There’s the path sloping down through the woods to the dunes. It’s clear, much clearer than my eyes can see. Silvery chips of gravel glint embedded in red clay. The sea-weedy breeze dishevels my hair, making cold shivers goosepimple my skull. Beyond the squawking of the gulls I can almost hear the murmuring of the sea as it as it advances and recedes up the steep slope of the beach towards the trees.
The leaves are clear, sharp-edged, veined, clear green on the boughs. The path curves. There’s the house in the field — the garden. The house with faded Pampas grass all around the vegetable beds, tall and feathery, drooping. And the low black wall. Dry-stone and crumbling. There’s a mist – must be rising from the sea.
I rub my eyes, trying to clear the mist from them, and I become aware of the numbness in my arm.
I had a hot-water-bottle, I was clutching it to my middle. Not a hot-water-bottle — one of those microwave things — pink fluffy like an elephant. Smelling of lavender. Still warm. I changed arms, and slowly straightened the freed one, awakening pins and needles. What on earth am I wearing? Something white. No pockets. I had nothing. I always use the key to close the door, so I won’t lock myself out. I had nothing. I was shivering.
There’s a signpost. At a sort of cross-roads. They’re not really crossroads, because they’re curved, offset. I squint, but the letters don’t get clearer, they’re clumped too close together. It should be a larger signpost. There should be four — one pointing in each direction — it points only to the right. I step forward, squinting. Volvirioli. Is that what it says, I step forward, stumbling.
There’s a screech of brakes, and my arm is grabbed. I’m pulled backwards. There’s a woman, a young woman. She looked familiar, though I don’t know who she is. And the house has gone, and the crossroads. There’s just a broad, tree-lined street, and cars accelerating past. The smell of pollution.
‘Hello, Mary,’ she says.
‘Hello,’ I say.
‘Do you know where you are?’ she says.
‘No,’ I say. There were no leaves on the trees. A cold wind blew long hair across my face. I pushed it back. My fingers were stiff and cold, tingling, clumsy.
‘Do you hurt anywhere?’ she says.
‘No,’ I say.
‘Do you want to come?’ she says. ‘She’ll be able to see you soon.’
‘Yes,’ I say.
We went, and I sat in a sort of waiting room. The soles of my feet were quite clean. I closed my eyes, they were aching.
*****
‘Do you know what date it is?’ a second woman asked.
I must have dozed off — waiting. I was in a different room. An office of some kind, there was a desktop computer open, she’s glancing at it as she speaks. I couldn’t read the words. ‘Is it the 31st of October?’ I say.
I sat up straighter, remembering. ‘It was the 30th. 23:56:22. I’d woken up, half woken up, and gone to the toilet, and there was a text when I got back. It had the time underneath, the ping when it was delivered must have woken me. Sainsbury’s were going to deliver my order at 16:00. On the 31st. They were going to take my money today. Is it the 31st?’
She smiled at me. ‘We’ll tell you soon,’ she says, ‘we just need to understand your own perceptions first.’
Perceptions of what? The first woman was there too. And a man. They all looked relaxed. The first woman was wearing pink trainers, she must be in her twenties.
‘Is it the 31st?’ I say. I’m still clutching the elephant.
‘Who is the prime minister?’ she says. She’s seventy if she’s a day.
‘Is it the 31st?’ I say. ‘I need to take my medication. Is it morning?’
‘It’s all in hand,’ she says. ‘Do you know who the prime minister is?
‘It should be in my hands,’ I say, ‘I need Ramipril 5 mg and Thyroxine 125 µg.’ I felt for my pulse. Still beating. Slow and steady; strong.
‘Mary,’ she says, ‘we’re trying to help you. Determine what help you need.’
‘I need Ramipril,’ I said, ‘and Thyroxine.’ I need my bed. ‘What’s happened to my groceries?’
‘It’s all in hand,’ she says, ‘who is the Prime Minister?’
‘There’s lots of Prime Ministers,’ I say, ‘and Presidents.’
‘Do you know what country this is?’ she says.
‘And Ayatollahs,’ I say.
