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Authors: Judith Kerr
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but he was just staring down at the bed with no expression at all.
“It’s the drugs,” said the nurse. “The stimulants acting on the barbiturates she’s taken. It causes violent irritation.”
Mama flung herself over to the other side, dislodging most of the bedclothes and exposing a stretch of pink nightdress. Anna covered her up again.
“Is there nothing you can give her?” she asked the nurse. “She looks so – she must be feeling terrible.”
“A sedative, you mean,” said the nurse. “But she’s had too many of those already. That’s why she’s here.”
Mama moved again and her breath came out in a kind of roar.
The nurse gave the bandaged arm a final pat where it was connected to the tube. “In any case,” she said quite kindly, “your mother is unconscious. She is not aware of anything that is happening.”
She nodded to Konrad and went.
Anna looked at Mama and tried to believe what the nurse had said, but Mama did not look unaware of what was happening. Apart from the fact that her eyes were closed, she looked, as she had so often looked in the past, as though she were railing at something. Death, or being kept alive. There was no way of telling which.
She hoped that perhaps Konrad would try to speak to her, but he just stood there leaning on his stick, with a closed face.
Suddenly Mama gave a tremendous lurch, her legs kicked the bedclothes right off and she fell back on to the bed with one of her strange moans. Her pink nightie which Anna remembered her buying during her last visit to London was rucked up round her waist, and she lay there, shamefully exposed on the rumpled sheets.
Anna jumped to tug down her nightdress with one hand, while trying to replace the bedclothes with the other. The nurse, reappearing from somewhere, helped her.
“Look at those legs,” she said, patting Mama’s thigh as though she owned it. “Marvellous skin for her age.”
Anna could not speak.
Once, in the Putney boarding house, Mama had rushed into their joint bedroom in great distress. It seemed she had been sitting in the lounge, her legs outstretched towards the meagre fire, trying to get warm, and a dreadful, crabby old man sitting opposite had suddenly pointed to somewhere in the region of his navel and said, “I can see right up to here.” Mama had been particularly upset because the old man was one of the few English residents, which seemed to make it much worse than if he had just been a refugee. “It was horrible,” she had cried and had collapsed on the bed to burst into tears. Anna had been filled with rage at the old man, but, while she comforted Mama with a kind of fierce affection, she had also wished quite desperately that Mama had just sat with her knees together like everyone else, so that none of it could have happened.
Now, as Mama threw herself about and they all stood looking down at her, she felt the same mixture of rage and tearing pity. She tried to tuck in a sheet, but it became dislodged again almost at once.
“I really think there is no point in your staying here at the moment,” said the nurse. “Come back this afternoon, when she’ll be calmer.”
Konrad touched her arm to guide her away from the bed. She pulled away from him, but she could see that what the nurse had said was true, and after a moment she followed him across the landing. Her last glimpse of Mama was of her face, eyes closed, the mouth emitting a wordless shout, as it rose into view behind some shrouded piece of equipment and then fell back again out of sight.
The reception hall was full of people in wet coats, and the smell of steaming cloth made her feel sick again. It was still pouring: you could see the water streaming down the windows. Konrad stopped near the door, where a little fat woman stood peering out, waiting for a break in the downpour.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he said, “but I have to go to my office.” His voice sounded hoarse and unused, and she realized that he had hardly
“It’s the drugs,” said the nurse. “The stimulants acting on the barbiturates she’s taken. It causes violent irritation.”
Mama flung herself over to the other side, dislodging most of the bedclothes and exposing a stretch of pink nightdress. Anna covered her up again.
“Is there nothing you can give her?” she asked the nurse. “She looks so – she must be feeling terrible.”
“A sedative, you mean,” said the nurse. “But she’s had too many of those already. That’s why she’s here.”
Mama moved again and her breath came out in a kind of roar.
The nurse gave the bandaged arm a final pat where it was connected to the tube. “In any case,” she said quite kindly, “your mother is unconscious. She is not aware of anything that is happening.”
She nodded to Konrad and went.
Anna looked at Mama and tried to believe what the nurse had said, but Mama did not look unaware of what was happening. Apart from the fact that her eyes were closed, she looked, as she had so often looked in the past, as though she were railing at something. Death, or being kept alive. There was no way of telling which.
She hoped that perhaps Konrad would try to speak to her, but he just stood there leaning on his stick, with a closed face.
Suddenly Mama gave a tremendous lurch, her legs kicked the bedclothes right off and she fell back on to the bed with one of her strange moans. Her pink nightie which Anna remembered her buying during her last visit to London was rucked up round her waist, and she lay there, shamefully exposed on the rumpled sheets.
Anna jumped to tug down her nightdress with one hand, while trying to replace the bedclothes with the other. The nurse, reappearing from somewhere, helped her.
“Look at those legs,” she said, patting Mama’s thigh as though she owned it. “Marvellous skin for her age.”
Anna could not speak.
Once, in the Putney boarding house, Mama had rushed into their joint bedroom in great distress. It seemed she had been sitting in the lounge, her legs outstretched towards the meagre fire, trying to get warm, and a dreadful, crabby old man sitting opposite had suddenly pointed to somewhere in the region of his navel and said, “I can see right up to here.” Mama had been particularly upset because the old man was one of the few English residents, which seemed to make it much worse than if he had just been a refugee. “It was horrible,” she had cried and had collapsed on the bed to burst into tears. Anna had been filled with rage at the old man, but, while she comforted Mama with a kind of fierce affection, she had also wished quite desperately that Mama had just sat with her knees together like everyone else, so that none of it could have happened.
Now, as Mama threw herself about and they all stood looking down at her, she felt the same mixture of rage and tearing pity. She tried to tuck in a sheet, but it became dislodged again almost at once.
“I really think there is no point in your staying here at the moment,” said the nurse. “Come back this afternoon, when she’ll be calmer.”
Konrad touched her arm to guide her away from the bed. She pulled away from him, but she could see that what the nurse had said was true, and after a moment she followed him across the landing. Her last glimpse of Mama was of her face, eyes closed, the mouth emitting a wordless shout, as it rose into view behind some shrouded piece of equipment and then fell back again out of sight.
The reception hall was full of people in wet coats, and the smell of steaming cloth made her feel sick again. It was still pouring: you could see the water streaming down the windows. Konrad stopped near the door, where a little fat woman stood peering out, waiting for a break in the downpour.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he said, “but I have to go to my office.” His voice sounded hoarse and unused, and she realized that he had hardly
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