Tiny Pieces of Enid E-Book

Tim Ewins

• Herausgeber: Lightning Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 392

Beschreibung

'Hypnotic and very moving' Beth Morrey Enid isn't clear about much these days. But she does feel a strong affinity with Olivia, a regular visitor to her dementia home in a small coastal town. If only she could put her finger on why. Their silent partnership intensifies when Enid, hoping to reconnect with her husband Roy, escapes from the home. With help from an imaginary macaw, she uncovers some uncomfortable truths about Olivia's marriage and delves into her own forgotten past. A deeply touching story of love, age and companionship, evoking the unnoticed everyday moments that can mean the world to the people living them, Tim Ewins' second novel will delight fans of his acclaimed debut, We Are Animals. .

Leseprobe

Alongside his accidental career in finance, TIM EWINS performed stand-up comedy for eight years. He also had a very brief acting stint (he’s in the film Bronson, somewhere in the background) before turning to writing fiction. His first novel, We Are Animals, was published by Lightning Books in 2021. He lives with his wife, son, dog and cat near Bristol.

Praise for Tiny Pieces of Enid

‘A powerful and poignant story about love and loss, frailty and courage. Beautifully imagined and peopled with strong, endearing characters, this book both gripped me and touched my heart’

Hazel Prior

‘A poignant, poetically fractured tale of two women trapped by circumstance, the bittersweet circle of life and love. I found it strangely hypnotic and very moving’

Beth Morrey

‘One of the most beautiful portrayals of love I’ve ever read. I will always remember Enid and Roy’

A.J. West

‘A wonderful, poignant and powerful read. I absolutely loved it. There’s such tenderness there, and great clarity too’

Matson Taylor

‘Incredibly moving. The pages are filled with characters you can’t help but fall in love with. A heartfelt tale focusing on the realities of life with dementia’

Louise Hare

‘He’s done it again. Tiny Pieces of Enid is warm and moving and full of heart. If it doesn’t make you cry more than once, I don’t know what’s wrong with you’

Frances Quinn

‘Like a bird layering twigs to build a nest, Ewins has woven together past and present, memory and reality to create a startlingly beautiful novel with complex characters walking the fine line between fragility and strength. An absolute delight’

Laura Besley

‘A moving and thoughtful examination of memory and ageing, with a central character you can’t help but root for. A wonderful story about love, friendship and the “tiny pieces” that make us who we are’

Rebecca Ley

‘Compelling and sad and hopeful, but never sentimental. A warm hug of a book, as comforting as chicken soup and just as nourishing’

Polly Crosby

‘A poignant, warm and thought-provoking story’

Susan A. King

‘A beautiful, sensitive, lyrical portrait of the reality of living with dementia, and the twists and turns our lives take, up to the very end’

Victoria Scott

‘I was deeply moved by this delicate, beautiful book. A sensitive and poignant story’

Victoria Dowd

‘A powerful and moving story about dementia and love that lasts a lifetime. Unflinching and heartbreaking. I love it’

Nicola Gill

‘Moving and timely. Brilliantly evokes the drama of the everyday that may go unnoticed by others but, for those involved, takes on Titanic proportions. Superb’

Tom Benjamin

‘A beautiful book, its pages suffused with warmth and humanity. It truly moved me and will stay with me for a long, long time’

Louise Fein

‘This lovely book reminds us that character and love both outlast our lifetimes and these are the things we remember in the end’

Jacqueline Sutherland

‘Tim Ewins brings his own brand of quirky to something very different. If you don’t love Enid like a member of your own family after reading this book, then you have no soul!’

Cat Walker

‘Enid is a delight. Her story tells of a love that defies everything, while the rendition of her mental decline is drawn with sensitivity and compassion. I couldn’t put this down’

Paula Greenlees

Published in 2023

by Lightning Books

Imprint of Eye Books Ltd

29A Barrow Street

Much Wenlock

Shropshire

TF13 6EN

www.lightning-books.com

ISBN: 9781785633102

Copyright © Tim Ewins 2023

Cover by Nell Wood

Typeset in Dante MT Std and Zona Pro

The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

For my mum, and for her mum: Nanny Enid

Contents

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

THE REAL NANNY ENID

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PART ONE

TWIGS AND WEEDS

1

Enid lay motionless on the hospital bed with her eyes closed. She wasn’t sure if she could move; she hadn’t tried, and she didn’t want to.

‘Your mother hasn’t responded for over twenty-four hours.’ The voice was short but not unfriendly, not addressing her. Male and important. Enid couldn’t guess the voice’s age though. In fact, she found she couldn’t recall any numbers at all. ‘We’ll keep her where she is. We can monitor her through the night, and then do a few more tests in the morning.’

Enid hadn’t understood any of the words that the voice had said, but she had the distinct feeling that they had been about her, rather than to her. She wanted to know where she was, but her eyelids didn’t even flicker when she attempted to open them. Some parts of her body felt numb, and the other parts ached. She felt sure that she was positioned flat on her back with her arms by her sides, arranged like a corpse. It was not comfortable.

