Tranford Tales Weston

CHAPTER 1

People in wheelchairs are still people. We want the same things as everyone else, including relationships and sex. The accident which stopped me walking didn't affect my cock and balls. I was as eager as ever.

Unfortunately, the one I thought was going to be my partner for life decided not to be.

Gays are just normal people as well. Which means they can be as shallow, narrowminded, bigoted or just as stupid as other people. Some of them are lovely and kind, of course, but no more than the population at large.

Naturally, he had to come to visit me in hospital, but by the time the surgeons had finished what they could do and told me that was it, he had managed to come up with a formula as to why it was best that we parted. I knew he was fucking with someone else.

I realised that I had been a bit of a trophy. A black lover, not bad looking, if I say so myself. I was the black best friend that many people claimed in order to show they weren't prejudiced.

Of course, there are many jobs that people in wheelchairs can do, as I was repeatedly told.

Yes, but digging ditches and laying drains isn't one of them. Which is what I had been doing when I had my accident. Don't kid yourself that it's all done by machine these days. Of course, as much as possible is, but we were mostly working around gas pipes, water pipes, electric cables and God knows what under the streets these days, so there was a lot of hand digging. In decent weather, that was an excuse to get the top off and display the muscles.

It was mostly the women that looked, of course, and I didn't mind a bit. I'd even give them a wink and a bit of saucy talk like the other lads. They were amused when I did. Yes, I was a show-off. told you gays can be shallow and stupid. Which is why I didn't realise it was the show that my supposed partner was in love with. A flabby man in a chair was not the same.

The Health and Safety Executive had to investigate the accident, of course, while the company denied liability. I never knew these things take so much time. I was being taken care of by the NHS, of course, and had other things to worry about. When I eventually started thinking about the fortune in compensation I was going to get and how I would spend it, the financial crash happened and the company and its insurance ceased to exist. I was told later that the likelihood of payment to me had caused them to withdraw assets early, and big cash bonuses had been paid to the directors.

The lawyers (of course) made sure their fees were paid, so people like me got fuck-all!

Assorted people tried to help, of course, from hard-stretched council social services to charity volunteers including the obligatory ones hoping to get you into religion.

One of the things they did was to put wheelchair people together in groups to support each other.

People in wheelchairs are normal people, all sorts, but not pleased to be stuck in a wheelchair. Some were nice and some were nasty. They tended to be a bit crotchety. It was a bit of a relief for many of them not to have to play up being patient. Quite a few of them were more or less in constant pain. They'd have a good grumble and swear before smiling as their relatives collected them.

I was lucky.

Surprise, surprise! I actually got a job!

There was a company called Remploy which had factories operated by disabled people, and I passed the test for some assembly work. Not very demanding intellectually, but good to know that I was earning a living.

As for sex, I was not so lucky.

The slightly vain fit young man was now the embarrassing one in the wheelchair. I could move it around, and everyone pretended I was dancing like them, but I could tell they would prefer me not to be around.

There were some willing to let me suck cock, but not keen to do anything with mine, and I didn't want to be a convenience, I wanted a relationship, even a shallow one like the ones I had had before. And I wanted to fuck.

Eventually, I stopped going to the places where I had once been welcome.

People in wheelchairs are not supposed to have sex.

CHAPTER 2

Remploy was good, but there were no romantic opportunities over the next few years.

Socially I was mainly with other wheelchair users, and nothing happened there or seemed remotely likely to happen.

There was now free porn on the internet, so that and my hand was my sex-life.

Then Remploy closed down, and I was back to long-term unemployment.

There were not that many jobs available anyway, and I didn't really have a lot to offer. I was sent on employability courses, and had periodic assessments in case I had suddenly regained the ability to dig ditches and lay drains.

The Job Centre had to go through the motions of finding jobs for us, so there were various sessions for us losers in wheelchairs.

One day I was put next to Mr Armitage. I was gay, so I was put next to a gay man. Like I would have been put next to a black man if they'd had one. He was a lot older than me and I certainly didn't want to be his toyboy. We all had name tags, but he didn't like being addressed by his Christian name, so had taken his off

He was in his sixties, quite posh, and obviously an old queen. He had even less chance of a job than me, but we both had to attend to get the jobseekers' allowance.

