QUIRK, VEXLEY & WISP

 

QUIRK, VEXLEY & WISP

A narration of infatuation with amputation by strzeka (07/26)

Part One

The First Amputations

1

Sometimes, when the air is still and the hour is late, I think about the many coincidences throughout my life which directed me willingly or otherwise to become the man I am today. Would I have acted on my obsessions if I had not met Quirk at university? We shared a room. It was a chance encounter. He could have been any of fifty other students. Or Quirk’s secretive association with Vexley, grounded in their own nascent business idea, evolved during our years of study?

 

I was not a wealthy student. In order to earn enough to take part in extracurricular socialising, I worked odd hours as a forklift truck driver for a construction company. I shunted sheets and rods and beams of steel, panes of glass and dusty leaking bags of cement. I believe I was held in good stead by the employer. I was accurate in my duties, wasted little time smoking and brewing coffee, and I was punctual for my weekend shifts with never a single absence. Suppose I had taken a different weekend job? Suppose I had an essay to write that weekend?

 

And suppose my careless colleague had not chosen that very moment to collide with the rack I was retrieving sheet steel from? A euro pallet of toilet seats toppled onto the extended forks of my truck, catapulting me sideways onto the floor at exactly the moment that half a ton of falling sheet steel severed my ankles. My feet disappeared from view under the steel. Still free to move, I scrabbled backward with my hands leaving a trail of blood from my stumps. My careless colleague panicked and ran around in half circles until I screamed at him loud enough to call for assistance. I leaned forward and experimented with various grips intended to staunch the bleeding. I was probably acting more out of instinct than reason but I fancy I can remember thinking what an amazing thing to happen. I had fetishised losing my legs and replacing them with my objects of desire, artificial legs. I knew one of my lifelong wishes had been granted at the tender age of twenty and I had not even needed to make plans for it.

 

2

My stumps were tidied up and I returned to uni in a wheelchair. It would be my chariot until my stumps were robust enough to bear weight. They were two thirds the length of my former shins, pleasingly symmetrical and quite acceptable in appearance. One weekend evening, Quirk suddenly warned me that he had invited a guest and had smuggled in a bottle of Irish whiskey. Both things were against the rules of the college and I was slightly concerned at having to socialise with a complete stranger from the inconvenience and discomfort of my wheelchair. I changed into a clean hoodie and combed my hair and beard. I was wearing cut‑offs which exposed my stumps below the knees. I hoped the guest would not be overly disturbed by my unconventional appearance. Quirk had behaved perfectly decently about suddenly having a double amputee as a flatmate but I was wise enough to know that many people find amputation emotionally disturbing and the sight of naked stumps distasteful in the extreme. There was nothing for it but to hope that our imminent visitor, Alistair Vexley by name, was built of sterner stuff.

 

The final thing to ponder, which I return to in my late evening reveries, is the infinitesimal chance that the three of us should meet at the beginning of our studies, influencing our careers and each other to the extent which it has. I half believe we may be the subjects of some experiment by sadistic Ancient Greek Fates incongruously reincarnated into the twenty‑first century to take pleasure in human misery. Sometimes they misjudge their victims, as in our case. I do not believe Vexley or Quirk are unhappy with their lot. They have each other’s friendship. What benefit that is to them, I do not speculate.

 

However, to return to that first encounter with Vexley. He was a fop. That is the only word I can conjure to describe him. He was dressed in a purple velour suit with a pale pink shirt and a tie of shocking pink. His fingers were heavy with steel rings, skulls and dragons. He had a pencil moustache shaved into a sliver. His lips were red and he wore eyeshade of a garish blue last seen in the Nineteen Sixties.

          – Fenwick, meet Alistair. Alistair, this is my flatmate Fenwick Wisp. As you see, Fenwick has come a cropper and cannot rise to shake your hand.

          – How very good to meet you at last, Fenwick. I have heard so much about your stumps from Cassian.

 

I could hardly believe my ears. Did he really say that? Was I to understand that Quirk had been discussing my disability behind my back to a complete stranger? No, I must have misunderstood in the initial emotional flurry of meeting someone new.

          – I’m pleased to meet you, Alistair. Welcome to chez nous.

I felt silly for trying to behave as if meeting an extrovert dandy was an everyday matter for a double amputee. Vexley crooked his little finger and touched a corner of his mouth as he blatantly stared at my stumps. He stared for a disturbingly long time.

          – I think he’s ready, Quirk.

 

I had no idea what they were talking about. Quirk was ready with three glasses, former Dijon mustard jars, and a litre bottle of sixty proof whiskey. Something told me I was going to have a headache in the morning but I was willing to suffer it. I had not been drunk for months. Vexley removed his jacket and preened himself in our tiny mirror. I accepted a generous four fingers from Quirk and waited for the two friends to arrange themselves where the three of us could converse comfortably. We toasted each other in Irish, without prompting, which I have always believed was a harbinger of Fate. What are the odds in Surrey?

 

          – Sláinte!

Vexley took over the situation from the start. It was as if he was a consulting surgeon whose opinion could not be questioned. To do so would be to face swift refutal. He turned his attention to me and took on an almost accusatory tone.

          – You were amputated five weeks ago, Wisp. It is time your stumps were casted in order to shape them and I am quite sure you would agree that a little additional protection would make life in a wheelchair easier.

          – Er, yes. It would. They were talking about a pair of shrinkers last time I visited the hospital but the surgeon wanted to wait, for some reason.

          – They understand nothing. Fortunately, Wisp, I have brought enough plaster bandages to protect your tender stumps from now until Christmas. How do you feel about your stumps, Wisp? Do they pain you? Do you dislike your stumps? If I may speak plainly, I think you look like a man destined to forge his way through life on artificial legs. It will be impossible to imagine you not having artificial legs. But let us not beat about the bush. Cassian, I assume you have everything to hand?

          – I do.

          – Then we shall begin. You need do nothing, Wisp. Don’t fret. I am going to apply a pair of rigid casts onto your stumps for your protection and, if you have a mind, you may attempt standing on them. Do you have any objection?

          – No, but I wasn’t expecting anything like this. I thought we would sit around chatting and tasting our whiskey.

          – Oh, we’ll do plenty of that after we get you sorted, my friend. I understand your major is prosthetics.

          – Yes, prosthetics and orthotics.

          – Quite so. Which of those will you refer to when we are finished? Will you be wearing two prostheses or two orthoses?

Quirk reappeared carrying a plastic bucket of warm water and some shallow dishes we had bought in Ikea for the kitchen. Vexley opened the holdall at his feet and took out cotton bandages and _{several rolls of black casting tape.} 

                    _{– Choose now which you prefer. You can keep your stumps straight in which case your knees will be straight. Or you can bend your knees to ninety degrees and be less inconvenienced when you sit.}

          _{– I don’t really know. Bent, I suppose. How far up are you going to do the cast?}

          _{– Oh, all the way, dear boy. Now sit back and relax until I tell you otherwise.}

 

_{It was obviously not the first time that Vexley had casted stumps. He was reassuringly gentle. His directions were like friendly suggestions. Fortunately the tape dried quickly. I was soon wearing jet black casts on both leg stumps, bent at ninety degree angles. The tips were beautifully finished, perfectly rounded.}

          _{– Tomorrow you may walk on your knees, when the casts are dry. There is no need for you to sit in that ridiculous wheelchair any longer.}

          _{– Are you sure it’s safe for me to clomp around like that?}

          _{– Clomp? Dear boy, if you intend to clomp, I fear I may have wasted my time.}

          

_{I looked at his face for a second or two and then he winked. The exaggerated eyelashes fluttered and I could no longer prevent myself from releasing my pent‑up laughter. Fortunately, Vexley understood it as amusement at his hyperbole. I do believe we had a stronger bond after that insignificant discourse.}

 

₃

_{Our hangovers were of the merciful variety, gone by lunchtime. There was still more than half a bottle left. However, I could not remember how I had got into bed. I do remember waking a couple of times towards morning when I was confused by the inability to move my legs. I would have liked to straighten them. I was surprised to find Quirk and Vexley enjoying a very slow brunch when I joined them.}

          _{– Good morning. Is there enough left for me?}

          _{– Of course. Would you prefer toast or croissants? Tea or coffee?}

_{I was not accustomed to being catered to by Quirk and chose the latter of the two alternatives.}

          _{– How do you like your casts, Fenwick? Are they comfortable? Did you have trouble sleeping?}

          _{– They’re fine. I did wake up a couple of times when I tried to change sides and my legs prevented me.}

          _{– Quite. I want you to leave your wheelchair when you have drunk your coffee and try walking on your knees. You may find it a preferable method of mobility at home. Avoid steps and staircases at all costs.}

 

_{I did as instructed. I was impressed with the way the cast had hardened to such a degree. It was hard as concrete. They held my stumps absolutely immobile. I clambered down and was left kneeling on the floor. I held onto my wheelchair for support and tried taking a tiny step. There was just enough of a bulge around my knees so the tip of the cast avoided striking the floor behind me. At the same time, the weight behind me prevented me from toppling forward. It was the first time I had actually walked after losing my feet. I was impressed with myself and I believe Quirk and Vexley appreciated my efforts too.}