‘Alright, thank you. I’ll come back tomorrow. What time’s best?’

Enid knew that voice. It was her daughter’s. Always busy. She had such a fast-paced life. Enid didn’t recognise any of her daughter’s words though. It was like she was talking a foreign language. Enid wanted to say her daughter’s name, to ask for comfort, to ask for her husband, Roy, but her mouth didn’t move. What was her daughter’s name? She began to doubt that it could be her daughter at all. Or even that she had a daughter.

‘Visiting hours are 5.30 to 6.30.’

‘Ugh,’ Enid’s daughter exhaled, short and busy. The abruptness frightened Enid. Where was she? Where was Roy? She seemed to be paralysed, but her mind was restless. Other noises came into focus; a squeaking wheel, a repetitive beep, stifled, distant chatter. Then, her daughter again.

‘I can move some things around.’

Enid felt someone lift her hand, squeeze her palm softly, and then lower her fingers back to the bed, but it wasn’t Roy.

‘Alright Mum, I’ll be back tomorrow. I love you.’

A few winters ago, Roy woke up at three in the morning to an empty bed. Where was Enid? She’d always been a good sleeper. She was fiercely proud of it in fact. She’d never sleepwalked as a child, and unlike many of her friends, she hadn’t suffered from insomnia as an adult. Unless they had over-indulged in some homemade wine and lost track of time, Enid was rarely up between the hours of 10.30 pm and 6.00 am. It was almost a source of frustration for Roy, who had always been a very light sleeper.

So, to wake up and find her gone was worrying. He sat up in bed, though it hurt to do so. His back ached. Slowly, he pushed his legs out from beneath the warmth of the duvet and fumbled his feet into the fluffy slippers Barb had given him the previous Christmas. When he stood, his legs shook under his body weight. He was already wearing his pyjamas, but he put on his dressing gown for added warmth and made his way downstairs.

Enid wasn’t in the kitchen, as he’d hoped she would be. The lounge was empty too.

‘Enid,’ he whispered, though he hadn’t meant to whisper, so he cleared his throat and tried again. ‘Enid.’ There wasn’t any reply. He walked through the kitchen and into the lounge-diner. Enid wasn’t there either. Roy quite often sat in the lounge by himself with a cup of tea at 3.00 am, but now the house felt even more still than usual. Quieter, although he knew it couldn’t be. The knowledge that Enid was not asleep upstairs was unsettling. He became agitated and scared for his wife, and for himself. He shuffled to the phone in the hall.

They had an old rotary dial phone which they’d purchased just a few decades ago. Who should he call? He couldn’t dial 999, although that seemed like the obvious choice. Both Enid and Roy had reached an age where any call to the emergency services might result in them never returning to their own home again.

Of course, Barb would be over in a flash if he rang her. She only lived down the road and it would be reassuring to see her, but she would insist on ringing the police. Barb thought that Enid and Roy’s concern about having to leave their home was unfounded, but she was young. She was young and she was wrong.

Enid had Sellotaped a piece of notepaper listing the contact numbers of their family and friends on the wall above the phone; some had been crossed out and replaced over the years, some were faded, and some had been traced over again and again with an ink-deprived pen. Roy ran his finger down the page.

The number at the bottom wasn’t in Enid’s handwriting. It read: Neil (neighbour) – 07800231340 – call if you need me.

Roy started to dial. The number didn’t lend itself to a rotary dial phone, and as the dial returned back to its starting position, Roy heard a noise upstairs.

He froze.

‘Enid?’ Silence. After a few seconds the dial tone sounded from the phone to indicate that it had timed out. Roy replaced the receiver and slowly shuffled upstairs. He could hear someone sniffing sadly. It was his wife.

He found her in the spare room sitting on the bed. She was looking down into her hands and quietly crying.

‘Enid,’ Roy said softly, and she looked up at him.

‘I’m lost,’ Enid said.

‘You’re at home. This is the spare bedroom.’ Roy shuffled over to the bed and held Enid’s hands in his hands. It was worth the ache in his back when he bent down. ‘You sleep in the next room, with me.’

Enid allowed him to guide her out of the spare bedroom and back into their shared room.

‘How silly,’ Enid said when they were back in bed. ‘Lost. Dear me.’

‘Indeed,’ Roy agreed, ‘whatever next?’

Time dragged at the hospital. Barb scrolled through Facebook on her phone, reading aloud any posts innocuous enough to be overheard by nearby patients on the ward.

‘Vicki’s having another baby,’ she said. ‘You wouldn’t know her, Mum. She used to work with Calvin.’ Barb looked up at Enid, and then back at her phone. ‘Claire says she’s bored. I don’t know why she posts that stuff.’ Barb sighed. She could really do with Calvin now. He was better at this kind of thing than she was, and he’d always got on so well with Enid. Calvin wouldn’t be reading other people’s posts to his mother-in-law; he’d be soothing her properly. Except he wasn’t Enid’s son-in-law any more, and Barb’s pride wouldn’t allow her to just ring him and ask him to come to the hospital. He lived in a different house now, with a different woman.