‘Sure, we’re annoying her now,’ says the man.
I looked at him, and he looked tired too. ‘I just want my bed,’ I say.
He nodded, glanced at the second woman. ‘How many more questions, Ellen?’ he says.
‘I can’t make it less than three,’ she says. She smiled at him. ‘Three answers that is.’
He leant towards me. ‘If you could just humour her,’ he says. ‘Do us all a favour…’
*****
The old woman’s face was in shadow and I couldn’t make out her features, but there was something familiar about her. She seemed sad. She must be in the garden outside; the window needs cleaning. I couldn’t make out what it was she was sitting on. She was looking towards me, but I don’t think she was seeing me. She looked as if she’s searching for something. As if she’s lost something.
It’s her shoulders. The way they’re slumped. There was just something about her that made me want to go over…I wanted to go and give her a hug. But she doesn’t look like the sort of person who’d welcome a hug.
*****
A woman came in — about 50. Plump and breathing heavily. Shoulder-bag, small suitcase. She’s from outside. She dumped the suitcase at my feet.
‘Couldn’t find a night-dress,’ she said. ‘Think I’ve got everything else you’ll need.’ She looked round the room and then to me. ‘For now.’
I looked at her, she didn’t even look familiar. ‘What happened with the delivery, my groceries?’
‘I don’t know about that, but I’ve emptied the fridge, given it a good wash. Been through the cupboards.’ She glanced at her watch, then at me. ‘Lots of out-of-date-stuff, not to mention the cat food.’
She’s my cleaner. ‘You haven’t thrown it out?’
‘I didn’t realise your eyes had got that bad. I didn’t realise a lot of things.’
‘It’s for the cat.’
‘You haven’t got a cat.’
‘I feed her sometimes, I don’t know where she lives.’ I glanced towards the window. I don’t know where I live. The side of my head was hurting, tight and itching. I felt it — there was quite a lump, it was crusty.
I looked at the woman, she looked un-convinced. What’s it got to do with her? Lovely eyes she’s got, almost violet. Wasted on her.
She sat down, uninvited, on the bed. ‘I’ll get you some,’ she said, ‘but not today, the Restoration’s at a tricky stage, I must get it finished.’
‘Some what?’ I said.
‘Night-dresses,’ she said, ‘you’ll be alright wearing the Hospital’s for a bit longer, I’ve brought your dressing gown.’
‘Don’t wear nightdresses,’ I said. ‘Never have.’
‘You’ll have to now,’ she said.
‘I think you’ll find that’s my decision.’
‘Mother, it’s not decent.’
Mother. Mother.
‘I’ve banged my head, not lost the right to make my own choices.’
‘You only know that because they told you five minutes ago. Jade said, the young nurse, the one who went and brought you back. She told me all about that too… I was mortified. Heaven only knows if you’ll remember 5 minutes hence.’
I just looked at her, speechless.
She looked back at me for a while, then sighed. ‘I’m Anna, Anna McCallum. Your daughter, for my sins.’
‘Do you have many sins?’
‘Not nearly as many as you.’ She sighed again, looked upward, took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, it’s not your fault.’
The Irish man who’d asked me to humour Ellen strode into the room leaving the door open behind himself. ‘Ah, good,’ he said, ‘I was hoping to catch you.’
‘Yes…’ I said, but he was looking at the plump woman.
She stood and shook his outstretched hand. ‘Dr Patrick wasn’t it?’ she said.
‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘Fergus Patrick — I’m getting it in the neck for not getting you to sign this receipt for Mrs McCallum’s clothes.’ He held out a pen and a clipboard with the top layers of paper pinned back.
‘My fault,’ said Jade, hurrying in carrying a cup of tea. She dumped it on the bedside locker just out of my reach. ‘He’d asked me to do it, and I forgot.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’re rushed off your feet,’ said the plump woman, scribbling on the exposed sheet.
‘Thanks,’ Fergus said, taking his clipboard and pen and turning to follow Jade out of the room.
‘Doctor,’ I said.
‘Sorry,’ he said, pausing and glancing at me for the first time.
‘I need to speak to you.’