he referred to as a leather socket. People were astonished that his new leg was so long. Despite his hours of practice, Richard walked with a prominent limp, partly due to his unfamiliarity with the prosthesis and partly due to the rudimentary nature of the device itself. The absence of an ankle joint resulted in a distinctive gait, recognisable to those in the know. Richard was pleased with the attention he was getting. His leg itched occasionally but it was futile to try to scratch. It was completely encapsulated in leather and carbon fibre.

 

He was pleased more by being able to return to music practice. Mr Evans had allowed his amateur orchestra some time off after the successful concert at St Mary’s but he planned on introducing shorter passages of comparable works for the musicians to acquaint themselves with. Richard was fortunate in that he customarily played his instrument seated, resting half on, half off a tall stool. Although his bass cello was a large instrument, he was actually too tall to play it while standing anyway. Mr Evans wanted his orchestra to convene for the first new session after school on Thursday. Richard intended attempting to carry the instrument from home himself. Disabled or not, it was a task which was typical of his lifestyle, something he simply needed to tackle himself.

 

Alternate Wednesday afternoons were reserved for football. Three hours of physical exercise out on the playing field in all weathers, no excuses. Richard thought about what to do. He was surely not expected to play alongside his mates but was unsure whether the teacher, Joe Bickle, was aware of his disability. Naturally, the entire teaching staff were aware of Richard Philpot’s disablement and had agreed to cut the lad some leeway. Richard thought he might take the opportunity to show his mates his prosthetic leg in all its shiny black magnificence while they were changing. The distasteful stench of mildew hung around the lockers, from which the boys retrieved their football kit. Richard sat on a bench and changed into his footer gear along with the others who were shortly crowded around him gawping at the contraption he was wearing. Bickle burst into the changing room at that moment and saw the huddle of boys but did not yet realise the reason.

 

            – Stand back! What’s going on here? Ah, Philpot. Good to have you back. Ah, good lord! Do you feel up to playing football?

            – I don’t know, sir. I thought it was best to change in case you wanted me on the field, sir.

            – Well, now you’ve changed, we could make a deal. You can come out with us as a reserve if you want. I’m not going to make you play your usual quarterback. It’s up to you. You can join the game if the captain wants you in. Understand? Is that fair?

            – Yes sir. I’d like to watch the game, sir.

            – Good lad.

 

One of his friends changed his black school brogue for a football boot. Richard could manage the other foot himself. The artificial leg did not bend enough to allow him to reach his foot. The entire group, comprising nearly thirty almost adult players, jogged out onto the football field, followed by Richard who tried jogging across the uneven surface. He went only a few meters before slowing to his new regular style of walking.

 

Richard was not asked to play. He was not disappointed. It had been an enjoyable game with several goals. The opposing team won four three. Some of the boys were distracted by the tall figure standing at the side of the field watching them, kitted out in footer gear and standing on an intriguing black leg.

 

Richard learned to appreciate his artificial leg. The leather thigh corset began to conform to the shape of his leg and was more comfortable. He became accustomed to the unique way of ensuring the lacing was secure all the way along its length and no longer wasted time having to redo it. The restrictive knee joint felt normal and logical and he learned to compensate for his rigid ankle and foot with a slight hitch when walking. He realised he had seen other men walking in the same distinctive manner and now knew the reason why. As a warm spring turned to summer, he began to feel something like a bruise around the end of his stump but there was no sign of abrasions or any external problems. Incredibly, Richard ignored the identical symptoms which he had experienced before his amputation and put them from his mind. To be fair, he had no reason to suspect a recurrence of cancer. He had been assured by his surgeon that he could face the future as a healthy man, albeit disabled with an artificial limb. He was looking forward to summer. He and five friends plus two young teachers had clubbed together and bought an old VW microbus which the more mechanically minded had worked on for months. In July, two days after the end of term, they intended driving to Harwich and crossing to the continent for a tour of the Netherlands, northern Germany , south along the Rhine, across to Luxembourg and through northern France back to Calais and Dover. They had two tents as well as the van with its two bunks.

 

April passed, then interminable May with its weeks and weeks of cramming for the exams in early June. June disappeared in a miasma of hot weather, long hours sitting in the school hall filling paper after paper with essays, scientific theories and mathematical formulae. Suddenly, there was nothing left to do. The exams were over, there were still two weeks until the end of term. The seniors sat outside chatting, planning summer. They were allowed outside during school hours on condition that they remained seated. If anyone was caught lying on the ground merely sunbathing, their privilege would be revoked. Richard sat with his friends, his long prosthetic leg stretched out in front of him and longed to lie back in an effort to relieve the throbbing discomfort in his stump. It was becoming painful to don his liner each morning. The following week, he reverted to walking on crutches, leaving his artificial leg leaning against his bedroom wall. He had started to suspect that there was something more seriously wrong with his stump but the trip abroad was coming up and he would do anything not to miss it. The cancer cells had switched from merely reproducing to destroying healthy bone at the tip of his stump. If they had been discovered at this stage in mid‑summer, a quick re‑amputation may have saved his knee, but Richard was too keen not to miss out on his first visit to four foreign countries with his friends.

 

It was inconvenient to have Richard’s crutches in the microbus so most of the time they were strapped to the roof rack and Richard simply had to hop whenever they stopped for burgers or a toilet break. All his companions were willing to let him hold onto their shoulders. Richard was and always had been one of the most popular boys in the class. He was admired for his good looks and his amazing height and his missing foot made him seem even more enigmatic. Richard was able to ignore the pain from his stump for much of the time, too keen on seeing foreign countryside and pristine foreign towns devoid of rubbish, graffiti and ubiquitous wheelie bins. Apart from old town centres, nowhere seemed to be older than twenty or thirty years. People seemed relaxed. Sleek tramcars moved silently along pedestrianised main streets lined with handsome interesting shops. It all looked oddly familiar and completely foreign at the same time. It was what England might have looked like with town planning, intelligent architecture and an emphasis on public transport. Too late now. Richard enjoyed every minute of it. The pain in his stump would go away.