I thought he was probably racist, but too polite to say it. We didn't say much to each other for a few weeks.

Then he said "I rather admire your stand-offish nature. You're not pretending to be interested just because I'm old. It's quite refreshing."

I said "Yes and you're a miserable old bugger, too!"

"Nice to meet you, Weston" he said. "Call me Monty!"

Gradually we started ignoring the others and moving off to one side. We still didn't talk a lot. He said he appreciated my silences. He said too many people seem to think you have to talk nonstop.

Things started to come out. I said how I had been dumped. He told me about his partner, a much younger man, apparently fit, who suddenly dropped dead while they were looking for a home together. Now he was alone in the world. He had no children and no relatives to speak of.

Actually, there was a lot we disagreed about, and we had some quite strong arguments. I think he was mostly right, being better educated. I was mainly asked to keep my voice down and moderate my language by good hearted people trying to help us.

When he was sixty-five, he got his pension, and no longer came along to jobseekers.

But I slightly missed the old bugger, so once a week I got a taxi to where he lived, which was now a care home.

One day I went to the care home, and was told he had been transferred to a hospice, where I went.

He had obviously declined rapidly.

"Do me a favour, lad," he whispered. "Get me some lipstick. They wouldn't let me at the care home, but I want to go out looking as good as I can."

It was something I had not been asked before.

"Like that nurse," he said. She did look nice.

Then he needed to sleep.

I spoke to the nurse, and told her what he wanted.

"Oh, I see," she said. "He should just have asked me. Actually, it's the eyes that make all the difference. A bit of mascara on the lashes, the eyebrows, and maybe eyeliner."

I went to my wallet.

"Could you get whatever you think?" I asked. "Just tell me how much and I'll give you the cash."

Next time I came he was looking much better. It was not just the lips and eyes. His face was smoother and pinker.

"Jeanette's an angel," he said, looking towards the nurse.

I realised she must have spent more on makeup and insisted on paying her the extra.

I came every day, and he held my hand until he got tired. The time got shorter and shorter. Jeanette was usually there, and said how happy Monty was with his makeup and seeing me.

One day I arrived and he had passed away. Jeanette told me it had been peaceful. She was crying a little.

"You never quite get used to it," she said.

I asked her to let me know when and where the funeral was.

It was at the local crematorium and a minimal secular ceremony. There were people from the care home and Jeanette and myself, plus a few smart people I didn't know. They didn't stay for the tea and sandwiches. Perhaps they were relatives.

CHAPTER 3

"I'm sorry about the steps," said the lawyer. "I didn't realise how awkward it would be for you."

"People often don't," I said. "But thank you Paul, for helping me up."

Paul was his clerk or assistant or something.

"Now if you don't mind, I just have to look at the documents, to check that you are the person referred to, as the will does not give your address," he said, and looked through and then conferred.

"That seems to be in order, so now I can tell you. As I indicated in my letter, you are named as a beneficiary in the will of the late Mr Montgomery Armitage, but I have to warn you, there is a problem in that the will is being contested by some relatives, so it is not possible to make transfer to you just yet."

"The property is a ground floor flat in a place called Tranford. I don't know if you've heard of it?"

I was stunned.

"Did you say Tranford, by Tranbrook? A new estate on a former factory site?"

"Yes," he said, looking pleased. "Mr Armitage makes special mention of the fact that it is wheelchair ready, and I now see why."

He looked concerned. "Paul get him a glass of water. Sorry if it's a shock."

It was.

"It's where I had my accident," I said. "The site closed down, the company went under and I never got a penny of compensation."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that," he said. "Anyway, as I said, the will is being contested by his relatives."

"I thought he hadn't got any," I said.

"Oh yes, two younger brothers with families."

"Well, let them have it," I said. "I don't want to go back to Tranford. It should go to the family."

"That would certainly expedite matters," said the lawyer looking surprised. "We can follow your instructions in this matter."

"Now excuse me for a minute," he said, getting up. "But I have to visit the little boys' room. Paul will look after you."

As soon as he'd gone, Paul came close and whispered.

