Mandy's visit                             

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"Is Mrs Tamarind here?" she asks the carer who is rearranging some flowers on a small table by the door.

"Yes, she's here. Is she expecting you? It's their television time."

 

"No, she isn't."

 

Mandy looks into the room with its upright armchairs, each with an old person sitting as if in a trance, looking at a television in the far corner. Which is her mother?

Can she really be one of this group of quiet people?

 

"I'll see if she'd like a visitor," says the carer. "She's not really herself today, and she's already had someone."

 

Mandy wonders, "Are visitors rationed, then?" but says nothing. She watches as the woman walks through the room to a chair in the corner near a window. A small figure is sitting there with a girl beside her talking.

 

That old woman? Is that her mother? She hasn't seen her unobserved from a distance for a long time, she realises: not since her train had pulled out from Waterloo leaving that colourful figure on the platform. "I wore this to cheer myself up, and make sure that you'd see me," Mum had said with her crooked smile.

 

Mandy remembered the half-humorous, half-sorrowful way her mother had spoken, and the determined stance and wave that had crumpled as the train put on speed and left for France.

 

Now she's crumpled again, but in a different way. Aged. How can she look so old?

Mandy feels a twist in her heart, and walks firmly into the room, following the carer. Whether Mum wants her or not, she's going to see her.

 

Mandy      back to introduction