J A N E RU S B R I D G E
‘I turned up again,’ she says. Eve snaps the padlock shut. This afternoon, Eve has picked the theme of Special Occasions for their visit. From her plastic crate-on-wheels, she pulls a portable CD player, plastic flowers, a champagne bucket and photographs, arranging everything on a side table. Nora can’t get used to the silence and inertia, the circle of chairs with its jumble of occupants shut inside their own heads. Today the only sound comes from a woman slurping drink from a child’s spouty beaker. Come and play some of the old favourites, Eve had said, They’ll love it. Music and singing, it lights them up, please come, if you’ve got time. Of course Nora has time; these days she has too much time. Eve holds up a photograph, showing it round the circle of elderly people: a picture of the Queen’s coronation. ‘Peggy, do you know who these people are?’ She calls each person by their name, always. It’s important, she says, because your own name holds a certain power. Peggy, dwarfed by the winged back of the armchair, grips the photo with both hands. ‘Yes.’ She smiles and nods. Nora is very thirsty. Everything about this particular retirement ‘hotel’ shrivels her insides. On the window sill, beside a flowerpot of dried soil, lie the husks of three dead moths, while through the picture window blares the bright blue of the May sky; the blossom on a flowering cherry just outside presses against the glass. Nora turns back to the room. By the time they’ve finished here it will be 14
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19/04/2012 09:02:11