          _{– Very good, Fenwick. How does it feel to be an active amputee?}

_{I thought it was another extraordinary question from Vexley.}

          _{– It feels fine.}

          _{– Ha! You see, Quirk? I told you so.}

_{Had they been discussing me again behind my back? It certainly seemed so. Nevertheless I was grateful for Vexley’s efforts and his generosity with his time and materials.}

 

₄

_{Not surprisingly, my leg guy was annoyed at having to remove my casts before he had a chance to inspect my stumps. And needless to say, they stank to high heaven after being enclosed for so many weeks. Despite that, he was intrigued to know who had applied the casts so skilfully and was fascinated to hear my impressions about wearing the things. I told him quite honestly that it was a lot of fun to swing a pair of casted stumps around at home. The wheelchair I was supposed to use was relegated to a corner of the living room and its seat gradually accumulated an untidy pile of papers and folders.}

 

_{We discussed various options open to me. As far as amputations go, the type of below knee amputations I boasted was generally regarded as being the least difficult to adapt to. The associated prostheses were simple to fit, easy to make and there were several variations, each with their advantages and disadvantages. I had made up my mind and insisted, demanded, on a pair of exoskeletal below knee prostheses with rigid ankles and toeless feet, size eight.}

          _{– I really would advise you against that, Mr Wisp. It requires considerable unnecessary additional effort without input from an artificial ankle.}

          _{– Well, for reasons I don’t wish to go into right now, I insist that my prosthetic legs are of this basic design. The only area of interest which I insist you concentrate on is around my knees. The legs must fit around my knees perfectly.}

          _{– Of course!}

_{The prosthetist, Noah Hargrove by name, seemed slighted by my mentioning the matter. But as a future prosthetist myself, which he did not realise, I was determined to walk on the most basic prostheses to demonstrate my prowess to my own customers who might doubt their skills at balancing on and operating an artificial leg. However, the man went about the first fitting according to the book (which I had recently read) and I left in my wheelchair with my stumps in pressure socks. I felt naked without my casts.}

 

_{Quirk was inquisitive about how the process had gone and was unusually solicitous. He wanted to know how my knees felt after regaining their freedom. I felt the same slightly frustrated embarrassment many patients experience when trying to find the mot juste to describe physical sensations. My knees felt weaker but I assumed they would quickly revert to normal. I had no idea that their six week imprisonment had already caused irreparable damage.}

 

_{Quirk and Vexley discussed my case. Vexley was privately pleased to hear of the weakness in my knees. It was an expected symptom of a casting tighter than the recommended optimum and worn for longer than necessary. Vexley knew what he was doing and messaged me to suggest a second pair of casts for the interim before my prostheses were ready. I mentioned that the prosthetist had seemed slightly annoyed by being confronted with them before he could start my fitting. Vexley replied with the arrogance common to surgeons befitting those they regarded as their collegial inferiors.}

          _{– His job is to prepare your stumps for prostheses, dear boy. It is the most facile procedure of his entire job. The rest of his time is consumed in preparing the prostheses for your stumps and thereafter adjusting them to fit. In order to put the man in his place, I intend visiting you on Friday evening and we shall experiment with a different cast design which I am anxious you should trial before you are ruined by your DBK prostheses.}

 

          

_{I had next to no idea what Vexley was referring to and he refused to explain. All became clear within fifteen minutes of his arrival on Friday evening. I had the idea that he would be staying overnight again. Quirk busied himself between preparing our living room as an orthopaedic treatment room and fixing a confusing variety of petit fours and salads in the kitchen. This time, almost without allowing me to have a say in the matter, Vexley explained that he would cast my legs in such a way that my weight would be born on my patella, exactly as would be the case with my future prostheses. He intended to leave empty space below the tips of my stumps to prevent any pressure on them. The casts would extend up to my groin with the expectation that I could rest my ischial bones on the top rims of the casts. I would actually be sitting on the casts. My legs would extend the extra twenty centimetres ahead of me when I sat in my wheelchair but since I would shortly have the casts removed again, I should not be too inconvenienced.}

 

_{Vexley did a good job. He applied more bandage for additional support. By the next morning, both casts were rock hard and felt like concrete. They were surprisingly light and quite comfortable. Quirk helped me transfer into my chair by grasping the black flattened tips of my stumps and wheeled me to the kitchen for breakfast. Vexley inquired about my comfort and revealed at last his intention.}

          _{– I want to see you attempt to walk on these new casts, Wisp. I have made the bases flat so you should be able to stand on them momentarily. Your weight will be borne by your kneecaps and arse bones, so your stumps will be quite safe.}

_{I was excited by the idea of tottering around the apartment on my freshly casted stumps. Once again, my physical condition played little to no rôle in moving. Both legs were completely hidden. My legs could not even feel me rapping on the surface of the casts.}

 

_{I was allowed to laze around for the rest of the morning. After lunch, I added the finishing touches to an essay and laid out a study plan for the next fortnight. My straight rigid legs began to feel odd. It would have been such a relief to bend them a little. But I said nothing. There was nothing to say. Vexley would definitely not consider removing them after his hours of work the previous evening. The genuine point of the exercise became clear a little later when Vexley and Quirk appeared by my side, asking how my studies were shaping up and turning quickly to the heart of the matter.}

          _{– I want you to try standing on your casts, Wisp. Don’t worry. Quirk and I will support you.}

          _{– Really? Well, you’ll have to lift me off my chair, I’m afraid. There’s no way I can get up myself.}

          _{– That’s something you may like to practise, dear boy.}

_{They lifted me by my elbows and lowered me onto the flat bases of my casts. It was a grand feeling to be standing again. I felt completely helpless. I could feel my weight on my knees much more than higher up. I tried to imagine how I might walk while being handicapped by the two long casts. I had no control over my knees. I could move my legs only at my hips. If I rocked from side to side, I might be able to kick each cast forward, with my companions for balance.}

 

_{Without needing to explain in so many words, that is what we did. It took me a minute or two to find the correct amount of leaning required for me to tilt a cast off the floor. I tried moving it forward with my thigh muscles. The tips of the casts often caught on the floor, threatening to trip me.}

          _{– Try swinging your thighs out in an arc, Wisp. You should be able to avoid catching the tip.}

_{It was a stern instruction form Vexley. He knew exactly what he was doing. This was his first attempt at forcing me to walk on utterly rigid legs. He was interested in seeing how I reacted to being handicapped far more than was genuinely necessary. Naturally enough, I had no idea what Vexley was doing nor could any but the most fevered mind have imagined what he planned for my future. I was his plaything. He was training to be an orthotic surgeon. I was training to become a prosthetist and had a home advantage by being a bilateral amputee already. But Vexley intended on testing me to the ultimate in limb loss. Before I had even acquired my first artificial legs, he had literally cast me in two distinct rôles. I had walked on stubbies, knee high, my stumps protected inside their shapely prisons. And now I had my first pair of peg legs. They were shorter than usual, barely a centimetre or two longer than my genuine stumps. But I was erect and, with the help of Vexley and Quirk, mobile.}

 

₅

_{Hargrove was more vocally annoyed when I presented myself for my first fitting of the prosthetic legs he had made. I teetered in on my rigid casts, propped up by two shortened wooden walking sticks purchased from a charity shop. Quirk had shared an Uber to the clinic but declined to accompany me. He had other business in the vicinity.}

 

_{I was sorry to see my shocking fibre glass casts ripped open and discarded. They had served me surprisingly well for the four week interim. I pulled myself erect by a door frame and then experimented for a few moments seeking my balance. As mentioned, I was able to move only my hip muscles to control the pegs but it was enough. The walking sticks were a great help. I believe that learning to walk on such primitive legs was excellent training for the trials and tribulations associated with the rigid lower leg prostheses I was destined to wear for the rest of my life. Unless of course I reverted to using a wheelchair.}

 

_{My legs were washed and dried, inspected and tested. There was weakness in my knees. Apparently it was to be expected. My new artificial legs would require me to exercise more and my knees would strengthen again in tandem with my thigh muscles. They were superb examples of so‑called exoskeletal legs. They were basically hard shells in the shape of a natural male leg. The feet and ankles were part of the leg and were completely incapable of any movement. This was exactly as I had insisted. There was a slight raise to the sole of the foot to compensate for the heel of a shoe. And they were the odd, not quite natural, flesh colour used for over a century and most shocking of all, quite glossy. It was a characteristic of the waterproofing. I could wear the legs in water if I wished to go paddling.}

 

_{Hargrove had me walking back and forth between parallel bars for nearly an hour. There was precious little for him to do. The legs offered no adjustments he could make. I was perfectly satisfied. After a few minutes, I was aware that I had feet to take into consideration again. The peg legs were easier to walk on but the new legs were comfortable, for the first hour’s use at least. I was satisfied with them and at the prosthetist’s suggestion, I departed the clinic with a spanking new walking stick for support. Just one. I felt very pleased with myself and strolled carefully to the nearest bus stop.}

 

_{Quirk was already home when I arrived. He wanted to see my legs immediately but I told him he should wait until evening and bed time. My brand new white tennis shoes looked especially eye‑catching canted at the odd angle typical of artificial ankles.}

 

Part Two

The Second Amputations

6

A decade later, we three friends were comfortably installed in our chosen professions. We had applied for subsidised rental accommodation for professionals in order to achieve a reasonable standard of living. We were allocated living quarters as and when a job opportunity coincided with a vacant apartment. I now live in Greater Manchester, Vexley lives in Richmond close to Roehampton Hospital and Quirk claims to be happy in Norwich. We keep in touch through various amputee forums as they rise and fail. We have met on one occasion during the intervening years but Quirk is almost completely isolated by the lack of transport connections.

