I was directed along a corridor to the right and then out and across a courtyard. The gardening budget had obviously been cut. Untended beds and containers sprouted dead grass and frost-hardy weeds.
The Marion Unit was a modern, two-storey concrete rectangle with a large grey metal triangle leaping upwards from the flat roof. As if the architect had tried to redeem the utter lack of imagination by plonking a concept on top.
Inside and immediately opposite the heavy glass entrance doors there was a reception area with a glass booth and a small office. Three women, one in uniform, were chatting there. I approached and the huddle broke up. A woman in a smart grey wool dress, her name badge identifying her as Mrs Li, greeted me.
I asked if I could visit Lily Palmer and explained she’d been admitted on Monday night. She told me to take a seat for a moment.
She went into the office and used the phone. I sat in the waiting area. Some attempt had been made to make it comfortable. The seats were padded foam, there were a couple of inoffensive prints on the wall and a large drinks machine. There were magazines on the table here too along with leaflets about the Alzheimer’s Disease Society, ‘Caring for an Elderly Person’ and ‘How to Stay Warm in Winter’.
After a couple of minutes a young nurse appeared from one of the doors to the waiting room and took me through to the dayroom. It was large and brightly lit, with a television at the far end. Low tables and chairs were clustered here and there, as well as a couple of ordinary ones with cards and dominoes on them.
There were quite a lot of people in the room. Some sat quietly, withdrawn, others muttered or sang to themselves. One man was shouting. The room stank of potpourri and there was a stale, sour smell that it couldn’t quite mask.
I followed the nurse briskly through the lounge to the corridor at the bottom. I glanced into the rooms as we passed by. Most seemed to have four beds in. Some beds were occupied.
‘How’s she been?’ I asked the nurse.
‘Fine,’ she spoke with an Irish accent, ‘just fine. There’s a lot they can do with the medication. She’s a bit sleepy with it but a lot calmer.’
‘Who decides on the treatment?’
‘Dr Montgomery, he’s the consultant. Have you not seen him yet?’
‘No.’
She paused outside one of the doors, knocked, then without waiting for a reply she opened the door and we went in.
Lily sat in a chair next to her bed, eyes half-shut. She wore a hospital-issue nightgown and a blanket round her knees.
‘I’ve brought her some things of her own.’ I turned to the nurse, uncertain whether Lily could hear me.