‘Oh, Mum,’ Barb said, leaning her elbows on the hospital bed and feeling deflated. ‘What are we going to do with you?’ She sighed, before widening her eyes.

Enid’s lips had moved, ever so slightly.

‘Mum, can you hear me?’

Enid let out a small whimper.

‘Mum?’

Another noise escaped Enid’s lips, a fragment of a distinguishable word. Both her eyes twitched, and then one of them opened, wide and full of panic.

Barb had never seen her mum stare like this. Her whole face was strained, one eye open, tight-lipped and intense.

‘Mum,’ she said again, ‘it’s Barb.’ Enid looked at her desperately. ‘You’re awake.’ Then, maintaining eye contact, Barb called back into the ward for help.

Enid’s mouth opened, and with stiff, visible cramp in her jaw, she groaned loudly.

‘Are you OK?’ Barb asked her mum, again wishing for Calvin. It was a stupid question, but she felt so helpless. Enid breathed in deeply, as if trying to suck back saliva that wasn’t there. Barb could hear footsteps rushing down the ward towards them.

‘It’s alright Mum. You don’t have to talk. Try to relax.’ Enid’s one open eye appeared even more intense for a moment, before it calmed, and then shut.

As the months had gone by, Roy had grown used to Enid’s night-time walks. Sometimes he would wake up at the same time as she did, just from the movement of the duvet. Enid never made much sense when she woke, but a gentle hand on her arm and another on her back would normally calm her down. Occasionally, she would become violent, which wasn’t ideal because Roy’s body wasn’t quite what it used to be, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. Once, she had hit him on the leg and a bruise had formed but it could be hidden under his trousers, and it hadn’t hurt. Watching his wife deteriorate though, and watching her grow scared at the loss of her own identity; that hurt.

What worried both Roy and Enid most, were the nights that she left the bedroom without him noticing. When it started, Roy would normally find her in the spare bedroom, just as he had on that first night. After a while, Enid ventured further. A few times Roy had found her in the lounge arranging the placemats on the coffee table, and once she’d been in the kitchen hiding the kettle. The day after the kettle incident had been the first time they’d discussed the night-time walks in the waking hours.

‘We wouldn’t have been able to have a cup of tea,’ Roy said as he flicked on the kettle. Enid looked at him with a questioning face, and he smiled at her. ‘I found you trying to hide the kettle last night.’

‘You didn’t,’ Enid replied with a hint of surprise in her voice. ‘Oh.’ She put her hand to her mouth and Roy chuckled kindly.

‘I did,’ he said, and they didn’t discuss it any further.

Enid could smell hospital food. Some kind of cooked meat. Stew maybe? The smell was warm and surprisingly comforting. She was sitting upright, looking forward. She could see Roy, hunched in a foam chair on the other side of the bed. He looked anxious. Next to Roy sat Barb. The height of her chair made her appear shorter than she was. Enid had no idea how long they’d been there. Perhaps just a few seconds, perhaps a week.

No one except Barb had really said anything for quite a while. Enid had tried but found that she could only produce confused staccato sounds without any meaning, so she’d given up. Occasionally, Barb would look down at her phone and Roy would study the ward, inspecting his wife’s new temporary home. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, and Enid was happy to have her family with her.

Like Roy, Enid was finding it hard to understand the institution in which she had become a prisoner. The woman in the bed next to her kept jolting her head backwards before letting it roll forwards again. On the opposite side of the ward, a tall, gaunt, bald man sat in his bed, raising his hand and opening his mouth as if he were about to say something, but then he’d close his mouth and lower his arm again.

Enid enjoyed the repetition.

A woman in a navy-blue uniform walked over, greeted Barb and Roy, and then turned to Enid.

‘I’m going to ask you to drink some water again, Enid.’ Enid flinched. This kept happening; people in navy blue would turn up, asking her to drink water, and then they’d stare at her neck, heads tilted. Enid eyeballed her, letting her know that she was onto her.

‘Mum,’ Barb said, ‘Eleanor is a speech therapist. She wants to help you talk again.’

So, the woman was called Eleanor. Knowing that she couldn’t warn her daughter about the woman in navy blue, and that she couldn’t ask for help from Roy, Enid turned away from all three of them. The tall, gaunt, bald man in the bed opposite was asleep now. He slept on his back with his mouth open and his arms by his sides. Enid focused hard on his breathing, evident from the repetitive movement of his top lip.

‘Mum,’ Barb said, and then again, ‘Mum.’

Eleanor interjected in a voice full of compassion, hiding her true agenda, whatever it was.

