By Sara Barrett

Karen took a deep breath and looked up at the austere, turreted Victorian façade. This must be it. She adjusted her expression, steadied her balance and made an entrance through the heavy front door. The small, chilly Reception space was empty; when she rang the bell, it echoed with the acoustics of a church alcove. She barely had time to take in the dusty pot plant and a notice on the door opposite, which read, 'Please Keep Closed', before a Care Assistant in a white uniform appeared from behind it. Karen stepped forward, her smart heels clicking on the tiles, hand extended. The woman was drying hers on a towel. Karen allowed her hand to drop.

'Hello.' Karen said. 'I've come with some things for Nina. For Mrs Calcott.'

She smiled benevolently, flashing her even white caps. Karen was generous with her smile; it was an expensive substitute for charm. Her mother had neglected to enforce her retainer, couldn't be doing with the teenaged arguments. Those snaggly British teeth had held her back at first, but two years ago Justin had offered to pay for caps. Guilt money, as it turned out.

'Matron phoned. Said Nina needed some things. Who should I give them to?'

'Matron's not here right now,' the woman said, 'but you can leave them with me. Are they all labelled?'

'Labelled?'

'Everything needs a name tag. Didn't Matron say?'

Karen had left in a rush after the call; she'd flexed her credit card at the problem. Justin could sort it out later. He was still good for an Amex bill, even if they were separated.

The woman turned to face her. She was shorter than Karen and wearing ugly, practical shoes. Karen was being assessed, labelled, and dismissed. Too thin, airy hair-do, a mere fly-weight in a place like this. Justin had liked her to dress to impress; but she had overdone it.  Can't get away quick enough, can you? There was accusation in the woman's flat, rhetorical, grey-green eyes.

'We send all the laundry away,' she said. 'The clothes need to be labelled or clients end up with the wrong ones. Are they machine-washable? Only there's no hand washing.'

'I didn't realise,' Karen said. She hadn't thought about laundry in years. The implication of such powerlessness tumbled past. She'd think about that later. Silence. Not my problem, the woman's expression said; I am concerned with life and death.

The reek of ammonia and disinfectant was making Karen feel light-headed; she wanted to be back in control.

'I'm sorry,' she said, with her best cover-up smile. 'I haven't done this before. I'm not sure the things I've brought are suitable, after all. I'll come back later.'

'Fleecy things are best, stuff which dries quickly. It all needs to go in the driers. And a loose fit is good, easy to get on and off,' the woman said, adding, 'Nothing fancy,' as she allowed the door to close behind her.

For a moment Karen hovered in the Reception area, not quite sure what to do next, feeling foolish and faintly cheated of her event. The woman had been perfunctory at best; at worst, she had been insensitive. To what? It was Karen's own fault, she supposed; she hadn't announced who she was or explained her role there. 

An hour later, Karen had surprised herself. She remembered the way to Nina’s house, after all, and let herself in with a spare key from the neighbour. The air inside was unnaturally still. She shivered. Flitting through the rooms, blinkered, she kept her mind on her motivation, to do the right thing as quickly as possible, and leave.

She had never been upstairs before: all this disorganised clutter. Nina had no self-discipline, never threw anything out. Someone would have the thankless task of sorting through it. There were posters and programmes, masks and feather boas, and Nina hadn't even been in an Am Dram production in years. Karen stumbled on a suitcase full of mildewed sponges and old make-up, remnants of decaying glamour going back to the time Nina had been an Avon Rep.

'Anything to take me out of the house, sweet,' Nina used to say. Later, after her paltry divorce settlement, she would add, bitterly, 'And keep me off the streets.'

Nina had pursued a manic round of rehearsals and parties to keep her mind off the loneliness. It beats sewing and washing up, she'd say. Unlike Nina, Karen was going to control her rebound, make sure she wouldn't have to move house and endure reduced circumstances.

As she sifted through the wardrobe full of old clothes, looking for something soft and forgiving, the hangers danced eerily, stirring up a mixture of evocative smells. Perfume mingled with stale cigarette smoke. Nina had tried giving up many times, had even tried hypnosis. Give it a go, darling, you know me, no willpower. She always went back on the fags; at seventy-three, smoking had nearly killed her.

There was an ashtray next to a picture of her two daughters, taken in their twenties, framed by an ornate Art Nouveau swirl. Both had started smoking at school, done too much, too young. 'What can I do?' Nina had said, with a shrug. 'I'm no example.' She had let them go their own way whilst she had gone hers, chiding them for calling her 'Mum', saying it made her sound old. These days they barely corresponded.

Karen's chest felt tight, she needed fresh air, to pull herself together. After the day she'd had, she could do with a cigarette herself: that phone call with Justin; tearing about making arrangements. What an odd craving; she'd given up smoking years ago. Justin’s family had disapproved. On top of it all, there wasn't one suitable garment in the place. She'd have to go to bloody Asda.

By early evening, returns made and with a fresh selection of items, she was back in Reception, dressed down, ringing the bell again, composed and ready to meet whatever would be demanded of her.  As she waited, details of the décor insinuated themselves. That wall paint, what was it, eau de nil? The pale bilious green colour seemed to hold her there momentarily, whispering future familiarity. She heard heavy footsteps, the door opened, and another, different, woman came from behind it. Karen knew better how to play it this time; she had practised the right smile.

'I've brought some things for Mrs Calcott. I think they're suitable. They're all labelled,' she said, 'And machine washable. Can I leave them with you?' Karen handed the woman a tightly packed holdall. 'Thank you. I'd be grateful if you'd show me to Nina's room.'

They moved silently through the hallway, past a trolley full of tangled laundry.

'Here we are.' the woman said, opening the door, her white bulk blocking Karen's view as they entered. 'Hello Nina. Look who's come to see you. You have a visitor,' she said, drawing back the curtain and stepping aside.

Karen's smile fell away. As she looked at the frail figure in the bed, the history between them opened like a wound in her viscera. Her diaphragm contracted. Oh. Nina. The sudden emotion felt like a punch. It met a craving.

The stroke had left Nina partly paralysed and unable to speak. Her hair was thin and untidy and her hands were papery, roped with veins. They'd taken off her lovely rings.

'Shall I leave you two together, then?' the woman said.

'Yes, that's fine,' said Karen, 'I'm family.' She sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, feeling anchored, at last, by the admission of the bond. Karen didn't need to search her repertoire, after all, for an appropriate line. The artifice fell away. She finally discovered something soft and forgiving.

'Hello Mum,' she said. 'I'm here.'