It was the second she’d had in three days. We found her on the floor. We’re not allowed to pick her up, said the carer, who told us she’d just rung for an ambulance. I knelt down beside her, stroked her head, her hand. She was bemused, muttering to herself, cross. She wanted to go to the loo. Her skin was ash, falling in folds from her face. Her hair was a nest of tangles. And her light blue towelling dressing-gown spotted with porridge stains. The paramedics came, six of them apparently. It was an age till I saw them, from an upstairs window, carry her out to the ambulance on a stretcher chair. Her head lolled to the side. Was she dying? Would we see her again? I thought of her all day. She wants to be at home. Let her return to die here, if she must. Let it be so. She returned. Her son went to collect her when he arrived from Scotland. He went down to see her. She was full beans. What adventures I’ve had, she said to him.
