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Loneliness is a wheelchair in a crowded street

STEWART FOWLER

It is four inches high. Just four inches of concrete. But it might as well be the North face of the Eiger. Because there is no way I can climb it. Not a chance in Hell.

And it is in front of this four-inch high kerb in a street thronged with people hastily averting their eyes that I first realise the full implications of a word none of us really likes saying. Or hearing. A word packed with embarrassment. Garlanded with guilt...Wheelchair.

And I am in one. And in it right up to my neck. Oh yes, I negotiated the kerb on the other side of the road easily. Piece of cake. Over the tarmac and the road markings I trundle. And then the mountain looms. Cars and lorries whizz past inches from me as I try with rising panic to desperately work out how to get my wheels over that kerb.

Just feet away a council worker is sweeping the gutter. He stops what he's doing and stares in my direction with a studied indifference leaning on his broom. As I look around pleadingly, it is a friend that rescues me from my helplessness. Someone used to pushing wheelchairs. With a series of heaves and grunts, I am safely on the pavement.

The roadsweeper's eyes slide away from me. I might as well be that empty crisp packet he couldn't be bothered to pick up. I might as well be invisible...

Loneliness is a wheelchair in a crowded street. That is what I found the day I took to one to see how hard it was to be disabled and at the mercy of a bustling city.

I pick my chair up from the Red Cross. All clattering cold steel and shiny worn canvas. My 'legs' for the day. The first thing I notice is the weight.

"This is a self-propelling wheelchair, which means you can push it yourself using the wheel rims", says the Red Cross man.

Oh yeah? I think, hauling the heavy monstrosity in the boot of my car. "But I wouldn't try it for very long", he adds, knowingly. "You won't have the necessary upper-body strength. It can take months to develop your muscles. Get someone to push you. If you do give it a go, be sure to wear gloves. It's very tough on your hands and you'll blister in no time."

I'm 35 and fit. I foolishly think they are exaggerating. Then I drive into London's West End - a disabled person's Hell.

After assembling the wheelchair I sit in it and set off down a pavement with my friend wandering behind. Every dip, crack and camber becomes an obstacle.

It's like trying to steer a supermarket trolley with a dodgy wheel. Fighting to stop it crashing into the sauces and condiments shelves.

After half an hour of toiling away at the heavy wheel rims under a relentless sun, I want to crash into a chilled drinks cabinet. I try to go into a newsagents to buy a can and there they are again. Three of them. The Eiger, the Matterhorn and Everest. Three damned steps. Shop after shop has them. What the Hell for? Where are the ramps? I am now thirsty and hungry. I stop by a pasta joint. The fragrance of oregano and pepperoni tugs at my stomach...but it can't pull my chair over the usual infernal steps that stare defiantly up at me. I wait to see if anyone will help me in. The waiters look away. OK, if I can't have lunch, I'll go to the movies - at least it'll be cool in there. I pick the ABC in Tottenham Court Road. The entrance is at pavement level, yippee! But unfortunately the sullen staff's manners are at gutter level.

My friend wheels me up to the counter where there are three people in smart red uniforms. They see me all right - they just don't speak to me. Instead, they talk - literally - over my head to my friends, as if I'm deaf as well as wheelchair-bound.

Nodding towards me one says: "I'm sorry", is there a dog in here I think, "There's no wheelchair access unless he can walk." There is a long flight of carpeted stairs leading down to the cinema screens.

"If he can get down the stairs he can come in. If not..."

A shrug. We leave. It is not all doom however; I come across an oasis in the desert of the disabled. O'Neill's Irish Bar in Islington. The entrance was deliberately built without steps and inside there's plenty of room to manoeuvre. Acting manager Hugh Donnelly is all smiles and happy for us to sit anywhere we like. There are no split-level floors, flights of stairs, carpets or other obstacles. The doors open wide for access and there's even a toilet for the disabled.

Hugh pours me a pint of Guinness and says "I was quite shocked when I first came here from Ireland and saw how bad many of the pubs and clubs are. There's no help for the disabled."

Certainly no help at all when it comes to public transport in this seething city.

The Angel Tube station, in Tony Blair's home borough of Islington, recently underwent a multi-million pound refit and refurbishment. The old station had very handy lifts. The shiny new station has done away with them altogether. In their place are very long banks of escalators. I wheel up to the booking office.

"Any way I can get down to the Platforms?" I inquire. I might as well have asked for a ticket to Mars.

"You can take a chance and try the escalators at your own risk if you want" comes a voice from the window above my head, "but I wouldn't recommend it."

After some badgering, the clerk telephones the station supervisor for advice. He arrives full of sympathy but there is nothing he can do. Sympathy won't get me down there.

"This is the second-deepest station on the Tube network with the longest escalators in northern Europe" he says apologetically. "It's not a wheelchair-friendly station, I'm afraid, I wish it was."

"I don't know why they didn't replace the lifts." A passer-by overhears us and butts in; "I know why, it was cheaper not to put the lifts in, so they didn't." I head back to the streets, seen off by regretful shaking heads. A double decker pulls up at the bus stop. There is no point in me even trying.

They have insurmountable steps and a metal barrier dividing the doorway, making if far too small for the chair to fit past. The only way to get back home is to trundle back to the car. I am parked near a crowded pub where a group of smartly-suited businessmen are larking around outside after a pint or two too many. I've just got out of the chair when one of the group jumps into it and propels it down the street. His cronies laugh, egging him on. I yell at him and eventually, after more horseplay, he brings it back. He sneers, "It's just a joke, mate. Can't you take a joke or what?" Then he swaggers back to his pals.

I feel angered and devastated. I take the chair back to the Red Cross depot at Bromley, South London. The Red Cross has been lending wheelchairs and other medical equipment for 80 years. It gets no Government help and is entirely supported by donations from the public. More anger sweeps over me. Finally, on my own two legs and with arms as heavy as lead, I return to my flat. Up three flights, no lift. If I became wheelchair-bound I'd be forced to sell my home. An accident at work, on the sports field, a tiny lapse of concentration driving or crossing the road and I could be there. So could you.

Think about that the next time you see someone in a wheelchair. Someone for whom every day is full of mountains to climb. Don't just look away - help them.

I know I will.

Stewart Fowler

Many thanks to Stewart Fowler and News International Ltd. for their kind permission to reproduce this excellent article from News Of The World (16/8/98)