 

But it did not. He waited yet another week after his return home in early August during which he tried wearing his leg for a day or two before rejecting it again. His mother finally sat him down one morning and questioned him on a subject about which she felt nothing but revulsion. She steeled herself and demanded to know why Richard had preferred using his crutches again for the past two months. What she learned alarmed her more than even she had dreaded.

            – Richard! Don’t you understand? It’s the cancer again! You should have spoken up as soon as you noticed. Why didn’t you say anything?

            – I thought it would go away.

            –Oh Richard! How can you be so naïve? You must have realised what was going on! I’m going to make you an appointment at the hospital right now.

She poked a message into the hospital’s app with trembling hands. She wanted to be angry with her son but her frustration merely raised her blood pressure.

 

She was put through to the surgeon who had performed Richard’s amputation, taking a break in the medics’ common room in a rare interval between operations. He almost bellowed in frustration on learning that the problem had been growing worse for several weeks and summoned Richard to present himself the same day at the hospital’s registration desk. There was absolutely no time to lose.

 

He felt uncomfortably chastised by the frustration evident in everyone’s demeanour. No‑one except his mother had directly criticised him but he knew he had been foolish and was becoming further alarmed by the situation. His surgeon thanked his mother for escorting her son and watched her leave before Richard was wheeled onto a ward, dressed in hospital togs and hurried along for a new series of x‑rays. The tell‑tale shadows were immediately obvious. The same cancer had recurred and presently infected three centimetres of the residual tibia. The diagnosis was correct but its cause was not. The cancer was not a conventional recurrence. It was the result of incompetence during the first amputation. It was the same cancer, merely in a new location. In their determination to prevent any further manifestation, there were two avenues of treatment available. The first was disarticulation of the entire limb from the pelvis. The second was to amputate well above the knee, leaving a stump robust enough to control a prosthetic limb. The medical team discussed their options and decided that disarticulation was overly severe and could be performed at a later stage if necessary. Richard would shortly lose his stump, his knee and half his thigh. He was rolled back to his bed while preparations were made for a femoral amputation later in the afternoon.

 

Fortunately for the surgical staff, the procedure did not require access to the diseased tibia. It was straightforward enough. The patient was the same otherwise healthy strong young man, now only four days short of his eighteenth birthday. A fresh femoral stump was an unlikely way to celebrate the transition from boy to man but it was the reality for Richard. He slept off the effects of the anaesthesia in his own bed on the ward, his new stump bandaged to a ridiculous girth by an over‑zealous young nurse. Electrodes on his upper arm monitored his temperature and oxygen levels and his blood circulation was monitored via a cannula on the back of his right hand. Richard slept his dreamless sleep until early next morning when he awoke, alone in the darkness, wondering where he was and why, until he suddenly remembered and tentatively explored the extent of his leg below the sheet. He still had about half his thigh, thirty‑odd centimetres of stump. In his confused drugged mind, he imagined himself basking on a beach somewhere in the warm sun, naked except for the briefest swimwear, exposing his new stump and surrounded by admirers all eager to see such an unusual and exotic body part.

 

He fell asleep again and dreamed of being back at school, back in music practice, where the entire orchestra comprised one‑legged players. His mind approved the situation. He had been one‑legged for a while but he had had it easy. It was simple to disguise his missing foot with his long steel and leather leg. Now he had only half a thigh, he would be able to present himself to the world as a genuine amputee. He could choose to tuck his trouser leg into his belt and strut around on crutches or learn to walk on a wide variety of extraordinary artificial legs, all clamped somehow to his capable stump. When he reawoke around eight o’clock, his mind had already processed much of the shock of actually seeing his much‑reduced leg. He was still an amputee but now it would be more obvious and he had far less chance of disguising the fact than before. He remembered the crowd of admirers on the beach and understood the attraction. He would make the most of his new legless status and make it something crowds of people would notice and talk about in real life. A nurse brought him some warm tea and a cheese sandwich for breakfast. It tasted of nothing. Richard remembered the hospital meals he had endured on his previous visit and determined to escape back to the real world as soon as humanly possible.

 

The cancer now having been excised from his body, he made a remarkably rapid recovery from major surgery. His appetite returned, useless in the hospital, and he expressed his frustration at needing to wait for his new stump to heal enough to allow his escape back to the real world. It was almost September and he wanted to start his last year of school with the others instead of again being excluded by circumstances. He was looking forward to seeing his friends’ reactions to his genuine one‑legged look when he strode back into school with his empty trouser leg tucked in and his handsome stump concealed enticingly inside it. He felt himself to be a genuine amputee, obviously missing a leg, struggling on with determination and strength. Determination to demonstrate his stump to anyone who wanted to see it and strength to swing an artificial leg from his stump when he finally go round to being allowed to wear one. He had already decided it would be simple steel pylons, skinny and mechanical. When the wind blew, he wanted his trouser leg to reveal the impossible scantiness of his tubular artificial limb.

 

Those schoolmates who had been cool with the initial amputation were fascinated by the second. First of all, it was unheard of for someone to lose their leg twice, although everyone understood the explanation of catching cancer twice. Richard looked pretty much the same on his crutches as he had before the summer holidays except now you could really tell that he only had one leg. Richard was cool with it and his friends accepted him back into their crowd as a returning hero. Even a couple of the girls smiled at him in that almost flirtatious way they had, which they could easily deny later. Richard had appraised himself at home in his new guise. His trouser leg was neatly tucked up into his belt above his butt. He looked superbly handsome directly from the front. His stump was still healing and pained him less often than earlier. He wore a tight liner on it to protect it from knocks and to coax it into a rounded shape, suitable for squeezing into the socket of his next artificial leg, too. He knew he would probably end up with two aluminium pylons joined by a knee mechanism but he was trying to imagine something which would not only function as an artificial leg but also look spectacular. It was something he would have to discuss with his prosthetist, the Israeli guy.