"We're not allowed to give you advice, but I think you should get a lawyer to look after your interests. The relatives don't need it, as they've got plenty of money, and they don't deserve it. Mr Armitage was very clear about that when he made the will. You don't have to even see the property. It could be sold, and I suspect you could make use of the money."

"What the relatives are going to do is claim you preyed on a vulnerable old man to get him to alter his will. The gay relationship will be hinted as something distasteful."

He handed me a card.

"There's some lawyers who deal with victimisation of gays, and they'll give you a quick opinion for free."

"If you do want to give it up, you should at least get an ex-gratia payment, because they'll be saving on legal costs, and a lawyer could get you something."

"We never said anything, of course."

The door opened and the lawyer came back. I guess he had been waiting outside.

"That's better. Now we will put the details in writing, and you can contact us with your decision."

"On another matter relating to the will. Could you identify a nurse called Jeanette, if necessary?"

"Yes," I said. "Jeanette Taylor." I had seen her and her name badge often enough.

"Oh, thank you," he said. "It happens that there are two nurses named Jeanette at the hospice, and one is mentioned. I gather she did some service for him."

Paul helped me down the steps, and called a taxi.

Montgomery Armitage had left me a flat!

The lawyers sent details of the property from the estate agent. There were four flats arranged in what looked like a two-storey house, where the two ground floor ones were wheelchair adapted in every way, and looked good. Mine was one of these. he site on which I had worked had been completed and considerably extended. The pub which had been closed when I was there, was now open, and there was a shop and community centre, plus further housing and a small industrial estate.

I decided I had been foolish to think of giving up the property, since I could at least use the money, so I contacted what I thought of as the gay lawyers.

In a while they came back to me. It was someone called Rajiv.

"We think it would be worth fighting the case," he told me on the phone. "We might not have to do anything, it could well be thrown out, but there is a 50/50 chance the court will look into it further, so it is as well to be prepared."

"I think it would be worthwhile you visiting Tranford to have a look and speak to some people. I can take you there myself and it wouldn't cost you anything, because I can combine it with a visit to my parents."

CHAPTER 4

A day was agreed, and he picked me up. He was a good-looking young man, and gay, of course. His parents had been much more understanding than mine, but he didn't often come to the city. He was sorry to learn about the accident and how I had been dumped afterwards, but interested to hear my recollections of Monty.

At Tranford, I was impressed by what they had done with the site. We were met at the house by Peter who managed the estate and had sold the flat. I had never been in a purpose-built place before, and it was amazing how easy it was to get round.

I was taken next door. They were an old couple, pensioners, and the wife was the wheelchair user. The husband was a man in a dress!

I guess he'd been told about me.

"I'm not gay," he said. "I just like wearing dresses. There are some transgender people and I know of at least one gay couple. There are two girls in the flat above, very lovey-dovey. All sorts really. It's a lovely tolerant place. I'm sure you'd like it."

They kindly lent me an electric wheelchair, and in unaccustomed luxury we went down to the communal buildings: a shop, a pub and a community centre.

The shop was run by Rajiv's mum and dad. Rajiv had warned me that his dad liked to wear a sari, but wasn't gay.

"There's all sorts in Tranford," he explained. "It's not a gay village, just a place where people aren't necessarily gender conventional."

Inside a big man in a sari was serving a customer, and gave a big smile when he saw us.

He excused himself to the customer, and called out "Mrs Patel! Rajiv is here, and he has brought a boyfriend to see us!"

A small Indian woman came through, just in slacks and a top, and hugged Rajiv. The customer was leaving, so Rajiv got a chance to explain.

"Mum and Dad, this is Weston. He's not a boyfriend, he's a client. I told Dad on the phone."

His dad looked sheepish and his mum rolled her eyes, but didn't say anything.

"Oh yes, I forgot," Mr Patel admitted. Mrs Patel pursed her lips.

Rajiv turned to me.

"I hope you don't mind. Peter can take you to the pub for dinner. I'll just see Mum and Dad for a bit, and join you there."

"You're driving," I said, "so I'm in no hurry, and I wouldn't mind a drink. Take as long as you like."

