The Telling

mouth, and the edge of anxiety that came with it infected everything that had gone before and been dismissed: the reflection in the glass last night; the flood of images at the gravestone; the breath drawn as if someone were about to speak. What if I’d held my breath and listened, instead of running away? A woman’s voice from an empty room. The static. If I were losing my mind, then it was a very specific madness. I had to find out what happened here; only then could I know what was happening to me.
    And if anyone would know, it was Margaret.
    The building was sheer and dark, flanked by close-growing shrubberies. I followed the path around the side and came to a broad sweep of gravel, parked with cars. I knew that what I was about to do was almost certainly wrong: procedurally, socially, possibly even ethically wrong. But I didn’t have time to follow the proper channels, and wouldn’t have been able to explain myself if required to. I didn’t mean any harm: I kept telling myself this as I climbed the broad stone steps, as I pressed the intercom. It might not be, strictly speaking, appropriate, but it certainly wasn’t malicious. I didn’t mean any harm.
    The intercom crackled.
    ‘Who is it?’ A woman’s voice.
    I leaned in. ‘My name’s Rachel,’ I said. ‘I’m a visitor.’
    There was a buzz and click; I pushed the heavy wooden door, and was through into the lobby. The room was panelled in dark wood; a flight of stairs curled up the wall; the carpet was old and thick and crimson. I just stood there, staring up at the smooth curve of the staircase; it set off an echo of something I couldn’t place.
    A vacuum cleaner kicked into life, making me turn. A long corridor opened off the lobby. At the far end, a young man in a green polo-shirt and jeans was swivelling a Dyson around, rearing it back on its wheels and flapping a length of cable out of the way. The corridor carpet was dusted with Shake ’n’ Vac, as if there’d been a frost indoors. The place reeked of synthetic peach.
    ‘Who are you here to see?’
    It was the woman’s voice again. I turned towards it. She leaned through the gap between a door and doorframe, revealing a wedge of nurse’s uniform and a cluttered office beyond. She had a pleasant, young, worried face. The Dyson started to drone back and forth.
    I smiled. ‘I’m here to see Margaret.’
    ‘Okay.’ Her intonation left the word open; she needed something more.
    ‘Margaret Hutton? I’m Rachel; I’m from down in the village. I’ve been meaning to come for ages. You know how things are; always so much else to do.’
    She glanced back over her shoulder, towards the office; priorities were shifting; she was accepting this. She turned back to me, her expression easy.
    ‘She’s in the Day Room. She’s in pretty good form today.’ The young woman gestured down the corridor, towards the cleaner, who was moving back and forth in that leisurely vacuuming dance. ‘You won’t mind finding your own way, will you? I’ve got a mountain of paperwork to get through, and they’re due their meds at ten.’
    I thanked her, headed up the corridor. The cleaner swept the Dyson back to let me past. I walked white Shake ’n’ Vac footprints on to the clean carpet. I turned to look back, to mouth the word ‘Sorry’ at him. He was just a lad, his skin blotched and sore-looking with acne. He shook his head at me, and grinned. His smile was catching: I found myself grinning back at him.
    *
     
    The Day Room was full of armchairs; they were lined up along the walls, circled around coffee tables and spread in an arc in front of the television set. Nets covered the window so the light was filtered and dulled; the TV was on with the volume down low. The ladies occupied almost every chair. Their clothes and hair and skin were the same muted shades as the furnishings. One was sleeping, her head thrown back, her mouth open on dark wet tongue, pastel-pink plastic gums, white teeth. The others were all looking at me.
    The room was warm, smelt of old milk, Shake ’n’ Vac, and pear drops. The vacuum cleaner hummed in the background. The TV prattled brightly.
    The women’s collective gaze was mild, interrogative. No one spoke. I swallowed drily.
    ‘I’m looking for Margaret Hutton,’ I said.
    ‘Margaret.’
    ‘Oh, Margaret.’
    ‘Margaret Hutton.’
    Heads turned stiffly, eyes seeking other eyes, summoning consensus . At the back of the room, a bent head raised itself, fingers