 

Once again, Richard’s appointments were scheduled for Saturday mornings. Goldshmit welcomed him back but deplored the circumstances under which their reunion occurred. To his surprise, Goldshmit found Richard in good spirits and eager to have a new leg again. They discussed alternative possibilities. Richard had realised that he was unlikely to be fitted with anything but the most cost‑effective artificial leg so it was useless suggesting some of the wilder designs he had seen and imagined. He mentioned that he was interested in using a very basic peg leg, an aluminium strut with a rubber tip, and Goldshmit revealed that his first prosthesis would be exactly that. It was a way of ensuring that the new socket was the correct size and shape before progressing to a more advanced design with an articulating knee mechanism. Goldshmit scanned Richard’s stump and invited him back a week hence to test the socket and try walking on a peg.

 

In the meantime, Richard continued to use crutches. They were an impressive length which dissuaded his school friends from asking if they could try them out. It was a novelty to have an amputee in their class, an introduction to the reality of disability. Apart from the obvious disadvantages, like not being able to play footer, Richard found it next to impossible to carry things. His hands were needed to operate his crutches. There was always someone willing to help him and they had learned to wait until Richard asked for assistance before rushing in.

 

His long metal peg leg was waiting for him the following Saturday morning. Goldshmit fussed around him, offering a liner and stump socks before allowing his patient to slip his stump into the printed socket. It was a good fit without additional socks but he should expect there to be shrinkage. Richard nodded and said that he remembered the advice given after his first amputation. He stood in his underwear facing a tall mirror and appraised his appearance. The peg leg was lighter than he expected but a little difficult to control. Its length exaggerated the movements of his stump. Despite that, it looked amazing. Such a contrast with his natural leg. Goldshmit instructed him to walk up and down between the parallel bars to find his balance and test the socket, which at this stage was the most important aspect of Richard’s visit. The socket felt fine. It gripped his stump firmly and the lightweight peg moved easily. The trick was to move it reliably enough to walk on. Goldshmit allowed him a few minutes to test it and asked him to sit on the chair at one end of the bars. Richard was amused to see his peg leg pointing directly ahead of him. Without a knee, it was unavoidable. The peg could be removed from the stump if there was no space for it to extend into.

 

Goldshmit made imperceptible adjustments to the screws holding the peg to the socket and asked Richard to test it again. It felt the same but Goldshmit pronounced himself satisfied and made a surprising announcement.

            – You can take it with you if you feel comfortable. I will order the pieces for your artificial leg and we will discuss the permanent socket next Saturday. Are you ready to walk out with your peg leg?

            – Yes, I think so. If I use my crutches, I can walk on it with no trouble.

            – That is what I hoped. Very well. You can put on your jeans again.

He helped Richard feed his peg along the left trouser leg and held his arm as Richard rose to stand. Only the ferrule was visible at the tip. His jeans leg hung oddly, empty of a flesh leg. Richard picked up his crutches and carefully made his way outside. He was unsure whether to allow the peg to merely hang from his stump or whether to try using it to walk on. He tried both ways and preferred to feel the support his peg leg offered him.

 

His parents were bemused to see their son standing again, albeit with only one shoe. The ferrule looked shocking. Richard left his crutches against the hallway wall and carefully made his way to his bedroom to hang up his jacket. His old prosthesis looked forlorn. Still new, it had lost all utility. Richard doubted that any part of it could be salvaged and recycled in a new artificial leg. It would probably be too heavy for his stump to contend with. He already suspected that because of his height, any artificial leg would be heavier than those of shorter amputees. It was something he would need to ask Goldshmit about. He kept his trainer on his foot and went to the kitchen to rejoin his parents.

 

            – Is that a temporary leg, Richard? Did Mr Goldshmit say when your permanent leg will be ready?

            – No, he didn’t say but he’s already ordered the components for it. It’ll be similar to this but it’ll have a knee and a foot.

            – Oh! Is there no knee joint in that leg? How are you going to sit down?

            – I just have to make sure there’s room for my peg leg.

            – Good lord! Is that what it is? I hope it’s comfortable for you.

            – It is. It’s funny, really. The simpler the leg, the more comfortable it is. This is very light. It hardly weighs anything so it’s really easy to move on. And there’s only one way to move it, so it already feels like I’ve learned how to use it. There’s nothing to it.

            – I hope you’re not going to become so used to wearing a peg leg that you lose interest in a proper artificial leg. I’d prefer you to have something more conventional.

            – Something with a foot, you mean?

            – Well yes. I suppose I do. It looks so shocking to see just a bit of metal pipe poking out of your jeans like that.

Richard altered his position. The tip of the peg swung back and forth and his trouser leg rode up a little. His mother was quite right. It did look shocking to see the metal pylon. Maybe he could persuade Goldshmit to make him a prosthesis without a foot. He would always have a peg leg in that case. He thought it looked fine. More than that, there was no artificial foot in the way to trip over. The only problem with his peg leg was the fact that it always stuck out when he sat down. If he could pull it off quickly and shove his stump back into the socket quickly when he stood up, it would be perfect. As if for the first time ever, he had a brilliant idea.

 

            – Mum! Could you cut the leg off my jeans and sew a sort of turn‑up on it? That way, I could easily take my peg leg off before I sit down.

            – You mean you want your peg leg to be visible all the time? I don’t know, Richard. It seems very exhibitionist to do something like that. What would other people think if they saw you walking around ike that?

            – But mum! I walk around like that anyway. I don’t care what other people think.

            – Well, you should. It’s not done to go around shocking people like that.

Richard was chastened. He had no idea his mother was still so disturbed by his appearance.

