Pink Wafers

Coffee Break Tale

The security code is 3681. My finger stabs the familiar pattern across cold silver squares of the entry pad. Once inside, there’s a routine to follow and I sign my name in the book.

In the hallway I pass a vase of flowers filled with lilies, always lilies. They’re the only flowers strong enough to do battle with the underlying unpleasant smell of the place.

I leave the hall and turn to walk down the corridor, wondering where I’ll find Mum today, in which room and in which mood. If she’s having a good day, she’ll be smiling. If I’m lucky – if she’s lucky – she’ll have had a visit from the hairdresser, her hair done up like a cloud of fluffy curls.

As I walk towards Mum, a sharp, evil noise punches the air. It’s the electronic cry… and cry… and cry… of an emergency alarm until an invisible hand turns it off.

The noise wakes up Mum. She opens her eyes and focuses on me now. There’s a smile – of recognition, I hope.

I take her hand, delicately, tiny bones loose inside papery skin. If I’m lucky – if she’s lucky – this will be a good day.

Imet the Queen yesterday,” she tells me happily. “Did you?” I reply. “Ooh, she was lovely. A real lady, you know. She looked lovely in that hat.”

I try to settle myself into the chair but it proves difficult to get comfortable in a chair meant for support.

The tea trolley trundles into the room with a carer trundling behind it. I catch the carer’s eye and we smile.

“All the television cameras were there,” Mum goes on, “just for me and the Queen. She was asking after you. I told her you and Bob were doing well.”

A long time ago, before she had to live here, I had grown used to her mixing up names. I never bothered to correct her. It made no sense anyway to tell her it was Dave, not Bob, when there wasn’t even a Dave any more.

The carer hands us our tea and a pink wafer each. Mum dunks hers in her tea, where it melts. The mess of it ends up all over her hand. I take one of the wipes from a table and run the moist cloth along her fingers.

“She had nice hands, you know. Lovely fingers, pretty rings. Oh, and those shoes she had on, they were smart.” “How’s your tea?” I ask her. “Tea? Is it time for tea already?” she says, angry now as well as confused. No one tells you about the anger, how bad it can be for them – and for you.

“I’ve just had my breakfast, it can’t be time for tea. Where’s Bob? We’ll have to wait for Bob. He comes to visit me. You never come to visit me. No one does.”

I keep hold of her hand lightly as I clean her fingers.

“I’m here every Saturday, Mum, every week.” I look into her face for a sign that my words are registering somewhere behind those blank, watering eyes. “I think George is coming next weekend with Mary and the kids. You remember your grandchildren, Mum? Little Alex and Tom?”

Clearly, she doesn’t. There’s no response. Her gaze turns to the TV chef smiling from the screen, but she’s not watching, just staring.

I finish cleaning the biscuit from her fingers and as I try to pull my hand away from hers, she holds me with a surprisingly strong grip.

With her tea finished and the biscuit gone, the heat in the place starts making her sleepy. To be honest, the heat in there does it for me, too. I sit for a while, watching her as her eyes close again. I never like leaving her while she’s asleep, although it’s doubtful she’ll remember I’ve been at all.

I stand and gather my coat from the back of the chair, my bag from the floor and I bend over to kiss her. She stirs and opens her eyes. “Mary?” she whispers. “And George?” “Yes, and the children, next weekend,” I reply. Then I kiss her on the cheek before leaving the room and the lilies behind.