 

Quite out of the blue, Vexley announced he would be lecturing at a local Manchester college and asked if I might be available one evening for a get‑together, for old time’s sake. I invited him to stay in my apartment for the three nights he would be away from home and the following day he announced he had successfully cancelled his hotel booking and would therefore be enchanted to spend time with me. As payment, he suggested we dine out every evening at his expense which I accepted with alacrity. I gave him instructions on where to find the tram stop near the station and tidied up my already clean apartment for an honoured guest. He arrived at the arranged hour and our conversation quickly turned to work matters.

 

          – Are you still wearing the same rigid BK legs, Wisp? Judging from the position of your feet, I should assume so.

          – More or less, Alistair. You will remember that I was particular about the prostheses fitting perfectly around my knees.

          – As indeed you should be.

          – Quite so. Shortly after I arrived here, I discovered that there is a private club of prosthetist hobbyists who maintain the old‑fashioned ways of working and regularly produce artificial limbs which are no longer available via the health service.

          – How fascinating! Do tell me more.

          – Well, there is precious little to tell. Unfortunately I have neither the time nor the experience to contribute to the society, but I am an associate member and I am allowed to attend their official meetings twice a year. Of course, a lot goes on behind the scenes in the interim.

          – I should hope so. Do continue.

          – I made it no secret that I am a bilateral and as you can guess, I was enthusiastically approached as a potential recipient of new prostheses. Except, as you can imagine, they would be of an ancient design.

          – And is that what you are wearing now, Wisp? Are you wearing deviant limbs?

          – I am indeed. I have a pair of aluminium and leather legs typical of those from the mid‑forties, right at the end of the Second World War when materials of all kinds were in desperately short supply.

          – Do stop with the history lesson and display your prostheses for me!

 

I chuckled at Vexley’s uncommon excitement and allowed my jeans to drop to my ankles. Vexley’s mouth dropped open in surprise and delight. His reaction was exactly what I had anticipated. I too experienced the same delight at wearing full‑length artificial legs. I still had my knees but they were no longer weight‑bearing. Instead, my lower leg stumps rested comfortably inside my artificial lower legs, made to the same wartime restrictions for aircraft aluminium. My knees were mechanical steel hinges, no more sophisticated than the hinge on a garden gate. All my weight was borne along my thighs by the superbly fitting leather sockets which I cinched tight every morning and released every night. The leather and tin looked superb together. I was proud to wear my bare metal legs and enjoyed seeing others’ reactions on those rare occasions when I dared to brave Manchester cloudbursts in ripped denim shorts. Patients who saw my artificial legs were initially confused. I reassured them that they would receive the latest design of titanium and carbon fibre and that I was currently wearing non‑standard legs as part of a research project.

 

          – Those are superb. I congratulate you and your colleagues. How extraordinary that such primitive equipment might still be available in modern times.

          – Bear in mind that these lend themselves extremely well to making adjustments to. Modern limbs are a nightmare of universal joints and laser sighting.

          – All completely unnecessary.

          – Well, of course. It’s all to compensate for the lack of experience with genuine materials like steel and leather…

          – And aluminium…

          – Yes, so today’s prosthetists are helpless when the patient returns two weeks later with a split foot shell and an abscess on their stump.

          – I take it that you had no such need to return.

          – I did not. These legs have been comfortable and reliable and I would not consider changing to another system.

Vexley was silent for a few moments. I could see his thoughts were derailed by my assertion.

 

          – That is a pity.

          – Why? What are you thinking?

          – I think it is time for you to progress to the next stage, Wisp. I want you to have an AK stump. In fact, I propose to amputate you myself.

          – What? Lose a knee? Whatever can you be thinking?

          – Don’t act so surprised. I know what you must have thought about your patients presenting with a pair of stumps, AK and BK, and how your mind goes into overdrive at imagining yourself living with a thigh stump.

I could only laugh.

          – You’re quite right. I do wonder what it would be like to have a left thigh stump paired with what I have on the right.

          – I assume you are thinking within a strictly professional framework?

          – Yes, of course.

          – And you would have no compunction about an additional amputation and its related inconveniences?

          – How would I be more inconvenienced? I would lose a knee, nothing more.

          – But are you prepared to lose your fascinating left prosthesis? I do believe you could recycle the lower section. Perhaps the thigh socket could be aluminium over leather. You ought to ask your prosthetist friends if they have any interesting suggestions for a man with an above knee and a below knee stump. Do you have any such colleagues, in fact?

          – I don’t believe so. Most of them are single limb amputees, you see.

          – How very tedious for them, my dear. I firmly believe that you would find a new lease on life with a more severe amputation, Wisp. Whatever advantage your bilateral amputations have brought you professionally would be multiplied by your impressive skill with an above the knee stump. I envisage something perhaps two thirds its current length.

          – Ah, so it would be long enough to power most AK prostheses.

          – Indeed. That is the entire point of the exercise. There is little point in amputating so high that it becomes impractical to wear an artificial leg, delightful though such short stumps are for both their owners and their partners.

          – And when have you planned on operating, Vexley? I assume it will not cost me anything.

          – Of course it won’t. I can quite easily fit you in for a four or five day sojourn at Roehampton given a time frame of three weeks to a month. You might enjoy a short stay there, Wisp. The place is always heaving with amputees, young and old, armless and legless. You might even find a few candidates for your professional services.

          – Five days seems quite short to be discharged after a thigh amputation. Is that common practice these days?

          – No, nine or ten is more usual but your amputation is elective, I am the surgeon and I see no reason why a cognoscenti like yourself should not recuperate at home. Of course, you will be on crutches until the new prosthesis is fitted.

          – I don’t mind that. It often excites me to see myself severely disabled like that. A one‑legged man with a single metal leg between axillary crutches.

          – It is an admirable combination. So will you give the matter some consideration and get back to me with a possible timetable? Preferably this autumn. The sooner, the better. None of us are getting any younger, I fear.

 

7

I did consider the matter. I practised walking on my right tin leg with crutches. The left prosthesis stood forlornly in a corner, its long red socket laces tucked into the elastic sock on its rigid foot. The idea of becoming more disabled held no fear for me. I had been legless for over a decade and I enjoyed seeing my healthy shapely stumps. Shortly I would have a genuinely challenging stump. Its brevity seemed exotic. I would experiment with a generous combination of artificial limbs and I looked forward to presenting myself to the prosthetists’ club in my new guise. I was most enthusiastic about the possibility of disguising my below knee prosthesis to appear natural and pairing it with a cantankerous old‑fashioned above knee wooden leg or some other similar device. My gait would be severely compromised whatever combination I chose. Perhaps I might actually learn to prefer the one‑legged life, leaving my short stump bare, hidden inside an elegantly folded trouser leg. Time would tell.

 

As Vexley had insinuated, there was no time like the present. I waited patiently until the beginning of the winter holidays and travelled down to Roehampton on the fifteenth of December. Vexley had not exaggerated the abundance of clientele. My bed was at the far end of the six man ward so I had only one neighbour, a man with an eye patch and both forearm stumps bound in thick dressings. He introduced himself simply as Oz and admired my stumps. He wondered why I needed another amputation. Something about his nonchalance led me to believe that he was especially keen to hear about amputations, stumps and artificial limbs. His attitude was quite untypical of a trauma patient who had just lost both hands. I mentioned that I was to undergo an elective amputation and watched his eyes light up.

          – Can you keep a secret? You’re having your leg off just because you want a thigh stump, right?

I nodded slowly.

          – I did these on purpose.

          – Dry ice?

          – Yeah. Shh! Don’t tell anyone.

          – I won’t. There’s no‑one to tell. Anyway, your doctors already know you did it deliberately.

          – How could they know?

          – How many actual genuine accidents with dry ice are there in a typical year which end in bilateral amputations, would you say?

          – Ten maybe. Twenty?

          – None. All frozen hands and feet are regarded as deliberate these days until proven otherwise.

My words had a sobering effect. He lay back with his handless stumps on his chest.