            – Are you ashamed of me, mum?

It was a challenging question. He knew his mother felt distaste for his disabled status but he had not realised that she thought in a such a superficial manner. He was immediately sorry for asking.

            – No, of course not!

She paused. She was ashamed of being with Richard in public, attracting so much attention. She was not used to it.

            – I just need time, Richard. I know it sounds selfish, and I know how much you’ve suffered with the cancer but it’s difficult for me and your father to see you as an amputee. And you seem to be purposely making it into some kind of talking point. Why can’t you have a proper artificial leg with a knee that bends and a foot you can put a shoe on? Why do you insist on wearing that dreadful peg leg all the time?

            – Do you have any idea how difficult this is? I have to get used to walking on a peg leg before I can progress to a proper limb. And just so you know, I’m going to ask for an artificial leg without a foot because the foot would get in the way when I try to walk.

            – They wouldn’t give you such a thing.

            – I bet they would!

Mrs Philpot was beaten. Perhaps she was being unfair. She knew Richard was determined to overcome his disability and she admired him for his efforts. She decided to ignore her own feelings, at least for the time being.

            – Go and fetch your jeans and show me how you want them.

Richard was surprised by her change of heart and went to his bedroom to find his jeans. His mother marked the required length with a few pins and promised to have them ready shortly.

 

Having insisted to his mother that his official ‘proper’ artificial leg would also have no foot, Richard sent a text message to Goldshmit in the hope that it was not too late. If the man had already begun assembling the limb, it would be unfair to cause him to redo his work. However, the necessary components had not yet arrived. Goldshmit was amused by Richard’s unexpected request and demanded that he return for another consultation before work on the definitive prothesis began. Another Saturday appointment, after lunch this time. Maybe there was another patient ahead of him that day.

 

His altered jeans were ready, washed and pressed, with a left leg trimmed to cover his socket but no more. The pylon was completely visible in its shocking entirety. Richard laughed at his reflection. The peg leg was so long, so alarming. He could understand his mother’s reticence to be seen with him. His new appearance was probably as shocking to him as the mere absence of a foot was to his mother when he was wearing ordinary jeans. He lifted his stump and twirled his peg leg. The socket flashed in certain positions. It was exactly what he needed. He gripped the pylon and pulled his stump slowly out of the socket and leaned on it. Now he would be able to sit anywhere, even on a bus or train, without inconvenience to himself or others, although he understood that a detached peg leg was also an unusual sight. It could not be helped. Other people would simply have to become accustomed to the fact that other people needed prosthetic devices and that, in the end, it was all part of normal everyday life. Despite the fact that Richard had worn a peg leg for only a few days, he was already of the opinion that it was the way forward. He was well aware of the advantages and pitfalls of conventional artificial legs but he found his peg leg to be so comfortable, so serviceable and so cool that nothing would deter him from insisting on footless prostheses from then on.

 

Goldshmit was not angry with him in the slightest. He insisted that the patient’s satisfaction was paramount. There were conventional solutions to various kinds of amputation but if a patient preferred some adaptation over another, a professional prosthetist would do his best to accommodate the client’s needs. Richard had already taken a huge psychological step forward in his rehabilitation by having his trouser leg shortened. Goldshmit was surprised and delighted to see the young man strutting confidently into his laboratory, the peg leg flicking forward regularly the same distance at every step. The boy was a natural.

 

            – So you are walking very well with your pylon. Now tell me what you want from your prosthetic leg.

            – I know you ordered a foot but I’ve changed my mind. Sorry! I don’t want a foot any more. If I have a leg with an artificial knee like the one we chose, I want the lower leg part to have just a rubber ferrule at the bottom like this. Do you know what I mean?

            – Of course. I understand. But I think we should cancel the manufacture of your next leg until you know exactly what you need. If I understand correct, you like using the peg leg and want another, perhaps more strong and permanent. Is that right?

            – Yes, I’d like that. To have a strong peg leg.

            – Of course you would. So I suggest we stop making your next leg.

            – I’m sorry. I know you ordered the parts.

            – It is not important. They can be used for another patient. I want to talk to you about your future.

            – Oh! OK. You mean about my leg?

            – Yes, indeed. You see, Richard, you are already learning very well to use your peg leg. It is unusual for a man as tall as you to wear a peg leg because it is so inconvenient, like when you sit, for example. So I am very pleased to see you wearing the jeans with a short leg. It is the best way to wear a peg leg but not all men want to display it. So it is quite a problem for some men. But you are not like them.

            – No, I’m not. After I thought of cutting the leg off my jeans, I realised I could wear the peg everywhere. I could always wear just a simple peg and take it off when it would be in the way. It makes it so easy.

            – Yes, of course. Now this is what I suggest. If your peg leg is comfortable and you like to wear it, I suggest that you research a design which you like and we can have the new peg leg customised by CDC or laser. We have all the equipment here at hand.

            – So if I wanted a carved wooden peg leg, you could make it here?

            – We could, although it would cost you something, a couple of thousand, maybe. Customisation like that is not part of the national service.

            – No, I understand.

            – Is that what you want? A wooden peg leg?

            – I think it would look smarter than the aluminium pylon. And I think it would look better.

            – I think so too.

 

Richard left the hospital, happy to have caught Goldshmit in time. His requested components would arrive in the near future but they could be given to other patients. His order had been stopped without a cancellation charge. He was encouraged by Goldshmit’s comments about how he was adapting to life as a man with a peg leg, defying convention by exposing it for all to see in favour of ease of access. Goldshmit’s surprise came from the fact that Richard had realised it so soon. Richard’s surprise came from having his prosthetist’s official approval to continue using his peg leg. It gave a little more weight to his argument against progressing to a bog standard artificial leg.