In the pub, Peter told me what had happened to Monty.

"Monty had a boyfriend called Eric, a man younger than him, and quite fit. They had bought the flat, and were just about to move in together, when Eric died. An aortic aneurysm, I believe. Nothing you'd guess and quite sudden. Eric had no near relatives, so Monty got everything, but was alone. He didn't move in."

"He told me how his family had spurned him because he was gay, and he had asked his for help when he became disabled, but they didn't want to know. There are two younger brothers, and he was adamant that he didn't want anything to go to them, but said he knew someone who deserved it, meaning you. So he went to the lawyers who did the conveyancing and made a will. That's all I know."

It was clear that great care had been taken to make everything wheelchair accessible. All the people were well-dressed and friendly.

The only thing was it seemed perhaps a bit posh for me.

Then a voice which wasn't posh said "Weston? Is that you, mate?"

It took me a second or two.

"Bill?"

"Yeah. You owe me a pint, you tosser! Sorry, this is my wife Maisie. Maisie, this is Weston."

It had been arm-wrestling. Let's call it a draw. He was a bricklayer, and a strong bugger.

"What happened, mate?" he added, looking sorry.

"On this very site, Bill. Got me legs crushed, didn't I? Never got no compensation, but I might move here if my lawyer gets his finger out."

Bill said he was sorry.

"Oh, I'm glad you know each other," said Peter. "Would you care to join us?"

"Ginger!" called out Bill (obviously to the red-haired waitress). "OK if we bump these two together?"

She gave him the thumbs up and he moved the next table closer, and pulled the chairs round, holding one for Maisie, who looked at him adoringly. I'd rather fancied him myself, and would have wrestled with more than one arm if I could.

Just then Rajiv turned up, and we ordered our meals. I had to tell Bill and Maisie my story, and they told me theirs. She was a tranny, but a very lucky one I thought. I was getting stiff thinking what Bill must be like in bed.

Actually, Rajiv wasn't bad either, so I was definitely going to do the hand jive when I got home.

I realised some of the people in dresses were men, and thought I would be more than willing to wear one if it got me a bit of cock.

But did women in wheelchairs get fucked? Probably not.

I told Rajiv I definitely wanted the flat, and the others said they hoped I would get it.

We went back to the flat and returned the electric wheelchair, and Rajiv took me home.

The chat on the way there had been nice. The chat on the way back was more personal. We talked about our boyfriends and laughed about stupid situations we'd got ourselves into. Somehow the fact that he had no boyfriend for quite a while came out, and I hadn't since my accident.

CHAPTER 5

To summarize some legal stuff that I didn't really understand.

Contesting a will can take years.

The first thing that is done is mediation. Rajiv got the brothers and the court to agree that I could as well live in the flat while it was sorted but would have to pay rent if they won.

They would not agree that Jeanette should get the miserable one thousand pounds she had been left.

Anyway, I moved in. And went to see Jeanette at the hospice.

I told her I would give her a thousand pounds if I had it, but I had another idea.

"It's a two-bedroom flat," I said. "If you moved in with me, you wouldn't have to pay rent. I wouldn't expect you to do anything for me, and I could let you alone for the evening if you had a boyfriend come round. There must be a hospice in the city."

She was an angel who was paid a pittance for a physically and emotionally demanding job.

"To be honest," she said, "the staff do sometimes get left gifts, but we always donate it to the hospice charity. But as it wouldn't be costing you anything, it does sound rather attractive."

Eventually she agreed, and transferred to a hospice near Tranford.

She was a wonderful flatmate. A wonderful person.

Although I said she wouldn't do anything she did, apologising that she was used to looking after men, and the hospice made her very concerned about cleaning and hygiene. And when we were together it was little extra trouble to cook for two.

The old couple next door could manage, but she kept an eye on them as part of friendship.

I even thought about marrying her! We wouldn't have sex, but neither of us was, anyway.

She was just the nicest person I had ever known, man or woman.

Maybe it was a mistake.

The brothers' solicitor said the fact that Jeanette and I were living together suggested that we had been conspirators. Perhaps I had only been pretending to be gay? She admitted that she had had bequests before.