‘Enid, we’ve been through this. That’s Malcolm, and he is a nice man.’ Enid ignored her and focused harder on Malcolm’s lip, frowning.

‘She’s been doing this quite a lot,’ Eleanor said to Barb. Not to Enid, and not to Roy. ‘She gets very agitated, very quickly. She’s safe while she remains here on the ward, but it’s worth remembering that when you start making decisions about her future.’ There was a pause and Enid lost focus. She sighed, looking at the man across the ward, wondering who he was.

Barb put her hand on her mum’s forehead. Enid couldn’t remember her daughter ever having done that before.

‘Can we…?’ the woman in navy blue asked, pointing away from the bed and looking at Barb.

‘I’ll give you two a bit of alone time,’ Barb said eventually. ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes, Dad,’ and then louder, ‘Mum, I’ll be back in a few minutes.’ Enid looked at her, expressionless and without moving her head. Both Enid and Roy watched as Barb and the woman in navy blue walked to the desk at the other end of the ward. When they stopped, Roy turned back to Enid.

‘They keep telling me you’ve had a succession of small strokes love. Now, I don’t know what that means exactly, but it’s why you’re finding it difficult to talk. Hopefully, what with all they’re doing now, you should be right as rain soon. You can come home.’

Enid didn’t understand everything that Roy said, but she enjoyed the intimacy of being alone with him.

‘And don’t worry, love,’ Roy pressed his forefinger and thumb together and drew a line in front of his mouth. ‘I’ve not told them anything.’

One afternoon, the doorbell rang. Roy had just put the kettle on. He called through to Enid, who had settled herself on the couch, ready for Countdown.

‘I’ll get it, love.’

He opened the door as far as the chain would allow and peered out.

‘Hello?’ he asked. ‘Can I help you?’ It was Neil, their neighbour. Roy and Enid liked Neil, but they didn’t socialise much, probably due to the age difference. In his mid-thirties, Neil was just a kid.

‘Hi, Roy.’ Neil tilted his head to see through the gap and gave a small wave.

‘Hang on.’ Roy shut the door, undid the chain, and opened it fully. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Well,’ Neil said, rubbing the palm of his left hand with his right uncomfortably. ‘It might be something of a sensitive subject, but it wouldn’t sit right with me if I didn’t ask. Is Enid alright?’

‘Yes, of course she is,’ Roy said a little defensively, and then, as if to qualify that Enid was indeed alright, he continued, ‘She’s just been to the shops.’ He didn’t know why he said it. It wasn’t true.

‘Right, well, maybe you’ll know about this anyway, but it’s just that, last night, when I came home, I heard someone round by your garage. I thought I should check – you know – Neighbourhood Watch and all.’ Roy frowned with interest. ‘The thing is, Roy, there wasn’t anyone there, but when I turned to leave, I saw Enid in your caravan looking through the window at me.’ Neil shuffled uncomfortably. ‘I’m pretty sure she was crying.’

Roy felt his stomach drop. He’d found Enid himself that night. She’d been in the caravan, even more distressed than normal. The memory hit him hard and he felt his eyes sag with emotion. Catching himself in front of Neil, he stiffened his expression, and became resolute.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s right, she was in the caravan for a while last night.’ He paused, thinking. ‘She was sorting it for our holiday.’

‘Oh, so is everything alright then? Like I say, she seemed pretty upset and it was very late.’

Roy forced a laugh. ‘No, she wasn’t upset, and she certainly wasn’t crying,’ he chuckled again. ‘Whatever next?’ Neil stared at Roy, and Roy’s face straightened. ‘She’s fine, Neil.’

‘Who was that?’ Enid asked when Roy came back into the lounge.

‘Oh,’ he sighed before sitting down. ‘Neil from next door. Cup of tea?’

‘I’ll get it, love, you’ve just sat down.’

Roy watched Countdown’s Nick Hewer start the timer on the big white clock, but he didn’t look at the letters.

How hadn’t he noticed Enid getting out of bed last night? Neil would never have seen her if he had. She must have used the side door to get to the caravan. A string of bells and birds made out of cotton hung on the back of that door. The bells tinkled every time the door was opened. Roy was surprised he hadn’t been woken by the sound of the bells. Or maybe that was what had woken him. Maybe Neil had seen Enid mere minutes before he had found her. Perhaps the fault here lay in the deterioration of Roy’s own body, and the slowing of his joints.

Roy knew their house so well. He and Enid had lived in it since before they were married, yet somehow, now it felt like the rooms were getting smaller. The walls were closing in and he felt suffocated. Even bloody Neil was checking up on them.

Roy had noticed that Enid had become more emotional as she grew older too. Sometimes, when Barb and her daughter Alex went home after their weekly visit to Enid and Roy’s house, Enid would become so consumed by love that she’d cry.

‘Why are you crying?’ Roy would mumble, without making eye contact.