 

He explained the turn of events to his parents, both of whom expected to see their son graduating in a couple of months looking to all intents and purposes like any typical graduating student. The delay in manufacturing their son’s first proper artificial limb was disconcerting, especially as Richard insisted that his doctor had agreed to wait until he knew exactly what kind of prosthesis he wanted. He knew he wanted a peg leg but was in two minds about whether it sjould have some kind of knee joint or how it should attach to his stump, whether something lightweight would be better than a leg carved from genuine wood. He imagined the resonance of a heavy wooden leg as he walked, a demanding contraption held onto his stump by an elaborate leather harness across his chest and over his shoulders. He could heave the peg leg forward by swinging his pelvis, generating a prominent limp but if he could become used to the necessary movements, he would look spectacular, especially if his trousers were sliced off at the knee to expose his peg leg. Of course they would be!

 

The final exams loomed. Richard spent hours cramming, lying face down on his bed, stump free of the peg, reading history trying to memorise useless quotes from Shakespeare, the most beloved playwright in history and the most hated. Richard’s gang of friends felt the banality of life immediately after the exams were over. They were still at school but no longer had any use for it. They still lived at home with their parents although they were free to embark on independent lives and many looked forward to university life, not knowing where or when. They congregated again on the lawns surrounding the school, no longer forbidden from sunbathing. It was the first time Richard removed his uniform trousers and his peg leg to reveal his soccer shorts and the conical curved tip of his thigh stump to his clique. They touched or cupped the soft boneless flesh in warm hands, trying to imagine what such an exotic appendage might feel like.

 

Richard’s exam results were disappointing. He was not eligible for admission to university which his parents ascribed to the unfortunate recurrence of the cancer which had stolen so much school time earlier in the year. Richard had to decide between repeating his last year at school, looking for immediate employment or taking a so‑called gap year to clarify his thoughts and come to some decision about his future. His father was of the opinion that, assuming Richard remained at home, he would finance the gap year on condition that Richard genuinely applied himself to determining what he intended to do with his life.

 

The following spring, Richard happened to see a breakfast tv segment about the annual London Spring Fashion gala which was promoting its product not only to professional buyers and designers but also to the general public. In keeping with the zeitgeist, there would also be a catwalk display by disabled models—little people, wheelchair users and amputees. He decided to attend one of the showings and thanks to his disabled status, was ushered to a front row seat where his extended peg leg was blatantly obvious. He had allowed his beard to grow and had not been near a barber since leaving school. His curly blond hair, variegated beard and peg leg were noted by several of the amputee models, and word quickly spread backstage among the organisers that a most gorgeous guy was in the front row. Before the show was over, Richard was approached by two representatives from model agencies begging him to consider joining their company of celebrity amputee models. Richard was apprehensive at being approached by the first rep and said he would think about it. By the time a second rep arrived with one of the best known one‑legged models in tow, he was sold on the idea and at the end of the show, he was escorted to a back room where his details were noted and he was offered a trial position for the next three months, after which his engagement might become permanent. Richard was incredulous at the compensation offered for what was essentially zero hours work and signed on the spot. Best of all, the well‑known male model was there again and he invited Richard to join him for a burger in town. Richard felt flattered and followed the model out to his eMini and demonstrated the convenience of wearing an easily detachable peg leg.

 

            – Have you ever worn a peg leg, Jacques?

            – I have once or twice when I was recently amputated. I was still in my teens, see? I dressed up as a peg leg pirate. My dad found a big old chair leg and we whittled it down until it was the right length to walk on. I say walk—it was more like hobbling. I’ve not used a peg leg on a permanent basis though. How about you? Are you getting a conventional prosthesis?

            – I was supposed to have one by now. My prosthetist even ordered all the parts for it but I changed my mind after I decided to wear my trousers with one cut‑off leg so I can access my peg better. It’s not in the way, is it?

            – No, it’s fine down there.

Jacques veered around a bus and applied the brake at red lights.

            – How old are you, Richard?

            – Eighteen. My birthday’s in June.

            – And when did you become an amputee?

            – Nearly two years ago. I had cancer and first they cut my foot off but the cancer came back and they took my leg mid‑thigh.

            – Quite the coincidence. I was amputated mid‑teens as well. My leg was deformed from birth and I always wanted rid of it but they made me wait until I was sixteen. I used to wear a steel leg brace with an orthopaedic boot. I hated it! A pros is so much easier to use.

            – That’s how I think about my peg. Not having a foot makes it much easier to use a long artificial leg. If I had a proper prosthesis, I’d have the foot removed from the lower leg and just have a rubber ferrule.

            – So do you think you’ll always use a peg leg?

            – Yeah, I’m planning to.

            – Interesting. Look, there’s a good burger place. Shall we go in there?

 

Jacques explained some of the aspects of a model’s work and gave Richard tips about physical training and general health advice. Richard listened attentively, asking brief questions for clarity. He admired Jacques not only for his fame but also for his generous support. The man was easily fifteen years his senior and Richard felt more adult in his company.

            – There’s one other thing you might think about. Change your name! I don’t mean to be rude but Richard will turn into Dick and Philpot isn’t very media friendly. Have you got a nickname or something?

            – They used to call me Deckard at school.

            – Ah! That’s brilliant. Deckard is just the name for you. Unique. I can’t think of any Deckards in the public eye. What about a surname?

            – I don’t really know. How about Dee? Deckard Dee.

            – Ha! That’s brilliant. I said that already, didn’t I?

Jacques drove Richard home and drove off after watching Richard peg away towards the entrance to his building. He knew that his company was looking for a new star, a fresh face, someone sympathetic but masculine and admirable. Jacques suspected he had found just the right man.

 

His parents were astonished by Richard’s enthusiastic recital of how his afternoon had gone. He had left the house earlier partly in order to take his mind off the worry about his near future and finding either employment or further education. He returned with a spectacular offer as the next disabled media star. His mother and father both knew Jacques' reputation. They had followed his career from a determined young model wannabe a decade or so ago to the present day’s outspoken advocate for disability inclusiveness, often to be seen in interviews with minor celebrities in end‑of‑news feel‑good segments.