 

My operation was as smooth as silk. I was wheeled to theatre where Vexley and two assistants waited for me. I confirmed that I was to lose my left leg about twelve centimetres above the knee. Vexley smiled and muttered reassuring words as my narcotic sleep descended. I awoke seemingly immediately back in the ward, slightly bemused at the sudden change of scenery until I understood. I reached down and felt the web of dressings around my new stump. There was no pain, not yet. The ward was quiet and I returned to a dreamless sleep.

 

The hours seemed interminable. Three pain‑filled days passed slowly as we attempted to find effective pain medication. The fourth day was more tolerable and I was more sociable. I continued the conversation with my handless neighbour. He admitted to suffering from biid for as long as he could remember and having a fetishistic interest in wearing artificial arms with hooks. I tried to broaden his knowledge with descriptions of other type of prosthesis available, from mechanical hands to bionic hands and gryphers.

          – I know all about those. I wouldn’t mind a pair of gryphers but I’m not really interested in the electronic stuff. I just want to wear a pair of sockets with hooks.

          – For the rest of your life. Are you married? Have you got a girlfriend? How do you think women will react to you having hooks?

          – Don’t forget I’ll have stumps to pleasure a woman. You know what arm stumps look like, don’t you? There’s plenty of women who’d be ready for a date with a bloke with two arm stumps, I reckon.

          – Well, you sound very sure about it. I hope you’re right for your sake.

          – How about you? How’s your new stump? Can I see it?

          – There’s nothing to see yet. It’s still wrapped up. And having a short stump doesn’t make any difference to how other people see me. I was a legless amputee before and I’m a legless amputee now.

          – Does it feel nice to have leg stumps?

          – Do you mean do I like them? Yes, I like them. I was shocked at seeing them when the accident was still fresh in my mind but I soon got used to them and learned to appreciate how I could use them to my advantage, both dating and professionally.

          – How do you mean, professionally?

          – Oh, I thought I told you. I’m a prosthetist. I make artificial limbs.

          – Really? No wonder you know so much about it. Would you make me a pair of hooks if I came to your surgery?

          – Well, I wouldn’t because I only make legs but I dare say someone on the team might give you a decent pair of hooks if you asked nicely. Or, actually… I don’t know if you’d be interested…

          – What? Of course I’m interested. What is it?

          – Well, there’s a group of prosthetists I know who like to make really old‑fashioned arms and legs, usually for each other, but if you’re interested in getting something really antique, some really old‑style hooks on leather sockets, say, I might put in a word for you. I have no idea how much they might cost you, mind.

          – That would be fantastic. Would you ask them? I’d really love to have leather sockets.

          – Alright. Leave it to me.

 

I made it clear to the club leader that not only did I find myself in need of an aluminium and leather thigh socket, but I had an enthusiastic candidate for as wild and imaginative arm prostheses as anyone might enjoy trialling on an eager patient. I was assured of prompt service as soon as I announced I was ready. My old left prosthesis would be recycled and my two lower legs would still appear to be identical. The pair of artificial arms would be offered to one hobbyist who would be responsible for the manufacture and subsequent upkeep. I insisted on some kind of price which I could quote to my new friend. The club leader insisted that my friend submit some tantalising suggestions which he envisaged for himself.

 

So the last day of my stay passed in a hilarious kaleidoscope of improbable combinations of iron hands, steel hooks, rigid elbows, leather, steel, carbon. My friend genuinely suffered his first confrontation with his lifelong disability. He was unable to operate his phone. He sat on the edge of my bed peering into his phone which I held close to his face and we perused the photo archives of war victims and their prosthetic rehabilitation from the previous century and a half. He was most attracted to leather sockets inside a steel framework. The hooks attached directly to the framework with empty space between the hook and the leather socket’s lower edge. I had never seen such an obviously mechanical and instantly identifiable set of artificial arms and was fascinated by the thought that this twenty‑five year old wannabe might soon be walking around in public with such shocking devices on display. To be sure, they worked in exactly the same fashion as a brand new pair of body‑operated arms from the twenty‑first century. In one sense, arm prosthetics had hardly progressed in all that time. In another sense, the old‑timers had got it right first time and there was little to improve upon. Hooks had been standardised for eighty years but the first split hooks were considerably bigger and more curvaceous. They were sexier, quite simply. Having seen the joy in my new friend’s solitary eye when promised the opportunity to acquire such primitive hooks for himself, I began to understand the attraction of replacing one’s hands with hooks and presenting in public with artificial arms on full display for everyone to admire.

 

8

The enthusiast Rupert Mirthwell who had crafted my tin legs was more than willing to serve me again. I assured him that his prostheses had proved durable and supremely comfortable. I had long since come to terms with the challenge of walking with completely rigid feet and ankles. I had a typical lurching gait typical of double amputees which I was proud of and occasionally exaggerated for dramatic effect. Now I took possession of my left tin leg’s big brother. My entire thigh stump was enveloped by the new socket, held on by a ratchet system which squeezed the leather‑lined aluminium shell against my stump with sensuous pressure. The mechanical knee was a modern adaptation of the traditional design, resistant to accidental collapse.

          – Your left leg resembles that of a medieval knight in shining armour. How do you like it?

          – It looks spectacular. I hope it is as reliable as I expect it to be.

          – So do I. You walk extremely well for a bilateral, Mr Wisp.

          – Kind of you to say so.

          – Taking into account the restrictions imposed by the rigid feet, of course.

          – That’s understood. I want to be known as an amputee for professional reasons and my gait plays a rôle in that.

          – I’m sure you’ll soon find your rhythm again with the new leg. Be sure to get in touch if I can be of service.

 

I rocked out within the hour of receiving my full‑length artificial leg. I carried my crutches, determined to discover the capabilities of my fresh stump and its new tin leg. I found a more emphatic jerk of my left hip persuaded the lower leg to swing forward enough for the heel to strike the ground. Then it was simplicity itself to kick my right stump in front of it, taking care not to lose balance or rhythm. By the time I reached home, after negotiating two stations and the tram, I was grateful for the occasional support of my crutches but I was pleased with my progress. My new stump still felt good in its tight cocoon.

 

9

I did not regain my original gait. I had an uneven lurch caused by the rigid left foot, borrowed from my original tin leg. I developed an odd mental image of myself which I did not entirely approve of. It seemed to me that I thrust my right stump forward and used my much weakened knee to pull my long left tin leg forward, almost as if I was dragging it. In fact, it was a question of a few milliseconds difference between the left heel strike following the right compared to the converse. After tolerating the situation for eighteen months or so, I brought the subject up during a lull during a dinner attended by men of the profession. Vexley was present, seated diagonally opposite me. He had little reason to question me in front of the rest of the company. We communicated regularly and he knew my situation almost better than I did myself. He was expecting me to make the decision which he regarded as inevitable. I had adapted so well to my thigh stump that a matching pair was the only way to go. We were both on the wrong side of thirty‑five and conscious of the fact that if we were to experience amputee life as we wished, there was no time like the present. I had already warned my trusty prosthetist that I would shortly require similar customisation to my right leg. He replied expressing his congratulations and enthusiasm for the task. I was quite confident that walking on two old‑fashioned tin legs as a double above‑knee amputee would represent the apogee of my personal amputations. I would be severely disabled but quite mobile thanks to over fifteen year’s experience as a bilateral. I looked forward to donning a pair of leather‑lined aluminium limbs and before the evening’s last round of cognac had been drunk, Vexley and I had tentatively arranged for the amputation of my right leg twelve centimetres above my knee on the first day of the New Year, when the theatre might be quieter than usual.

 

10

This time, I suffered. My stump refused to heal as I expected. Vexley suspected outside influence. Somehow the injury was my fault. He arrived at my home one Friday evening after a long trek from Richmond by rail with a bagful of casting bandages and before the evening was over, my right stump was sporting a fine black cast which extended as far as where my knee had once been. In the meantime, I resumed my one‑legged style. My right stump was disguised under a trouser leg folded up into my belt line. Once again, I relied on axillary crutches and my left tin leg. To my disgust and horror, my stump still refused to heal. Vexley himself began to doubt his professional skill. He had never seen one of his own amputations behave so poorly. In despair at the pain and inconvenience, we agreed that the only likely cure would be re‑amputation. My right thigh stump would be shortened by about ten centimetres as soon as possible.

 

Vexley went higher. My new stump was barely long enough to fit with an artificial limb of any description. Perhaps I exaggerate a little. But the days when I could proudly don a pair of identical tin legs, heave myself erect and stroll out without a care in the world except for the essential attention to my footfall were finally over. From now on I could regard myself as disabled. To all intent and purposes, I had become a one‑legged man reliant on full‑length wooden crutches between which I swung a long artificial leg of a design not made since nineteen fifty. Being still a young man, I was determined not to allow myself to rely on crutches for the rest of my life. There must be some other method of walking for a legless man such as myself. I have to admit here that I was not distraught by my additional disability, rather I found it an interesting challenge. My new shorter stump healed as expected and after I removed my prosthetic limb at the end of the day, I spent many nights before I fell asleep fondling and exploring my healed scars and rearranged skin patterns on my leg stumps. All of them new sensations. I became inured to the realisation that I would probably never walk on two prosthetic legs again. I was disappointed in one sense because I was unable to experiment with different designs but on the other hand, I enjoyed walking on a single artificial leg, my long tin leg, balancing perfectly between crutches, thrusting my prosthesis before me with every kick of my stump. Inevitably, my dedicated prosthetist eventually heard about my predicament and invited me for a private visit to his home in the Cotswolds. I was enchanted at the thought of visiting a part of the country which was famous for its beauty, which I had never seen nor expected to visit.

