Martha Somers was feeling upset again. She’d been talking to her dog, which was sitting in a corner of the room, saying to it, ‘Are you hungry? Shall I feed you?’, when this lady had told her it was a toy. ‘A toy? But I heard him barking,’ she’d told the lady. Then a second lady had come in and said, ‘Time to change you,’ and had laid hands on her. She’d begun to cry, then shout, and said, ‘No you’re not! How dare you!’
Next thing she knew she was sitting in an armchair in a large room, and there were strange faces all around, elderly women in armchairs, reclining or sitting upright. Some were asleep, some stared into space, one was muttering to herself. There was a horrible smell like poo.
‘You’ve a visitor, Martha,’ a lady said, and a man approached her.
‘Hello. Are you Stephen?’
‘I’m Mark.’
‘You’re my husband, aren’t you?’
‘I’m your son.’
‘Where’s Stephen? He’s my husband.’
‘Stephen’s your other son.’
Martha laughed at the joke. Stephen was her husband, of course. The man asked her some questions about how she was, was the food alright, and did she like it here.
‘I want to go back to London,’ she told him.
‘This is London, Mum. You’ve moved house, that’s all.’
‘But can I go back to London?’
‘No Mum, sorry. This is the best place for you now.’
A woman brought some red soup which Martha sipped. It tasted like soap. Then she nibbled white bread sandwiches with a scrap of ham in them. Then she became anxious.
‘My mum’s expecting me. I’ve got to go home,’ she said.
The man looked thoughtful, winked, and said, ‘No need to worry. I’ve rung your mum and told her you’re staying here tonight. She said that was fine.’
‘Did she? Oh, that’s good.’
‘And maybe we’ll go to London soon.’
‘Oh, I hope so. And will I see Stephen soon?’
‘Stephen’s… dead, Mum. He died last month.’
‘Stephen? But I saw him this morning. He came to visit me.’
‘Did he? Well, in that case, perhaps he’ll come again tomorrow. Yes, perhaps he will. And he’ll take you to London. Would you like that?’
‘Oh, I’d like that.’
‘We’ll see what we can do then, Mum.’
Later on, after the man had gone, she was back in the room with the bed and her dog in the corner. A lady was washing her face for her, and telling her about her home in Africa. Then the lady combed her hair, and held a mirror for her to look at. She saw white hair, a fringe cut crookedly, a pale face with many lines. ‘Is that me?’ she asked. ‘It is Martha,’ she was told. ‘I’m going to London tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Stephen’s taking me.’ ‘Your son?’ ‘My husband, Stephen. He’s taking me home.’
The lady smiled and Martha began to sing quietly, ‘Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner, but I love London town.’