‘Oh, we’re just so lucky, aren’t we, to have them, and to have each other? I love you all so much,’ Enid would reply, and then she’d tense her whole body with her arms held up in front of her face, fists clenched, eyes scrunched, mouth and cheeks smiling.

Then Roy would do what he always did when he felt uncomfortable: he’d make two cups of tea. It wasn’t much, but he did his best.

Enid walked in with two cups of tea on a tray, and she handed him his.

‘Thanks, love,’ he said. ‘I think we deserve a holiday. How about we dust off the old caravan?’

2

Barb watched as the paramedics manhandled her mother into a wheelchair. ‘It’s alright, Mum,’ she cooed, hoping that the sweet tone would hide her guilt. ‘You don’t need to worry.’

Decisions had been made, all of them by Barb, most of them against Roy’s wishes and none of them in front of Enid. Roy had fought to have his wife back at home with him, which Barb had found touching but unrealistic. Instead, encouraged by healthcare professionals and her ex-husband, she had found a care home specialising in dementia, not far from Enid and Roy’s house. Today, her mum would have to move into it.

‘You always used to tell me about the time I had to go in an ambulance,’ Barb said as her mum was raised, chair and all, into the back of the vehicle. ‘Do you remember? I was six and I’d twisted my ankle.’ A look of recognition passed across Enid’s face. Perhaps she did remember.

Half an hour later, the ambulance pulled up outside the old Victorian building which Barb had picked for her mum to live in, and, ultimately, to die in. As the paramedics hauled Enid out of the back of the vehicle, Barb looked out towards the shore. She could see the pier from here, the distinct shape of the bay below and a few scattered boats which were always seemingly motionless in the estuary. On a clear day, her mum would be able to see Wales.

‘It’s nice here Mum – I promise – and you’ll have lots of visitors.’ Barb touched her mum’s shoulder. She wasn’t used to going against her dad’s wishes and it felt wrong.

‘Can you see the sea?’ she asked her mum, holding back tears. Enid didn’t move. ‘It’s Clevedon Sea, Mum. It’s really close to home. Dad lives just over there.’ She pointed out of the window in a general westerly direction. If her mum were to walk for fifteen minutes and take several correct turnings, she could, theoretically, end up at Barb’s childhood home, where she had once lived, and where Roy still lived. The proximity suddenly felt meaningless.

‘Hopefully you’ll be able to move back one day,’ Barb said, knowing that this wasn’t true and feeling guiltier with each word. ‘Earlier,’ she continued, unable to stop herself, ‘when we were getting into the ambulance, you remembered me twisting my ankle when I was six. That’s a really good sign, Mum. That’s your memory coming back.’ But Barb could see the blank expression on her mum’s face. Even if Enid had remembered Barb injuring her ankle earlier, she clearly couldn’t remember having had the conversation now.

Once the wheelchair was clear of the ambulance, Enid found herself perched on a steep hill overlooking the sea. It was picturesque, and there was something familiar about the line of trees that stretched along the road, before the sea’s horizon, but it was not home, and Roy was not there.

‘Remember what we said, Mum: this is going to be your home, at least for a bit.’ Barb had bent down in front of her, continually forcing eye contact. ‘Your room is that one,’ Barb pointed behind Enid, so she couldn’t look even if she wanted to. ‘You’ll be able to see the sea from your window.’ Enid curled her top lip. She wanted to knock her daughter over with the wheelchair, but it was being held by a man she didn’t recognise, and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to move it herself anyway. Instead, she held her head back for a fraction of a second, then lurched forward and spat.

‘Mum? Are you OK? You’re dribbling.’ Enid narrowed her eyes, shooting Barb a venomous look. It must have worked, as Barb stood up and took a step back. She frowned at Enid, then walked away from the ambulance. With a jolt, Enid found herself being pushed, against her will, towards the building. As Barb reached the entrance, the thick wooden door swung open and a balding man in glasses forced his way out in one large and hurried step. He looked at both Enid and Barb for the briefest of seconds, and then turned to see the door closing behind him.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Enid to disapprove. The door opened again and a man in a knitted jumper and dark tinted glasses held it open from inside.

‘Thank you.’ A short, dark-haired woman walked through, nodding gratefully. She was holding a toddler in one arm, and the hand of a young boy in the other. Blonde curls bounced across the toddler’s blotched but pale face as the woman walked.

‘Come on,’ the bald man snapped at her as the door closed again. ‘Quickly.’

Enid flinched. Had the woman flinched too? No. Maybe. She gave Enid a weak smile as she moved to the side to let the wheelchair pass.

‘Stop fucking dawdling,’ the man spat at her, ignoring Enid completely, ‘and get in the car.’

That was the first night that Enid saw the parrot.

The curtains were shut, and the lights were off, but the room remained light. Other people, younger people, would still be outside. The bed felt comfortable enough, but it wasn’t Enid’s. The covers were all wrong; the duvet was thin and there was a blanket across the bottom. Enid could feel its weight on her feet. Her usual duvet cover had a collage of woodpeckers, and this one had patchwork print, though it was still rather pleasant. Her hands were by her side, tucked in unnaturally tight by the bedsheets. She shrank her head lower, so that her neck was fully covered by the sheet folded over the top of the duvet.