 

11

          – Welcome, Fenwick! How good to see you again. Let me hold your crutches while you slide in. I’m afraid there will be only the two of us this weekend until my husband returns tomorrow evening. I have given my manservant a few days off to attend to family business but he insisted on preparing our meals beforehand so we shall not go hungry.

I had little difficulty swinging my almost weightless undercarriage up onto the Land Rover’s front seat. I arranged my tin leg manually to make sure it was not somehow in the way. Mirthwell negotiated the route to his home with the comfortable assurance of one who has made the trip many times.

          – I was very sorry to hear about the re‑amputation of your right stump, Fenwick. It must have come as quite a blow to you. I know how important body symmetry is to you and the pleasure you take from a matching pair of artificial limbs. In fact, that is the main reason I invited you.

 

I was intrigued. I had not considered such a thing as body symmetry. In fact, I had not even heard of it. But to all intents and purposes, I had indeed been slowly progressing toward walking on two above‑knee prostheses ever since my work accident took my feet when I had barely left school. It seemed such an impossibly long time ago. I had been a lithe active young man, eager to please the boss at my new job. Now, nearly twenty years later, the same man was a helpless cripple without his solitary tin leg and crutches. Yet again, I took pleasure from the mental image of myself navigating my way through life as a severely crippled man. There was considerable skill involved in walking on a single prosthesis and I knew I had mastered it to perfection. My gait was elegant and I was proud of my achievement.

 

Mirthwell insisted on a glass of wine before lunch. Whether intentionally or not, we finished two bottles within ninety minutes. We sat facing each other in a cosy old‑fashioned parlour, decorated in traditional colours of sage green and maroon. A leather three piece suite with deep riveted dimples formed a semicircle around the hearth in which a genuine log fire crackled.

          – I hope you won’t be offended if I tell you that I have followed your progress via several channels. Of course, you know that Vexley and I know each other but I also hear news through the grapevine whose tendrils extend to your own place of work. You have made quite the reputation for yourself in our field, Fenwick. You should congratulate yourself.

          – It’s very kind of you to say so.

          – It’s no more than deserved. However, I did rather think that following your latest escapade, you might be ready to cast yourself in a new role. I am talking about prostheses, of course, nothing more.

          – I see. I have to admit that I have grown to enjoy my current status. I am still quite capable at work, although of course I can no longer coach my patients in the same way as I used to when I had longer stumps.

          – No, of course not. I had wondered if you would be interested in experimenting with a range of short legs, stubbies as they are known, or perhaps even short peg legs. I think a man of your stature and capability might strike a wonderful pose wearing a pair of fluted wooden peg legs extending to mid‑shin, as it were.

          – How extraordinary! I have never imagined adopting peg legs. Or stubbie legs for that matter.

          – I rather thought that the idea might have crossed your mind and so I compiled a small collection of photographs of gentlemen whom fate saw fit to bless with the same body configuration as you currently boast. Many of the men lost their legs above the knees in mining accidents which were particularly common. As you know, prosthetics were still quite primitive until comparatively recently so many legless men were fitted with wooden stubbies on which they led successful lives as shorter men. The occasional dare‑devil learned to walk on a pair of peg legs, often with a walking stick but sometimes without. I find it an especially beautiful body image, hugely impressive to see a man mastering two pegs. And then there are the men who, like yourself, contented themselves with a single wooden leg or peg and a pair of crutches. Tell me, Fenwick, would you like to walk on a pair of stubbies?

          – I believe I would but I am more intrigued by the idea of wearing a pair of wooden peg legs like the man in your earlier photo.

          – Yes, he is a remarkable example of what is possible. You see his stumps are both above‑knee specimens such as your own. I would assume that he experimented with peg legs of various lengths until he settled on this knee‑length version, perhaps they’re slightly longer. But you can see the traditional fluting on the pegs and how the pylon itself narrows from the upper socket.

          – I wonder if he had identical stumps.

          – We shall probably never know but whatever the case, we can ensure that both your peg legs would appear to be exactly the same. I understand your right stump is considerably shorter than your right. I hope you will allow me to inspect them a little later but shall we first have a spot of lunch?

 

12

We both enjoyed some roast beef and garlic potatoes which Mirthwell’s man had left for him. It was an extraordinary domestic arrangement, especially considering that there appeared to be a temporarily absent husband. Did neither have the time nor skills to roast a joint? But it was none of my business. Mirthwell indicated my room and suggested that we meet back in the parlour at four.

 

The wine had gone to my head somewhat but it was a pleasant sensation. As a severely disabled man, I have to pay constant attention to my artificial leg and crutches. Unfortunately this means that it is unwise for me to enjoy more than a pint of beer before I place myself at risk of a fall. I had never been much of a drinker so it was not something I worried about. I removed my tin leg and stretched my stumps wide on the short convertible sofa which someone had made up for me. I nodded off for ninety minutes and awoke from a dream where I was running from a wildfire on two short peg legs. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say waddling as quickly as I could. I was relieved to be awake and just as I was about to don my limb, I remembered that Mirthwell had asked to see my stumps. I made sure my underwear was presentable and handwalked back to the parlour. My host was already present and active at his laptop, working on what I assumed was the design for a peg leg he proposed to offer me. I was correct.

          – Ah! You’re legless! Excellent.

I pulled myself up onto a dining chair, arranged my genitals and leaned closer to the screen.

          – You see, your short stump would fit into the top of the socket and strapped to a belt. The corresponding left stump would fit comfortably deep into the peg and you would have full control of it without needing a belt, although we could quite easily add one. What do you think?

 

I was astonished at the matter‑of‑fact manner in which Mirthwell proposed fitting me with a pair of peg legs originally manufactured at the end of the nineteenth century. They were a little shorter than natural legs. I tried to envision myself using them. What clothes might one wear with peg legs? Breeches and a tweed jacket, leather driving gloves perhaps and a stout shortened walking stick. The rubber ferrules looked thick and sturdy. The peg legs would extend horizontally from the seat of any chair I sat in but they were not excessively long. They were not suitable for use on public transport, that much was certain. I would not be wearing peg legs during my commute but I saw no reason why I might not favour them at other times.

 

          – I’m not sure. I’ve never considered peg legs. But they look fascinating. The pair of them together give such a startling impression of disability.

          – Legless nirvana. Yes, I quite understand.

I glanced at Mirthwell’s face to see if he were serious. What an extraordinary remark.

          – I have also drawn up an alternative, although there is nothing to prevent you from choosing both versions.

The next tab revealed elegantly tapering stubbies. They were secured in the same way as the peg legs but did not extend as far. Their surfaces were smooth and slightly conical. The bases were inch thick rubber pads. Mirthwell, in turn, watched my face as I examined the design and imagined myself tottering about on them.

          – They emphasise your leglessness as much as the peg legs but your gait on stubbies would differ somewhat. They lend themselves to shorter steps and many users report that they feel more supportive than peg legs with their narrower tips. What do you think?

          – Give me time, Mirthwell! I can hardly believe what I’m seeing. Have you been drawing these for me?

          – I have adapted them for you. Bear in mind I already know the intimate dimensions of your left stump. I have a third suggestion which you might find intriguing, if you are ready.

          – Please, go ahead.

The third tab depicted a greyed out man wearing a long peg leg on his left thigh stump much like my own, supported by armpit crutches. Mirthwell touched the screen and the shadowy figure turned into an animation. The peg leg swung forward in an elegant arc, followed by the crutches. And again. I watched transfixed. I had perfected the art of ambulation on a single artificial leg but the casual onlooker might assume I was one‑legged. A peg leg would make such a misapprehension impossible. The legless figure on screen was the epitome of disabled elegance, the ultimate achievement available only to a DAK like me. I was completely enchanted but once again, I would not be able to adopt a lifestyle on a single peg leg in my current situation. I tried to envisage myself negotiating my commute without the facility to quickly kick my artificial leg up a step or two. But oh! How I yearned to feel the unique joy of relying on a single long wooden peg leg.

          – I can see you’d like a peg like that, Fenwick. You may be interested to know that I already have one I made for another client two or three years ago. Unfortunately he passed away from cancer before he took delivery. I need only adjust the socket to fit your stump and the peg leg could be yours, if you would like it.

