Oh, no. You go,’ she urged me on, ‘please; See how she is.’
Flu? Funny how things kept cropping up to prevent Agnes from going to visit Lily.
The snow had gone completely now, leaving a residue of grime where it had trapped the city muck. The sky had a blank, bleak cast. Traffic was thick with Saturday shoppers and visitors.
At the hospital I had trouble parking. By the time I reached the Marion Unit I was feeling as grim as the weather.
Lily was in the dayroom pacing round. She was agitated, rubbing and wringing her hands and muttering to herself. She was smaller than I remembered, the curve in her spine emphasising her short stature. Her permed hair was dishevelled, a flat patch near the crown showing a glimpse of scalp. She wore a plain blue long-sleeved dress and slippers.
The room was busy, fifteen or twenty people, perhaps some visitors. I could only see one nurse in the room, mopping up a spill in the far corner. Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned round. The man had wiry grey hair sprouting from head, nostrils and ears. Enormous eyebrows. Grand with age. His face was leathery, dotted with liver spots. He took my hand and beamed at me. His whole face alight. A cracking smile. I smiled back. He crushed me to him in a sudden bear hug. I smelt menthol and zinc and the starchy smell of unwashed hair. Just as swiftly he released me and walked away.
Lily had reached the far end of the room, near the bedrooms. I caught up with her and touched her on the arm. ‘Lily, it’s Sal Kilkenny, I came the other day. Agnes asked me to visit, see how you are.’
She glanced at me, her round face flushed. There were tiny beads of perspiration on her nose and her forehead. She pushed her glasses up her nose, looked all about her then took my arm and led me to her room. She stopped beside her bed. I stood awkwardly at her side.
‘How are you?’ Would she talk to me or not?
‘I can’t find George. I don’t know what they’ve done with him.’
‘George?’
‘He’s a good man. Mother says he’s a good man. With prospects. Do you know,’ she leant towards me conspiratorially, ‘the Wetherbys have got a half-share in a pig.’
Her husband, George, he’d gone missing in action in the Second World War, the Far East. I tried to bring her back to the present.
‘Charles came to see you yesterday, from Exeter.’
‘Charles. What Charles?’
‘Your son Charles.’
She gasped. ‘I haven’t got a son. I’m not married yet. What sort of a girl do you take me for? Cheek of it!’ A look of impudence stole across her face. She hadn’t taken offence at my mistake.