Had she taken herself to bed? She couldn’t remember having done so. Perhaps she had drifted off and just woken up now. Things always seemed to come to her slower when she’d already been asleep. She heard an unfamiliar scratching sound outside, several scratches in quick succession. A broom against gravel? Roy’s fingertips on his unshaven stubble? Then a scream, short but natural-sounding, before silence again. Enid lay motionless, waiting.

She looked around the room. The ceiling wasn’t hers: it was the wrong shape. Rather than the usual four corners, Enid could see five, and the walls looked flat, not textured with the wallpaper she had chosen, that Roy had hung all those years ago. Near the door hung a watercolour of a pier which Enid recognised as Clevedon Pier, though she didn’t recognise the picture itself. A white wooden structure concealed the radiator and the walls looked freshly painted.

There was that scratching sound again.

Perhaps she was at Weston General. She had grown used to sleeping in hospital beds from time to time. Here though, she had the room to herself, and it was more homely than the shared wards in the hospital. No, this couldn’t be a hospital. It wasn’t as homely as an actual home though – not any home Enid knew anyway.

On the bedside table, she could see a plastic cup of water and a book. Enid recognised the cover of the book, and the creases down the side. It was hers; it belonged in her house, and she must have read it, or be reading it still, but she didn’t know what it was about, and the words on the spine meant nothing. Still, the very presence of the book had a somewhat relaxing effect. Maybe Roy had put it there. Another scream, a click, and then the rustling of leaves. The sound of the sea. Then silence.

One of the curtains blew into the room, and for a moment the walls grew even lighter. Enid tutted to herself quietly. She must have left the window open. It couldn’t be bedtime yet; she could see the pink of the sky outside. Again, she heard scratching outside the window. This time it continued, over and over. She closed her eyes tightly and waited for it to stop. Her knuckles clicked in an attempt at forming a fist, but the scratching grew louder and louder. The clicking started up again. The scream, when it came, was in Enid’s room.

She opened her eyes and froze. Her body felt even stiffer than usual. The curtain was back by the window and the scratching had stopped. The clicking had stopped and so had the screaming.

She turned her head and saw the parrot for the first time. Its feathers were in stunning shades of red, blue and yellow. The bird tilted its head, watching Enid, taking her in. Enid looked at its thick black toe, white markings down to the claw, tapping the edge of the dresser. The bird opened its beak, and Enid listened to the caw, to the scream, short and natural.

She listened to the large blue wings scratching against the bird’s body as it moved along the dresser, closer to her bed. She kept her focus on the one eye that she could see, the white iris camouflaged in the bird’s markings, the pupil dark and expressionless.

As the bird cawed again, the sound pierced through Enid. She clutched at the sheets but her fingers only pressed against them, unable to bend at the knuckles.

Click. Click. A softer caw. One wing rose upwards. The tip of it touched the birds head, gave a quick scratch, and then lowered back down again. The bird craned its head forward, and then, for just a few moments, it was completely still.

Enid looked at the parrot and saw herself; the red on the inside of her own drooping eyelids, the wisps of grey through her dyed ash-blonde hair, the blue of her veins showing through the skin on her cheeks.

I know you, she thought.

3

‘Can I go outside yet?’ A six-year-old Barb was sitting in front of an only half-eaten bowl of porridge. Her mum walked out of the kitchen into the lounge-diner with a saucepan and a tea towel in her hands.

‘Absolutely not, Barbara,’ she said, pointing the saucepan at Barb. ‘Not until you’ve eaten your porridge.’ Barb let out a long moan.

‘But I don’t want to eat my porridge,’ she said.

‘It’s nice,’ her mum replied. She didn’t really seem cross, but Barb could tell that she wasn’t going to give up until she’d eaten at least some of the stupid porridge. ‘Why don’t you want it anyway?’

‘I want to see if my birds are in their nest.’

Her mum turned and walked back into the kitchen. ‘Those birds,’ she said, despairingly. ‘It’s nice. Eat it.’

Barb had noticed the nest around a week ago, when it had consisted of only a clump of twigs and weeds. It hadn’t been woven then, and it didn’t resemble a place where anyone could raise a family. When she’d tried to touch it with a stick, by way of investigation, her dad had stopped her.

‘It’s a nest,’ he had told her. ‘Some birds will lay their eggs there, and then we’ll have baby birds in the garden, but only if you leave it alone.’ Since then, Barb had watched eagerly, from the other end of the patio, as a small brown blackbird had worked hard to shape her home.

‘Mum,’ Barb called from the table, and she heard a vague acknowledgement from the kitchen. ‘I don’t want to eat my porridge because I love you.’

Her mum came out again, this time laughing. ‘Eat your porridge,’ she said.