            – If Jacques is going to take you under his wing, and I think he knows what he’s doing, you ought to go along with his advice and pay close attention to what he tells you. This might all blow over in a couple of months but if you apply yourself and make yourself useful, you might make something of yourself. Let’s hope so.

Richard’s father, ever the pragmatist, hit the nail on the head and fortunately his words coincided with what Richard had already realised. He refrained from telling his parents about Deckard Dee.

 

The model agency, SoloTwo, was temporarily based in half a disused supermarket in Soho. The first text message arrived when Richard was halfway through breakfast on Monday. The CEO sent him a message of introduction, congratulation and invitation. Deckard was to present himself at the earliest possible opportunity to SoloTwo’s logistics department to be measured and sized. The CEO himself promised to greet Deckard there. Richard remembered his father’s words of wisdom and announced he had to go into town.

            – They want to measure me up and meet the manager.

            – So soon? They don’t waste much time, do they? Alright. You won’t want any sandwiches, will you, Richard? I’m sure they’ll offer you something if you’re there for any length of time.

            – No. I’ll be alright, mum.

            – It’s exciting, isn’t it? Will you be seeing Jacques again?

            – Don’t know. It didn’t say.

            – Well, I’m sure you’ll do well.

 

Richard dressed in clean two‑legged jeans and a white hoodie. He wore a white trainer on his foot and checked himself out in front of the hall mirror. He would have to stand up on the tube. It was still rush hour and there would never be enough room for him to sit. It was not important. He checked the address on his phone and noticed a station exit only a hundred metres from SoloTwo. He could be there within the hour.

 

One of the cosmeticians let him in. He already knew Deckard Dee would be paying them a visit and was excited to meet such a handsome young man at the door. The beard needed to be trimmed, he thought, but the lovely blond hair was perfect for teasing into a gorgeous mane.

            – Hello! Do come in. We’ve been expecting you. I’m Clive d’Artagnan and you must be Deckard Dee. So pleased to meet you. Come this way and we’ll get started on you.

 

Richard was surprised. It was the first time anyone had used his assumed name. It made him feel like a different person. He stepped inside and followed the flamboyant man, old enough almost to be his father, to the back of the old supermarket. He could hear music practice from the other side of the temporary wall. Classical music. He was no great fan but it was not unpleasant.

            – Sit down here for a mo and I’ll tell everyone you’re here.

D’Artagnan disappeared somewhere and Richard looked around. There were empty railings for holding clothes, various styles of armchairs and a huge collection of neatly arranged floodlights and spotlights and all the other kinds whose names he did not know. His narrow peg leg caused his extended trouser leg to droop in the way which most emphasised his disabled status. A harried woman in her thirties burst in as if escaping from a predator

            – Ah, there you are! Lovely to see you. I’m Blanche FitzGerald but you can call me Blush. Everyone does. Is this your first time here? That’s what they said. Anyway, I need to take all your measurements, so don’t be shy. I’ve seen it all before. We have to know your size so the costumiers know what size apparel to send us. Quite obvious, isn’t it? Shall we get started? Just take your clothes off.

            – All of them? Can I keep my underwear on?

            – Keep your underpants on for the time being if you’re shy. I see you’re joining the amputee team. You’ll have a wonderful time. They’re all such professionals. It’s wonderful to work with them. Now just stand up for me and try not to move. Pull your shoulders back a little and stretch one arm out to the front. That’s lovely. Hold that pose please, Deckard.

 

She worked quickly, dictating Richard’s dimensions into a button microphone on her scarf. Finally, she asked Richard to pull his underpants down and wordlessly measured his flaccid penis and the circumference of his tight balls. Blush was satisfied and fingered her phone for a few seconds.

            – The CEO wants to meet you, so wait here for a tick and he’ll come and fetch you, alright?

 

The CEO appeared as soon as Blush left. She was a tall woman with a natural tan but oddly angluar for a woman. Richard realised she was trans. She had been born a boy. It was alright. She was friendly enough.

            – Jacques told me he’d found you. I’m so excited you can join us, Deckard. You see, Jacques wants to retire from the catwalk and there are a hundred paths open to him so we need a new figurehead for our disabled models. Jacques has brought you to us and I like what I see. I like it very much. Have you any experience of modelling, Deckard? It really isn’t important, though.

            – No, I’ve not modelled before but I’m sure I could learn.

            – Well, of course you could. You have the looks and the height and the body with just the right degree of defect to make you interesting. You see, people love to see maimed beauty. It’s such an enigma. You are enviably handsome and everyone wants to be like you except you have your disability. It’s so tragic and their hearts go out to you. They look at you like some kind of hero cut down by the gods in their jealousy. Have you read Greek tragedies? Well, no matter. The effect is the same. Are you willing to join SoloTwo? It can be busy during the season and of course there will be other work throughout the year for magazines and you’ll no doubt be invited to the provinces while your fees are still reasonable.

            – I don’t know what to say. Yes, to all of it!

            – That’s wonderful. Don’t worry about things like transport. We take care of that. We’ll let you know of upcoming venues and the timetable for rehearsal beforehand. And we do demand promptness for rehearsals. Present yourself a good half hour before the announced time, no hangovers, no colds or sniffles and ready for long days. SoloTwo has quite the reputation to maintain as you can imagine. Second best is nowhere near good enough.

            – No, I understand.

            – Yes. I think you do. Welcome aboard, Deckard Dee. What a wonderful name. I’m certain that soon everyone will know it.