 

I stared at him, not knowing what to say. I was grateful for his offer, naturally, but I realised too that I was confirming my future self with my choice. I would probably become so dependent on the solitary peg that I would ignore other alternatives. I would be reliant on Mirthwell for my future prosthetic needs, since I was unlikely to meet another prosthetist who had the skill and wherewithal to make a perfect replica of a peg leg from a century and a half ago. The health service might condescend to manufacture one from a length of aluminium pylon if I asked nicely. However, that was a problem for another time.

          – I would love it. Thank you so much, Mirthwell. It’s very kind of you to offer. Is that why you invited me? Is the peg here?

          – As a matter of fact it is. However, it needs adapting to your dimensions so I cannot allow you to wear it, although we might view it later.

 

13

We continued to review Mirthwell’s extensive collection of antique prostheses, as museum items and in actual contemporary use. I paid particular attention to the many working class men of all ages fitted with a single peg leg. As much as I loved the appearance of my tin leg, I already intuited that if I had a peg leg, it would gradually overcome my doubts about its perceived inconveniences and become my go‑to prosthesis. If I were completely honest with myself, after this weekend visit to the Cotswolds I wanted to be a legless amputee with a single peg leg. Apparently the peg itself already existed and needed only minor adjustments to fit my stump. My short stump would remain forever unused except for erotic pleasure and I would become known as a single peg legger throughout the community.

 

Later in the afternoon, I allowed Mirthwell to carry me by piggyback to a miniature inspection room, possibly a former scullery. He took fresh plaster of Paris casts of both my stumps, as the left cast he relied on was already several years old. How time flies. He probed my new stump and assured me that it would be quite suitable for use with stubbies, on condition that I wore a belt. However, our association was already so well established that I could distinguish Mirthwell’s ‘patient speak’ from the truth and, as I mentioned, I regarded myself as a one‑legger from that weekend.

          – Would you like me to cast your short stump, Fenwick? I think you would be wise to give it some protection and even if you choose to wear shorts with a peg leg, there is no harm if the cast on your short stump makes the occasional appearance. I’ll make it glossy black carbon. That should cover most eventualities.

          – Thanks, I’d like that. I loved wearing the casts you made for my long stumps.

          – Of course you did. That explains the entire phenomenon. It feels good.

 

14

I had been given to understand that Mirthwell’s husband was expected back around six in the evening, after I had already departed for the train back to Manchester. But after we had cast the stump shield for my useless short stump, he received a message announcing his husband’s imminent arrival due to the cancellation of some gallery opening.

          – I do hope you don’t mind. I invited you up this weekend because I expected we could be alone and work on your future requirements in private without interruption. And now Oswin will be with us for dinner! I do hope that’s alright.

          – Of course I don’t mind. I’d be pleased to meet your husband. Have you been married long?

          – Oh, it’s a recent affair. Under a year, in fact. I was recommended to attend a plenary meeting of upper limb specialists because there was a speaker who, according to my contact, had expressed a desire for a thigh stump and he immediately thought of me. Anyway, to cut a long and rather erotic story short, I met Oswin after his talk and it was love at first sight. I changed my work schedules to spend more time with him and learn his lifestyle. And only four months later, last March, we tied the knot. I undertook his amputation and fitted him myself. It may interest you to know that he walks on a peg leg. Nothing special, not yet. Just a long black aluminium pylon with a fat rubber tip.

 

It was an astonishing speech. It sounded to me like he was apologising and trying to over‑explain something which in fact demanded no explanation whatsoever. I had never met anyone called Oswin before. I wondered if it was short for something. The only other name like it I could remember was the young guy from my first elective. He insisted his name was Oz but we never used each other’s names.

 

          – Well, congratulations to you. To you both, of course. And I’m sure his early return won’t present a problem. How could it?

          – Well, Oswin is severely disabled and sometimes people find his presence disturbing.

I wondered how disabled he could be if he walked on a peg leg. I soon found out.

 

Mirthwell and I were enjoying an aperitif waiting for my stump shield to harden when a flash of reflected sunlight burst through the kitchen window and an optimistic yell called out ‘Home!’

          – Oh good lord, he’s back already. OK, Fenwick. Brace yourself!

I heard a car door slam and irregular footsteps. There were sharp raps against a kitchen window. Mirthwell surprisingly rose to let the newcomer in. And my jaw literally dropped open. I had always assumed it was a mere literary convention signifying astonishment. I did not realise it actually happened in real life.

 

          – Hello mate! It’s been a while, innit? Welcome to ours. I hope Rube’s been treating you well while I been gone.

I was too surprised to make any sensible reply. It was my bilateral hand amputee companion from when I was having my right stump amputated. Oz. His eye twinkled in pleasure at seeing my astonishment. He raised both forearms to display curvaceous split hooks of a design not made since the nineteen forties.

          – How do you like ’em? I said I was gonna get some, remember? It all worked out right for me after all. Didn’t take long before I got in touch with the prosterists’ club and they made me these hooks. And that’s where I met Rube. Where we met each other.

 

He limped across the kitchen and I lowered my eyes. He was walking on a peg leg, as Mirthwell had described, although at that moment, I had not been paying much attention to his words, being caught up in visions of myself on my own peg leg. He nipped a small cylindrical glass from a kitchen shelf and helped himself to his own aperitif. There was no hesitation about his movements. He seemed as familiar with his oversize hooks as with his natural hands. He sat opposite us, careful not to strike either of us with his peg leg. I looked down at its utilitarian simplicity. A simple metal shaft painted black and a large conical ferrule.

          – How d’you like that, mate? I reckon we’ve both got the same sort of stump. And done by the same bloke, eh?

          – That’s amazing. How do you like your peg? Do you have any other legs yet?

          – Nope. This is what Rube recommended and I don’t see any reason to use anything fancier. Although there is an old‑fashioned peg leg knocking about here somewhere. It’s too short for me, though, so I’m making do with this one until we decide on a nicer design.

          – Actually, Oswin, Fenwick has agreed to take the wooden peg leg off our hands.

          – Well, that worked out very well for you. I see you’re not wearing any legs at the mo. Do you usually crawl around au naturel, so to speak?

          – Ha! Certainly not. I have just had my short stump casted for a sheath to protect it. Your husband has made all my artificial limbs so it’s only natural that he should have a chance to inspect them once in a while.

          – Yeah. If there’s one thing Rube enjoys, it’s inspecting stumps.

          – Careful now, Oswin. Don’t start revealing trade secrets.

Mirthwell excused himself and rose from the table. He reappeared momentarily bearing my tin leg and crutches but did not offer them immediately to me. Instead, he cradled the artificial limb in his arms and allowed Oz to inspect it. I found the delicate metallic sounds of Oz’s hooks on my tin leg extremely erotic.

          – Is this the kind of leg you light like, Oswin? Fenwick has worn tin legs from the start, if I remember correctly. Coming up for twenty years, eh? How time flies.

          – Yes, it’s been twenty years, and fifteen more or less since I met Oz and got a thigh stump.

          – And I got my arm stumps.

          – You still seem to enjoy a challenge or two, Oz. What made you go for a leg stump? I’m assuming it was elective and not the result of an accident or something.

          – Elective, voluntary. It’s simply something a man in my position should have as a matter of course. Eye patch, coupla hooks. Of course a peg leg comes next. No, joking aside, I loved the feelings from my arm sockets from the get go and I was always of a mind to have a leg off if possible to see if a leg stump would feel as good, but bigger. And then when I met Rube, he put me in touch with Dr Vexley and bob’s your uncle.

          – That was very convenient for you. It’s true. Both our stumps were done by the same man.

 

_{Mirthwell made an impromptu buffet. I made myself decent and donned my tin leg, after which I remained standing. We paid a short visit to Mirthwell’s opulent study to inspect the wooden peg leg whose original intended owner never wore it and which was too short for Oz with his sole remaining natural limb. My future self, the one legged man on crutches, was the grateful recipient of the device.}

 

₁₅

_{It was time to leave. I made noises about the time and how I should be making tracks, expecting Mirthwell to volunteer to drive me to the station. However, he declined, saying he had had too much to drink.}

          _{– I’ll drive you, mate. It’s a bit of a squash in my car but if you take your leg off, you’ll be able to squeeze in.}

          _{I was relieved I had only an simple overnight bag with me rather than a suitcase. Oz’s car was an electric trike converted for use by a man without hands. There were two adjacent seats with seemingly endless leg space in front, narrowing towards the single central front wheel. It occurred to me that the car was itself as disabled as we were. But after a couple of minutes, the two of us were safely, if not comfortably, ensconced in the tiny car and Oz set off surrounded by a blaze of led lights along twilit country lanes towards town. We discussed our amputations.}

 

          _{– So are you really gonna ditch your tin leg for a peg? That would look so fantastic. I wish I could but I’m not so sure I could learn to walk on two peg legs.}

          _{– You could use stubbies.}

          _{– Nah. I don’t like ’em. Don’t get me wrong. They’re OK for men who need to get back into the scheme of things after they lose their legs. They’re much easier to walk on than artificial legs like your’n. But I’ve never felt the urge meself.}