The nest was positioned low down, close to some yellow paving, covered only by the same weeds that propped it up and some faded white guttering. The small brown blackbird felt safe. Some of the twigs were touching the house wall, leaving only one exposed side to protect from predators. She snuggled into the soft fine grass that she’d placed inside, on top of the mud which she’d laid for stability. For the third time this year, she prepared to lay.

Across the lawn, near the bushes at the end of the garden, she could see the orange of her partner’s beak pointing skyward. His black body looked striking against the green of the morning grass. His beak dipped down to the ground, and then quickly rose back up again, dripping with moisture from the morning dew. It glistened, and from the nest, she sang to him.

His beak dipped again, back up, back down, and back up again. He turned his head, then dipped back down again, this time emerging with an earthworm in his mouth. From the nest, she watched her partner’s dark-brown eyes blink, and she blinked back twice. The markings on her chest, clearer than his dark feathers, moved rhythmically as she did.

He didn’t fly back. Instead, he hopped through the grass, creating a gentle spray of dew behind him.

As he reached the nest, she watched him drop the lifeless earthworm close to her chest in the straggle of grass in front of her. They both looked at it for a few seconds before she pecked hard into the worm’s middle. She was going to need the energy. They had done this twice already this year and it was about to start again.

Roy walked into the lounge wearing a buttoned-up white shirt with dark-red braces, and grey pinstriped trousers. It was the weekend, so he wasn’t wearing his suit jacket. He was a proud man, and he liked to dress well.

‘Dad,’ said Barb, elongating the word into a whine, ‘I don’t want to eat my porridge.’ Roy looked in the bowl and kissed his daughter on the back of her head.

‘It looks nice,’ he said. ‘Whyever not?’

‘Because I love you,’ Barb smiled, showing her top and bottom teeth.

A few moments later, Roy walked into the kitchen to find the kettle already at boiling point.

‘Tea?’ Enid offered, and Roy nodded, seeing that the bag was already in his mug on the kitchen worktop. Enid bent low to the fridge, pulled out four carrots and then stood to drop them in the sink by the window.

‘What…’ Enid started, slowly turning her head to look at her husband, ‘is Barb doing in the garden?’

‘She didn’t want to eat her porridge,’ Roy said, ‘because she loves me.’ He grinned knowingly at Enid, before pulling her into a tight embrace next to the sink. ‘And may she never eat porridge again,’ he said.

4

Olivia closed the door behind her and placed Oona, her just-mobile toddler, onto the hall floor. She could hear David, already in the kitchen, opening the fridge, the clink of a glass as he grabbed a beer. Dillon, Oona’s brother, barged in behind her.

‘Wait,’ Olivia instructed both kids, as she took her own shoes off and threw them in the rack. Then, as Dillon wriggled in her grasp, she pulled off his trainers, seconds before he managed to reach the living-room carpet. Finally, she kissed both of Oona’s legs as she undid the Velcro on her daughter’s tiny boots. She stood and smiled, watching her littlest toddle into the lounge after her brother.

‘David,’ Olivia called, walking purposefully into the kitchen. David was standing by the table, necking his beer. Soon, he’d be in the pub and she would be left to sort the children. ‘David,’ she said again, full of confidence, ‘can you please not raise your voice to me like that in public?’

‘Like what?’ David asked, seemingly genuinely unaware of how he’d sounded outside the dementia home. ‘I didn’t raise my voice, I didn’t shout at you. What are you talking about?’ It was true, Olivia thought, he hadn’t shouted at her – not exactly. He would never shout at her with the children present; it was more the tone. It was the tone he took when he actually did shout at her, at home, when the children were out or asleep.

‘You know what I mean,’ she replied, confidence already fading, ‘just, please not in public. One of the carers saw you, and the lady in the wheelchair too.’

‘The guy who opened the door for you, you mean? Why do you care so much about what he thinks?’ David placed his beer on the worktop, still three-quarters full. ‘And the lady in the wheelchair has dementia, Liv. She barely thinks at all.’ He picked the bottle back up just seconds after putting it down, and took a short, quick swig, all pent-up energy. ‘You’re so melodramatic.’ He strode past her and upstairs. Olivia looked at her watch. It was still early evening; he wouldn’t normally leave for the quiz for another hour.

The children would have sausages, waffles and beans that night. A quick dinner. She needed to get them bathed and into bed. Olivia liked seeing David’s dad at the dementia home, even though David did dominate the conversation, but it always meant a late night for the kids. She turned the oven on and slammed the pan down on the hob. Calm, she told herself. Calm.

The thing was, when David became angry with her at home, Olivia was never sure whether it had been as bad as she always thought. He never did it in front of the children and he always downplayed it afterwards. Olivia doubted herself. She’d always scared easily and was a bit of a wallflower. David was right; she was melodramatic. But although he hadn’t shouted, this time she felt sure that his tone had been out of order, because they hadn’t been alone. The old woman in the wheelchair had flinched.