 

Richard’s first trial by fire was the following weekend in Bristol. The entire entourage was commanded to present themselves at seven o’clock sharp outside SoloTwo’s Soho address ready for a two hour journey and four hours work. Richard wore his cut‑off jeans, much admired by other amputee models who appreciated the convenience of immediate access to the prosthesis. He learned the names of his fellow amputee models on the way and by the time they arrived at their destination, he felt comfortable in their presence. They promised to show him the ropes although it was not their job. Even so, Richard felt at home with them. He loved the way everyone called him Deckard.

 

The show was well attended by both local and national media. Bristol had languished for decades in a helpless limbo until the town fathers, a new generation, realised the power of publicity. They made the town centre into a glittering amalgamation of old and new architecture with a central street featuring modern works by sculptors and light engineers. It was immediately the nation’s number one destination for showcasing anything which could be displayed publicly. A catwalk was constructed in the town square and bench seating for several thousand was arranged around it on a strictly first come, first served basis. SoloTwo had announced the event to national and international media weeks in advance in an attempt to push the next autumn collection by their client couturiers. PlayNow, Diorama and Shoe4 grabbed the opportunity to be the first to reveal their directions. Bristol had been a risk but was a huge success during the preceding four years. The presence of Jacques and his fellow amputees lent a frisson of exclusivity to the event. No other fashion house featured such handsome young disabled artistes as reliably as SoloTwo.

 

The show was immaculately staged. The timing was perfect. The audio and acoustics synched perfectly and people clearly enjoyed swaying along with the music. Everyone was waiting for the climax of the show when Jacques was due to appear, dressed in the best of the show, inevitably in shorts to display his mechanical artificial leg, specially designed to be as assertive and conspicuous as possible. Instead, after the usual thirty second pause, the music crescendoed and Richard made his way for the first time onto the catwalk wearing a fat winter jacket and three quarter length jeans, an utterly improbable combination but an excellent way to display the Deckard peg leg. The crowd gawped, taking in the model’s height and imposing presence. Richard kept a straight face and stood at the end of the catwalk perusing the hundreds of flashes from phones before spinning himself around on his peg and strutting confidently back to the changing room. Jacques appeared next in a similar, longer jacket and shorts with platform boots on both legs. He received loud applause but to the professionals in the audience and those in the know, the significance was clear. Deckard was the new numero uno, the new face of SoloTwo. Other costumes were peacocked by a line of male models and the last entourage formed lines along the catwalk as Richard made a second appearance in a floor‑length wolfskin coat and fur hat. He pegged steadily to the end of the runway and allowed his spectacular coat to fall, revealing a top for evening wear and matching trousers tailored with a cut‑off leg to expose his peg leg. The audience rose to their feet to applaud both Deckard and the entire production. The CEO and creatives of SoloTwo joined him and announced they would shortly be available to answer questions in the temporary green room.

 

Unavoidably, there was a dense huddle of journalists and camera crews eagerly awaiting their arrival. The CEO arrived and made space for his two star models, the two handsome one‑legged men. They sat in a row facing the cameras, all the better to show the artificial limbs. Richard’s long peg leg extended jauntily. He and Jacques had changed back into their street clothes and looked like any couple of good‑looking men one might spy in a club or restaurant. The CEO whittled the flurry of questions down to a few relevant topics and confirmed that Jacques would indeed be seen less often on the catwalk but that he would remain with SoloTwo as a scout for future talent. It was hoped that Deckard would come to represent both the company and the modern face of contemporary fashion. He handed over to Richard and allowed him a few minutes to answer the media representatives. He did so with patience and style and immediately endeared himself to journalists for his forthrightness and to cameramen for his ability to look directly into the camera with an enviable smile which revealed his beautiful even teeth. A star was born.

 

Over the following weeks, Jacques accompanied Richard several times a week to the gym he preferred in West London and demonstrated the most useful exercises to maintain muscle tone and keep an ideal body shape in trim. It was neither difficult nor strenuous but regular sessions were important. It was simply part of the job.

 

Richard discovered that SoloTwo would pay for prosthetic limbs deemed suitable for public display. Several of his colleagues had used the benefit to get themselves exoskeletal leg prostheses and natural‑looking artificial hands to blend in better with others when it was unnecessary to blatantly reveal their amputee status. He knew he was still due an artificial limb from Goldschmit and wondered if he could use the opportunity to have a stylish wooden peg fitted instead of an ordinary aluminium pylon to replace his lower leg. He still did not want a mechanical knee. A simple hinge would suffice—something which would lock securely and release easily to allow him to sit normally. He spoke to the CEO and was promised the wooden leg of his choice if and when his position was made permanent. The CEO smiled.

            – We have to stick to the rules, Deckard. Don’t worry. You’ll soon be a SoloTwo model.

 

Richard’s financial situation amazed him. His catwalk appearances paid a generous amount, although they were irregular. Magazine and podcast interviews brought in more and as the cherry on the cake, outfitters made contact begging him to wear samples of their current collections in public. Free clothes! Richard chose a brand of casual sportswear and another which specialised in custom‑made footwear as his favourites and signed a year long contract with both of the companies. He still lived at home with his parents but as his selection of clothes soon outgrew storage space in his own bedroom, he began to realise that perhaps it was time for him to fly the nest and find his own apartment, somewhere near his gym and SoloTwo, if possible.

 

Richard fitted in perfectly with his new colleagues, all of whom accepted him as the company’s new alpha male. Jacques was still present at every turn, ensuring the smooth flow of an otherwise chaotic profession. Deckard signed a two year contract with SoloTwo after discussing his general life situation with the CEO. He brought up his idea about a wooden leg and also mentioned that he ought to become more independent and move out of his parent’s flat.

            – Are you looking for a place to live? We may be able to help you there, actually, Deckard. We have a few studio apartments around town which we let to visiting artistes for a month or so while they’re working with us. You might be interested in looking at one or two to see if you approve. I can tell you that if you moved into one, your rent would be deducted from your gross wages rather than you paying rent after income tax so in effect you’d be paying twenty percent less rent.

            – That sounds great! I’d like to have a flat fairly near to work and also the gym.

