make my way through the swinging doors into a corridor thronging with people. There’s a young woman sitting on a plastic chair, a drip hanging from her arm. A youngish couple are sitting looking pale-faced and worried, holding a baby. I hear my mother before I see her.
‘This is ridiculous,’ she’s saying. ‘We’ve been here eight hours and she hasn’t been admitted to a ward. How much longer do you think it’ll be?’
A small woman in a pink hospital tunic, her braids tied back from her face with a wide band, looks at me as I peer around the curtain. She scribbles something on a clipboard and replaces it at the end of the bed, smiling at Nanna Beth before she slips out of the door.
‘Hello, duck,’ says Nanna Beth, faintly. Her skin is bluish pale and her eyes have bruised shadows underneath. ‘Your mother is causing a fuss.’
I lean over the bed, putting my hand on hers, feeling the papery, whisper-thin skin and squeezing her hand gently. I kiss her cheek and smell the familiar scent of Nivea face cream and Elnett hairspray. I lift my head.
‘Honestly,’ my mother is saying, looking irritated, ‘this is absolutely ridiculous. Hello, darling.’ She leans across and gives me a peck on the cheek.
‘Now you’re here, Jess, I’m just going to go outside and make a couple of calls. I’m supposed to be performing this evening.’
‘That’s fine,’ I say, exchanging glances with Nanna. She’s well enough to roll her eyes, so I think that maybe things aren’t as bad as they seem.
Mum slips out of the cubicle and I sit down on the chair next to Nanna Beth’s bed, still holding her hand.
‘So what’s been going on?’
‘Oh, it’s something to do with my heart.’
I look at her, alarmed.
‘Nothing to worry about. A bit of angina, something like that.’
‘They wouldn’t have rushed you in here if it wasn’t something to worry about.’
She tuts. ‘I just need a bit of medicine and I’ll be right as rain. Now, I want you to tell me all about what’s been going on since I saw you last. How’s that nice Alex doing?’
We talk about what I’ve been getting up to in London, and after a while, Nanna’s eyes close and she drifts off to sleep. I take my phone out of my bag. I’m not sure you’re even supposed to use them in hospitals, but I check to see if I have any messages. The first one reads:
Any news? Thinking of you. Xx
Of course, James has been in touch already. I messaged him from the train, telling him what was going on.
Hey, says a WhatsApp from Alex. I watch as the dots form on the screen, suggesting he’s typing another message. They disappear, and then reappear. And then the rest of the message comes through. Becky told me what’s going on. Hope your Nanna Beth’s okay – from what you’ve said, she’s a trooper. Let me know if there’s anything I can do? X
I smile.
A nurse appears.
‘Hello, Mrs Collins,’ she says, gently. Nanna’s eyes flicker open. ‘We’ve found a bed for you upstairs, so we’re just sorting out some paperwork and we’re going to get you admitted. Are you the next of kin?’ she says, turning to me. Mum’s still on the phone somewhere, so I nod. ‘Yes. I’m her granddaughter.’
‘Okay, well, you can go with her up to ward 12. Do you know if your grandma has a bag with her? There’s a WRVS shop down by reception if you need to pick up a toothbrush and a flannel and that sort of thing.’
I point to the flowery bag that’s sitting under my chair. I wonder whether it was Mum or the staff at the sheltered accommodation who packed it. Hopefully not Mum, or half the stuff Nanna needs will be missing. ‘Yes, she’s got a bag. I’ll check it when we get upstairs.’
It’s another hour before a porter comes and helps Nanna into a wheelchair. Mum has come back and told me she hasn’t been able to get the understudy to take over in her play. She looks pale and anxious, her lipstick chewed off and her hair’s sticking up at the back. I reach across and smooth it and she jumps.
‘Sorry.’ She puts a hand to her hair.
‘It was sticking up.’ I chew my lip. There’s a clattering in the background somewhere as if someone’s dropped something. I glance at Mum and she shakes her head slightly as if to say not to worry.
Mum