Olivia heard David walk back downstairs and through the hall into the lounge. She heard him tickle Oona, and then say something in a goofy voice to Dillon. Both children laughed. Olivia smiled; he was such a good father. She heard the footsteps approach the kitchen, and felt her husband stand behind her, rest his head on her shoulder and wrap his arms around her waist.

‘I’m off to the quiz,’ he said. He smelt of aftershave and beer.

‘You OK?’ Olivia asked, and she felt his body deflate against her back.

‘I’m a little hurt,’ David replied, ‘you make me out to be a monster. I’m not a monster.’ He paused. ‘But I don’t think you mean to do that, do you?’

‘No,’ Olivia said. ‘I don’t. I’m sorry.’

5

Enid was sitting on a bed that she didn’t know, in a room which she just couldn’t quite put her finger on. She was sure that Barb had told her why she was there, but Enid had either misunderstood, or couldn’t remember.

Two large wardrobes and a chest of drawers with an oval mirror stood against the wall. On top of the chest sat a picture of Roy. Enid recognised the frame, but it didn’t live there; not on the drawers; not those drawers anyway.

The frame, the picture of Roy, and her handbag, which Enid had placed by her side on the bed, were, in fact, the only familiar items in the room. There were two doors; the one through which Enid had entered the day before, and another, mysterious door. Who had been with Enid when she’d first arrived? She couldn’t picture a face. Possibly male. Pale skin? Maybe. A beard? Possibly stubble. Trustworthy? Absolutely not.

Enid grimaced. It still hurt to stand, but now, after what felt like a lifetime of practice in the hospital, she could just about manage it without help. Slowly, she walked over to the picture of Roy and tried to talk to him. The words came unformed and short, breathy. Even if Roy could hear her, he wouldn’t be able to understand.

Picking up the frame, Enid looked hard at the picture and said everything she needed to say, but this time without words. Then she put Roy, along with his frame, in her handbag on the bed.

Back at the mirror, Enid looked at herself. Her hair was greyer than she expected, with only hints of blonde dye here and there, and her skin was older. How old was she? Enid tried to think but she couldn’t come up with any numbers, let alone her age. She understood the general concept of counting, but numbers themselves were devoid of meaning. If Enid could remember the word depicting her age, she wasn’t sure it would mean anything.

The big glasses surrounding her eyes were familiar – they must be hers – but she wasn’t sure about her earrings. Where had they come from? She took her glasses off and put them in her bag.

She picked up her handbag from the bed, opened the bottom drawer and pushed the bag to the very back. She closed the drawer, re-opened it, and stood thinking for a moment. Was the bag well hidden? She picked up the pillow from her bed and squashed that into the drawer too, in front of the bag. The drawer didn’t shut properly any more.

Now satisfied that no one would find her belongings, Enid planned her escape. There were two doors; the one through which she had entered the day before, and another, mysterious door. Who had been with Enid when she’d first arrived? She couldn’t picture a face. Possibly male. Pale skin? Maybe. A beard? Possibly stubble. Trustworthy? Absolutely not.

They had come through one of these doors, but Enid couldn’t remember which one. Whichever it had been, she didn’t want to go back through it now. It was full of old, sick people. Enid walked cautiously to the door on the other side of her bed.

Her hands, thick with arthritis, fumbled around the handle and eventually pushed through to a bathroom, although not a bathroom that Enid recognised. She was trapped.

Back in the room, Enid looked at herself again in the mirror. She wasn’t sure about her earrings. Where had they come from? She decided that she would hide them just in case. She took the earrings out of her ears and looked for her handbag. Where was it? Not on the bed where she’d left it. Where was Roy? His picture wasn’t on the chest of drawers any more. There was no way that she could live in this room. The bed didn’t even have a pillow.

6

Sometimes Roy visited and, less often, or potentially even more often, Barb visited. Sometimes Barb brought Enid’s teenage granddaughter, Alex, with her, and sometimes she didn’t. Alex never visited by herself.

Everyone talked so much, and although Enid could understand most of what was being said, she found it hard to respond. Once a thought had formed in her mind, she’d have to put it into words, which inevitably led to stammering. Stammering prompted other people to suggest what Enid might be trying to say, and this would cause her to lose her trail of thought altogether. She was always being told that her speech was getting better, but she felt as good as mute.

She knew that she was losing periods of the day too. Barb sometimes told her that Roy had visited that morning, but Enid wouldn’t always remember seeing him. Sometimes the carers talked about Barb as if they’d only just seen her, but Enid would have no recollection. She wanted to remember time spent with both.

What made her feel even more lonely were the vivid memories she had of her more distant past. She remembered the excitement she had felt in the waiting room when Barb had been about to give birth to Alex, her first and only grandchild. She remembered the summer nights she had spent drinking wine with Roy in their garden. Enid remembered her home, where, presumably, Roy still was.