          _{– I have to admit I don’t really like the idea of stubbies. Your hubby showed me photos of men walking on two short peg legs and they were much more my style. But we are both of the conclusion that my right stump is too short for a pros or a peg, which actually suits me. I already decided a while back that I want to be on crutches and one peg leg.}

          _{– And is that wooden peg we looked at gonna be the one which sees you swap from a tin leg to a peg leg?}

          _{– I think it may well be.}

 

_{We were silent for half a minute before Oz voiced the inevitable question from a voluntary bilateral upper limb amputee.}

          _{– Ever thought about getting a hook or two? I know you like the look of mine.}

          _{– They’re amazing. So big. What metal are they made of?}

          _{– Brass.}

          _{– They’re superb. No, I’ve never had the urge to use hooks, Oz. I’m more of the sort who just likes to watch guys like yourself using them. And you do realise that as a legless guy myself, it’s useful to have a pair of hands to operate crutches with.}

          _{– I know. That’s the main reason I’ve still got my leg. I’d love to be limbless, with exactly the right length of stump, and use artificial limbs on all my stumps every day for the rest of my life. But I also want to use a peg leg. If I lost my leg now, I’d probably be on crutches for a lot of the time and I just can’t use ’em with me hooks.}

          _{– It’s too bad, Oz. But you have to remember that we’re disabled. There are certain things we simply can’t do, and one of those things is losing our remaining limb.}

 

_{Oz laughed. It was the worry‑free, heartfelt laugh of a man who had everything in life he could ever want.  We curved into the station forecourt. I donned my tin leg and clung on to the sporty three‑wheeler to force myself erect. Oz handed me my crutches and bag which I slung around my shoulders.}

          _{– It was good to see you again, Oz. I’m glad you’ve made it in life. Bye.}

_{Oz raised a hook in farewell. The trike whined and swung out of the forecourt. I turned my attention to controlling my tin leg, ensuring the knee engaged at each step, checking that the heel landed where I expected it to hit. Possibly these incessant thoughts would be silenced when I joined the exclusive company of single peg users.}

 

 

 

 

Part Three

Artificial Limbs

 

₁₆

_{It was in this interim that my old roommate Quirk contacted me with apologies for the gap of many years. We had kept in touch for three or four years after we were allocated our jobs and accommodation but gradually old comradeship dissolved under the deluge of careers and further education. Quirk announced that he was attending a semi‑private exhibition arranged by several prosthetic and orthotic companies in Manchester and wondered if there was a chance of meeting either there or early one evening. I had not seen an announcement for the exhibition and discovered that I had left it too late to acquire entry tickets. It would have to be a meeting one evening. Quirk enquired briefly after my health and assured me that he was also doing as well as could be expected.}

 

_{Mirthwell seemed to be taking his time but I was reluctant to hurry him. I was impatient to receive the peg leg. It would be ideal to launch my future identity as a user of a single peg with a meeting with Quirk, who I assumed knew little of my subsequent amputations after we had last met. But as the date of our meeting approached, it seemed I would be wearing my trusty tin leg with the other trouser leg folded up. It was actually the most elegant of all possible combinations. I was reluctant to attempt donning the long right prosthesis. I found the belt it required too restrictive and, truth be told, I had never learned to walk on my two long legs with any degree of assured confidence. So, crutches and tin leg it was. I hoped Quirk would understand. He had always been a stickler for sartorial conventions and I hoped an empty trouser leg swinging below my minimalist leg stump would meet with his approval.}

 

_{I need not have worried. I arrived at the agreed street‑level cocktail bar in the town centre twenty minutes before our agreed rendezvous and commandeered a small circular table next to the window. The circular bar stools were the perfect height for a one‑legged man. There was ample room to rest my stump and balls while keeping my tin leg firmly on the floor. Quirk approached the bar from the opposite direction but obviously saw me from outside. He made a beeline for me and for the second time in my life, my jaw dropped.}

          _{– Hello Fenwick. I got here as quickly as possible. How are you?}

          _{– Well, I’m fine, thanks. But what’s happened to you? I had no idea you’d become an amputee.}

          _{–No. I suppose it has been a fairly well kept secret. Let me get a drink. Would you like a refill?}

          _{– Yes please. Tell the bartender to bring them over.}

          _{– Ha! He has no say in the matter.}

_{Quirk rearranged his tall wooden crutches and swung his single leg towards the bar. I could tell by the lack of movement in the lower leg that it was a prosthesis. I had no idea that Quirk had become an amputee in the years of silence. Neither had Vexley mentioned anything about the matter, which proved nothing. Vexley could be exceedingly selective about personal information he shared. Quirk and I were both one‑legged crutch users. Our solitary legs were artificial. I was both shocked and intensely curious to know how a healthy, full‑bodied Norfolk surgeon managed to cripple himself to such a degree without the outside world learning of it.}

 

          _{– It’s perfectly simple, Fenwick. Five years ago, I developed sepsis. The cause has not been determined. I had spent a weekend on the coast and within a week, I was on the operating table. I lost my feet DBK but my hands were saved.}

          _{– That was very fortunate for you.}

          _{– Not really. I have CRPS in both hands and I’m waiting for bilateral amputations in five weeks. That’s why I’m here. I wanted to chat about upper limb bionics. But as far as I can see, there have been no notable breakthroughs. Maybe the hands are a little less bulky but they still look like displaced sea creatures.}

          _{– They have such long response times.}

          _{– Well, exactly. So the next time we meet, which I hope will be much sooner, I shall be a quadruple amputee with bilateral hooks.}

          _{– You don’t sound upset about it.}

          _{– Upset? Why should I be upset? I retired voluntarily as soon as I recovered from my leg amputations. I am a surgeon, Fenwick. How can a surgeon operate if he is concentrating full‑time on his balance? No. I informed my insurance company that I was taking early retirement and with the other sources of income I invested in, I should be able to maintain a comfortable lifestyle. Comfortable after I get rid of these hands, of course.}

          _{– Do they pain you now?}

          _{– Yes. Every touch is painful. I tried wearing gloves at first but the pressure of the gloves was also painful. I consume fistfuls of gabapentin to little effect.}

          _{– I’m sorry, Quirk. It’s not what you had planned for yourself, is it?}

          _{– Not for myself, no. But I have had a hand in many amputations much like my own for wannabes and devotees and benefitted financially from it. You could say ‘What goes around, comes around’. Enough about me. The last time we met you were DBK. Now you’re DAK unless I’m mistaken.}

          _{– Yes, I simply regard myself as legless. This prosthesis has served me well for over fifteen years. I had an elective surgery to remove my left knee after university and later my right knee. That amputation was unsuccessful and resulted in a very short AK stump. After that, I became a crutch user and my leg is my trusty old leather and tin leg.}

          _{– You had it manufactured specifically for you, I assume? It’s not the usual sort of thing, is it?}

          _{– No. I have access to a prosthetist who specialises in antique designs as a hobby.}

          _{– That sounds fascinating. Tell me, Fenwick, did you intend to become legless when were studying? I mean, I know you were already a DBK, but that’s different from the legless cripple on a single tin leg I see before me. Excuse me if I speak out of turn but I find myself in the same position.}

          _{– You’re quite right, of course. I did not intend to explore amputation recreationally beyond experimenting with various combinations of artificial legs available to a DBK amputee such as I was back then. But my first thigh stump was recommended to me and I liked it so much that I submitted to a second. Unfortunately, it was not successful and the stump was shortened to something less than practical for prosthetic use. Hence my one‑legged status as you see me today.}

          _{– You’re not bitter?}

          _{– Not at all. In fact, I am shortly discarding the tin leg for a custom‑made wooden peg leg.}

          _{– You are joking! So you’ll be one‑legged on a peg?}

          _{– Yup. How does that grab you?}

 

_{Quirk was struck silent. I soon realised that he too would have enjoyed the experience of crutching about on a peg leg but without hands, he would hardly be able to enjoy using crutches either. Suddenly, I remembered Quirk had a thigh stump.}

          _{– Ah, I hope you don’t mind me asking but you’ve not told me why you have an AK stump.}

          _{– Oh, that was voluntary. It was an experiment. I still have CPRS in my stumps. The thigh stump is an attempt to find the boundary between healthy and diseased flesh.}

          _{– And is it?}

          _{– Oh yes. My thigh stump is perfect. It’s a little fresh at the moment so it doesn’t yet have a prosthesis to wear. But after I can wear a pros on it, I’ll have my other leg off to match it and get around as a DAK on prossies.}

          _{– I’m sorry life has been so unkind to you, Quirk.}

          _{– Let’s not think about it. We dedicated our studies to the subject. You, me and Vexley, the old bastard, so it seems only fitting we should also reap the benefits of the ancient art of amputation.}

          _{– What do you mean? Is Vexley an amputee?}

          _{– Not yet. Not as far as I know. Wouldn’t it be perfect if he were!}

_{I laughed at the image of the fop, the dandy, selecting which lacy gloves to wear over mechanical hands or which fishnet stockings he might wear over wooden legs.}

