The Things We Never Said Read Online Free

a chair over and places it next to her bed, then settles himself and smiles at her. She flops back on the pillow, exhausted with the effort of trying to get herself up. ‘This is a hospital, isn’t it?’ she asks.
    ‘Well done! Yes, this is a hospital.’ He takes a notebook from his inside pocket, flips it open and writes something quickly.
    She looks down at the long, greyish nightdress she’s wearing, but doesn’t recognise it. Lying across the end of her bed, there’s a sack-coloured dressing gown, and a sudden flash of memory tells her she has worn this garment; she remembers holding the edges together because it has no belt or buttons, and walking slowly along a corridor to the lavatory, a nurse either side holding her arms. There are six lavatories in a row, but no doors. Surely she would not have used a lavatory without a door? But then she has a vivid memory of sitting on the cold china in the gloom of early morning, and looking up at the row of washroom windows, of ice on the inside of the frosted glass. And seagulls; there were seagulls screeching outside.
    ‘Are we by the sea?’
    ‘Not far from it. Brighton’s about twelve miles away. Why do you ask?’ He’s looking at her intently.
    ‘I heard seagulls . . .’
    ‘Ah! Yes, yes, indeed. They come a long way inland sometimes. Now, tell me what you thought about when you heard the seagulls.’
    ‘I didn’t think about anything, just . . .’ But there is a twitch in her memory. The sea; cold, cold water. Images flash up to her left and to her right, some frozen, some shimmering with movement, but they evaporate before she can grasp their meaning. ‘How long have I been here?’
    ‘Oh, quite a little while, I believe. Not too long, you know, erm . . .’ He turns towards the nurse who leans down and mutters something in his ear. ‘Ah yes,’ he nods. ‘That’s right. December, wasn’t it? Yes, yes. Not long before Christmas.’ He is still speaking to the nurse.
    ‘You mean . . .’ She looks at the nurse. ‘I’ve been here since . . .’ She shakes her head. No; that can’t be right. Why can’t she remember?
    ‘Now, Margaret,’ the man says. ‘Can you tell me what your full name is?’
    The question bats her previous thought away. ‘Margaret Letitia Harrison.’ It comes out by itself. ‘Maggie,’ she adds, remembering that too. And then another name flashes into her head, and another; the two names are linked and for a moment everything sparkles and shouts; something is coming back, there is something she needs to do, and she hasn’t got long to do it. She tries to hang on so she can read the thought, but then it shrinks back and goes out like a candle.
    The man smiles, nods, writes something else in the little notebook. ‘Good,’ he mutters. ‘Oh yes. Very good.’
    Maggie feels a stab of irritation. ‘Are you a doctor?’
    He ignores her. ‘Do you know what year this is?’
    ‘What year?’ she repeats. Surprised that it doesn’t come to her immediately. Her thoughts are loose and shaky, and won’t hold together. The man is waiting for an answer; so is the nurse. Perhaps they think she’s simple.
    ‘It’s nineteen . . .’ She pauses, then it jumps into her brain. ‘Nineteen sixty-three.’
    He nods, writes it down. ‘Sixty-four, but that’s close enough. And can you tell me who the Prime Minister is?’
    ‘Mr Macmillan,’ she is certain this is right. ‘Harold Macmillan.’
    ‘Hmm.’ He writes this down, too. ‘Very close, but no.’ He frowns. ‘Macmillan resigned, you know, not long before you came to us.’ The nurse leans down and speaks into his ear again. He nods and says something back. All Maggie hears is ‘ . . . not have been aware . . . circumstances . . . trauma . . . ’
    ‘What?’ She knows they’re talking about her, but none of it makes sense. ‘What are you saying—’
    ‘All in good time.’ He snaps his notebook shut then looks up and smiles, his eyes creasing into little slits.