Lucky Break by Esther Freud Page A

‘Welcome.’ And white-faced with exhaustion Helen nodded her thanks.
    Now everyone was out they set off along the street, the driver pushing one wheelchair, Dominic the other, the tall boy lunging forward, the girl beside him, nosing her stick over the stones.
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    â€˜Shit.’ Dominic held open the door to the Italian restaurant, behind which was a steep flight of steps leading into a basement. ‘Wait one minute. I’ll see if there’s any other way in.’ He appeared a moment later. ‘Sorry, folks. Onwards. No wheelchair access here.’ The party rolled downhill, craning their eyes for somewhere open. They found a bistro, its menu up in the window, and they crowded round, reading it for the blind girl, Amelia, and for Anish and Helen, neither of whom could see that high. ‘Anything vegetarian?’ Amelia asked, but when they pushed open the door, a waitress hurried out to say that no, it was impossible, they were about to close, and anyway they didn’t have the . . . amenities. She drew back, appalled, her eyes swerving away from the huddle of figures, taking one more look, despite herself, as she caught sight of Anish’s bare brown flipper feet resting on the canvas seat of his chair.
    â€˜Don’t feel bad.’ Anish shrugged as the door chimed shut. ‘We’re used to terrifying the non crips,’ and he spun his own wheels in his hands, and led the party on. They attempted two other places, a pub that was already full, and a fish and chip restaurant, the door of which was too narrow to fit a chair through.
    â€˜Anyone fancy a baked potato?’ Dominic asked, embarrassed, but Anish screeched to a stop. ‘Now you’re talking!’ And he began to heave back up the hill, while the others, heady with enthusiasm, hurried along beside him, chatting, laughing, telling jokes, flanked by the members of Dominic’s company, mindful of the tangle of grey metal, the wheels and the thin white stick. ‘On me, on me, ladies and gentlemen.’ Dominic was the first to arrive at the counter. ‘Whatever filling you like. Don’t hold back, caviar, foie gras . . .’ An air of supreme satisfaction settled over the party as, warm from their hike, they ate out on the street, scooping prawn cocktail and egg mayonnaise, cheese and beans, salad and tuna out of the hot buttery baked potato cases.
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    Nell’s flat was up by the castle, on the top floor of a house whose front door opened, sideways, on to a sheer drop of steps. It had an unlived-in feel – with bare boards, cheap, undersized furniture, and in the sitting room, a row of curtainless windows facing the castle ramparts, through which shortly after eleven a burst of fireworks exploded into the sky. It was the culmination of the Edinburgh Tattoo, a spectacle of Scottish military might, kilts and sporrans, and bagpipe-players, marchers and drummers and flag-wavers, which took place every night. Nell stood at the window and watched the night sky crack open with a volley of rockets, their red and green flares ascending, the sparks falling into the ravine below. New flares went up, silver and blue, leaping like fountains, hissing and whirring, and then the rockets cracked again, shivering the window panes, echoing in the near empty rooms.
    Nell waited till it was over before going to bed. She and Cath were sharing a room, and as she lay reading, she watched Cath undressing out of the corner of one eye. Perfect, flawless, a head girl in white knickers and sports bra, a Snoopy on her thigh-length T-shirt, the faint smell of peach as she folded her clothes. Nell turned away. They had to be at the theatre by 10 the next morning. The show was opening for its first performance at 5. She let the book fall from her hands and just as she drifted into sleep she saw the horrified face of the waitress rushing towards her. ‘We don’t have the amenities.’ The woman’s voice was