Margaret’s daughter-in-law Sandy is standing over by one of the bookcases, casting her eye over the spines, taking the odd book out and idly flipping through.
‘Quite what we’ll do with all these when the time comes I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I mean – it’s a shame. These Dickens might’ve fetched something, but the sun’s got to them and they’ve gone a bit foxy.’
It makes me feel uncomfortable, but it’s my own fault, of course.
I’d started setting up to take blood from Margaret, and Sandy and the two carers had been standing round the bed, saying nothing, just watching.
‘I’ve never had such an audience,’ I said, just to break the tension, because it didn’t really bother me whether I was observed or not. ‘Talk amongst yourselves.’
‘Sorry!’ Sandy said, and that’s when she started to walk round the room, pricing things up.
As it turns out, though, I’m glad the attention has switched to Little Dorrit. Margaret is quite poorly, and getting anything remotely viable is like trying to tap-up a strand of hair. I’m not even sure why I’ve been asked to try. Margaret has steadfastly refused hospital – and I’m completely with her on that. She’s in her nineties, for goodness sake. If I was her I’d be refusing hospital, too. The only thing I might do differently is ask them turn my bed around so I could face out into the courtyard garden and that flowering cherry, so vibrantly and abundantly pink it would gladden even a dying heart.
‘Alright?’ says Sandy, coming back over. ‘Getting any?’