 

₁₇

_{Meeting Quirk after so many years reminded me of the illicit pleasures the three of us used to indulge in during our student days. I was the only amputee at the time, freshly footless and already battling with deliberately unsophisticated artificial legs. I could have accepted a pair of modern prostheses and learned to walk so well that no casual observer could have guessed I was an amputee. However, mainly due to encouragement by Quirk with Vexley’s arrogant assurances, I gradually came around to more than merely accepting my status as a disabled student. I exaggerated my gait, making it quite obvious that I walked on artificial legs. My limbs were glossy prosthetic pink, the peculiar approximate shade of Caucasian flesh and I was inwardly proud of appearing so crippled on the rare occasions when I wore shorts. When I was surrounded by healthy young bodies of both sexes, I felt myself to be uniquely singled out for special attention. Quirk was my greatest fan, although he was never intrusive. I must admit that I was excited to hear that he is shortly to lose both hands in a desperate attempt to cure his complex regional pain syndrome. I hope he will be fitted successfully with below elbow prostheses. It would be too cruel if he needs to lose his elbows to later amputation if the CRPS treatment fails. He seemed resigned to becoming legless with bilateral thigh stumps. Perhaps he will persevere and become a successful quad amp. I hope so. I believe he has the mental stamina necessary to use four artificial limbs on a daily basis.}

 

_{So with the old enthusiasm for experimentation refreshed, I gave more thought to my own prospects. I fully intended to make my new wooden peg leg the centre of any lifestyle I might adopt after it arrived. But there was also an opportunity of pairing it with some kind of prosthesis on my short right stump. I tried to imagine myself walking on two prosthetic legs again. Perhaps I could adopt the lazy man’s way and regard my artificial legs are mere providers of my original height. I would still swing my body along between two handsome wooden crutches. As an alternative to doing the same thing with a single peg leg, it seemed reasonable enough.}

 

_{Three weeks later, the peg leg itself arrived by courier with profuse apologies enclosed from Mirthwell, who had been taken ill with shingles soon after our meeting and laid low. As always, he encouraged me to contact him immediately if any problems arose.}

 

₁₈

_{The peg leg was deceptive in appearance. It was carved wood over a modern carbon interior. As a result, it was much lighter than it appeared. The large rubber ferrule at its tip looked especially designed to bear considerable weight and provide a firm reliable base. I was delighted to finally receive the device. It would be the utmost realisation of my disability. Everyone who saw my tripod figure would know that I was legless. And yet, I was agile and perfectly capable of leading an active life.}

 

_{I tentatively donned the peg for the first time. As Mirthwell had promised, it fit exactly as well as my tin leg. It accommodated my thigh stump well and its locking mechanism held it firmly. I hoped I would find it comfortable enough to wear all day, although if I invented an alternative for myself, I might find myself changing prostheses after I arrived home in the evening. One scenario I had imagined involved a pair of knee‑length stubbies which could also be shaped like short peg legs.}

 

_{I lifted myself erect and fitted my crutches into my armpits one by one. With any luck, it might be possible to use the crutches at their current length. It certainly seemed to be the case. I lowered my weight onto the peg and savoured the fit of my stump and moved my body weight slightly to discover the new centre of balance. I peered down at the ferrule and was excited by the absence of a foot. If previous experience was anything to go by, the peg leg would be easier to walk on because of it. I took my first step to test the peg’s weight. It was lighter than my tin leg, which I already knew, of course, but experiencing it in use was a different matter. And then for the first time, I manoeuvred myself into the hallway to stare at my reflection in the long mirror on the bathroom door. The wooden socket was spectacular. It was a piece of artwork for me alone. No‑one else would see it unless I displayed it. The lower leg was convoluted as extravagantly as any wooden peg leg from the eighteenth century. The pylon first bulged and became slender enough to fit the rubber stop. I was bowled over with my appearance. I was overcome with pleasure at my achievement. The final configuration of Fenwick Wisp had materialised.}

 

_{After the initial few tentative steps, I found it easier to walk on the peg than on my tin leg, mainly due to the lack of a foot. The rubber tip stayed exactly where it landed and held my weight firmly. I never felt the slightest hint of slippage. The peg leg was slightly shorter than the tin leg but this turned out to my advantage as I was able to spread my crutches a little wider for better traction. I crutched around my apartment, glancing into the mirror whenever I passed it. I became aware of how quietly I moved.}

 

_{I was delighted with the peg leg and proud of my skill, born of years of experience, at being able almost intuitively to walk on it. But at the same time, I realised that I had possibly too much of a good thing. The peg leg was not only an extraordinarily unusual device to display in public, it was also ornate to a degree completely at odds with modern sensibilities. In short, I had gained the peg leg I had decided to wear after many years of fruitless wishing but suddenly I realised that I would not wear it in public. It was quite simply too fantastic. If I wanted a solitary peg leg, it would have to be something more in line with the zeitgeist. It would have to be a pylon.}

 

_{I imagined myself with a long rigid pylon and crutches. It would be practical enough for everyday purposes but I returned to my available alternatives. If the peg were a burnished pylon, it might match well with the cantankerous prosthesis on my right side short stump. The peg leg might be a kind of lever to drag my weaker tin leg forward. I could not imagine what my gait would look like but I was willing to try it out. All I needed was a simple peg leg. I was entitled to two prosthetic limbs through my workplace and to my surprise, they agreed that a basic aluminium pylon with a rubber ferrule on my standard socket would be available in a very few days. I asked for the pylon to have an unusually highly burnished surface, as aluminium can sometimes look grey and matte.}

 

 

 

₁₉

_{The magnificent classic peg leg which I lusted after for so many years has remained mostly unused. I wear my long tin leg on the right and my shiny rigid peg on the left. I can walk with that configuration over a short distance but I am easily unbalanced and prefer to rely on my crutches whenever I wear both legs. Otherwise I leave the tin leg behind and face the world as a one‑legged man on a single peg leg. I find it physically and erotically satisfying to appear so severely crippled in the knowledge that a select few ogle me with intense envy and desire. I am fortunate in being capable of maintaining my career as a bilateral amputee. After my second amputations, I was advised to specialise in advisory services and twelve years later, I became head of department. I make an appearance in the wards on the rare occasion when a new double above knee amputee is present. At work, I dress as conservatively as possible. I believe that my tweed jacket with leather patches and single trouser leg make for a superb contrast with my steely peg leg.}

 

_{I made one personal adjustment to my daily routine after I permanently adopted my peg leg for everyday use. I bought a similar tricycle to that owned by Oz. I can even drive it without removing my peg, as the cabin has enough leg room to accept it. The control handle is easy to use for both me and Quirk.}

 

_{Quirk found himself in a challenging situation after the loss of his hands. He assured everyone who enquired after his well‑being that he had a good friend in residence who took care of him in addition to a district nurse who tended to his fresh stumps. But the good friend had other places to go, other things to do and Quirk found himself alone, legless with new bilateral hooks. I was already of an age when I knew I was unlikely to find a partner or mate so I applied for a slightly larger apartment which I knew would soon be vacant and invited Quirk to live with me again. Flatmates once more after thirty years.}

 

_{Quirk continues to work as a private speaker with CRPS as his speciality topic. He makes no secret of his prosthetic limbs on stage and frequently mentors new upper limb amputees. He wears only body‑powered upper limb prostheses equipped with a standard variety of steel hooks and alternates between minimalist basic prosthetic legs and short stubbies, which he favours at home. We have our own rooms but share the rest of the apartment, professionally redesigned and equipped for the legless.}

 

_{We have both found a sense of tranquillity in our lives. Our naïve youthful obsessions for artificial limbs have been fulfilled beyond our wildest fantasies. We are both legless, mobile only by continual attention to our balance and minute attention to the outside world. Neither of us condescend to appear in public without prosthetic legs, or whatever description. My single peg leg is my personal distinguishing feature from which I do not intend to deviate. Quirk has his stubbies and two pairs of artificial legs of alternative lengths, neither of them more elaborate than steel pylons with rubberised feet. His gait is, to put it bluntly, atrocious. He rocks from side to side to propel his stumps forward, swinging both hooks in an attempt to maintain balance. Like myself, he dresses only in the most staid and respectable clothes when we are out in public. Quirk is unable to grasp a walking stick in either of his hook types and so far refuses to entertain the idea of replacing his artificial arms and hooks with peg arms which would allow him a more dignified manner of walking on his prosthetic legs. Personally, I enjoy watching such an extremely crippled man determinedly struggling to cope with modern life fitted with the artificial limbs we both fantasised about before we understood the effort required. However, neither of us would change a single day. Our artificial limbs are part of ourselves and have been for more years than I care to remember. Quirk insists that losing his hands cured his CRPS in his arms but I have seen him wincing when he dons his hooks and sometimes I suspect that there may be more amputations in the offing. We shall see. Whatever the case, we are ready for the future.}

 

QUIRK, VEXLEY & WISP