            – I see. Do you drive, Deckard?

            – No. I don’t have a licence.

            – Ah. Let me see.

The CEO operated her phone for a minute or two and jotted down a couple of addresses.

            – These are the closest we have. They’re both studio apartments so you won’t have a lot of space but they are both furnished and have pots and pans and so on so you could move in any time and set yourself up. Would you like to see them? Just a mo and I’ll see if I can find the keys.

 

He preferred an apartment on the sixth floor of a new seventeen storey block close to Waterloo station. It faced west and he could see glimpses of the sunset between other high‑rise buildings. The other apartment had been in a Georgian era building in Knightsbridge but it had seven slippery marble steps outside leading up to its front door. Perfectly manageable but the modern flat had a lift and there was a big supermarket downstairs. And the public transport was superb.

 

Deckard was taken onto the payrole with a two year contract. His presence was not required every day but he had to remain in close contact with SoloTwo and was not allowed to travel outside a twenty kilometre limit without formal notice. It seemed a harsh restriction but to all intents and purposes, it did not really affect him. He moved into his rental apartment with some toiletries and a few of his favourite new clothes. For the first time in his life, he was independent. During the following weeks, he transferred the rest of his clothes and crutches from home. His parents accompanied him on his last journey and were impressed by the sparse but comfortable furniture and the small efficient kitchen. The bathroom was ideal for a leg amputee with a non‑slip floor and support bars where needed.

 

Goldschmit welcomed Richard back after several months’ absence. Richard arrived with an oddly shaped package roughly wrapped in brown paper. It contained a chair leg dismembered from an old, not antique, dining chair. It was dark brown from aged layers of old varnish and it was fluted in improbable globules and gullies in desperate surrender to Victorian ideals. It was hideous as furniture. It was hideous when new but industrial design was far in the future. People took what was offered. Jacques had been with him when they found a second hand furniture store in a deliberate search for Deckard’s new peg leg. They went inside and considered a variety of prospective chair legs. The one Deckard showed Goldshmit was surprisingly light in weight but bulky in appearance.

            – I want you to turn this into my next peg leg. I want it to be rigid but with a knee lock.

Richard explained his requirements to a bemused prosthetist who already knew that his client had suddenly become famous in the world of fashion, party due to his insistence on wearing his starter peg leg, the device which was supposed to substitute for a standard prosthesis while his stump healed and adopted its permanent dimensions. Richard genuinely needed a new socket but its shape would not resemble his short stump. Instead it should have an outer casing right down to his knee. There would be an easily accessible hinge which would allow him to sit. But the lower leg of his prosthesis would be the refurbished chair leg. Goldshmit laughed at Richard’s earnest demand and said that he would take pleasure in manufacturing such a device if only to see if it were a viable design. He had never been asked for anything so outlandish but accepted the challenge.

 

The chair leg was outsourced to a sculptor who often worked with SoloTwo’s amputees. She sandblasted it until it was completely devoid of its old varnish and the natural wood gleamed for the first time in over a hundred years. It was probably oak, light wood veined with darker streaks. It was beautiful. The sculptor returned it and Goldshmit began the process of incorporating it into an usually long and deviant artificial leg for his most famous client.

 

Richard was overjoyed with his new leg. The socket was much better fitting and he would no longer need to wear so many stump socks. And it was so much longer. He had never seen such an expanse of black carbon from his stump to where his knee was. Its phallic shape was perfect. The hinged knee mechanism was artfully concealed with access around the back of the knee. Even if the prosthesis had resembled a normal human limb, Richard would have shortly come to the decision that a cut‑off trouser leg would be the best solution for its use. As it was, Richard was already completely determined to display his peg leg always, everywhere. It was his calling card, his passport to fame, and he intended to impress his fans with ever more incredible peg legs.

 

The finished limb was a work of art. The gleaming black socket appeared to extend to his knee from which the new silicone gloss on his convoluted peg leg highlighted the utter improbability of the enormously long artificial limb. Richard tried it on and for the first time experienced the sensation of swinging an artificial leg forward as all amputees in rehab did. The wooden leg had no rubber at its base and a ferrule was completely out of the question. The leg resounded with the dignity of centuries old oak. Richard reached around to the lock at the back of his knee and continued testing the peg leg when it was completely rigid. Its weight was different from his long pylon but the motions were the same. Goldshmit watched his gait and congratulated himself for conjuring such an impressive piece of equipment for his star client.

 

Richard wore his new peg every day for a few hours in order to become used to its new weight. He had discovered that the apartment below his was empty, as was the immediately adjacent one, so he allowed himself to practise walking on his wooden leg without needing to consider the noise. He modified jeans and trousers, cut off at knee height rather than halfway up his thigh. The old‑fashioned peg leg looked fabulous and he could not wait to show it off at the next venue.

 

Deckard was an enormous hit with the buyers and fashion journalists lining the catwalk. As on all previous occasions, they had been made to wait until the end of the show for Deckard’s appearance. He strutted out on his rigid peg leg, a nod to classic wooden legs depicted in centuries old etchings, a broad smile on his slightly averted face, coyly avoiding eye contact with the women who adored him and the men who admired him. Deckard was wearing a country gentleman’s outfit of green tweed with red crosshatching and a deerstalker’s hat jauntily topping his blond locks. His plus‑fours needed no alteration. The knee‑length breeches suited him perfectly. They were a backwards evolution of the modern fashion of wearing cut‑off trousers and shorts. SoloTwo had argued among itself for months about the idea but finally decided that plus‑fours with long socks and jodhpurs were the way forward.

 

Two weeks later, the first plus‑fours appeared in clothing stores, followed shortly by the large supermarkets. Early adopters were often laughed at and they themselves felt a kind of disappointment, although the look was perfect. What they were missing was Deckard’s wooden leg.

 

DECKARD’S WOODEN LEG