The Things We Never Said by Susan Elliot Wright Page B

it is locked. He pushes his face up against the glass and sees that it’s two babies, big enough to sit up, laughing and playing in the snow. He bangs on the glass and one of them looks up and reaches out to him. But the snow is so thick and heavy that the babies are already partly buried, so he needs to act fast. He turns back to the adults and tries to speak but no sound comes out, so he runs to each in turn and stands in front of them, tugging at their clothes and pointing to the disappearing babies. Still nobody sees him.

CHAPTER TEN
    The day room is really filling up now. More patients are herded in, overdressed and over-made-up, and Maggie recognises hardly any of them. It occurs to her that she has no idea how big this hospital is. ‘Ah, Margaret!’ The familiar voice of Dr Carver cuts through the general hubbub. ‘Glad you made it, well done.’ His big bear-face grins at her. ‘Having a nice time?’
    She is about to say that she’s not sure how she feels just now, when he nods encouragingly. ‘Good, good. Try and make sure you mix with the other patients; don’t want to be a wallflower, do we?’
    Maggie smiles back. She doesn’t want him finding someone for her to talk to. ‘I’m just going to get myself a drink,’ she says. ‘Then I’ll have a wander around.’
    ‘That’s the spirit,’ Dr Carver smiles, patting her on the shoulder. ‘Jolly good.’
    She takes a paper cup of Pepsi-Cola from the long table just inside the door. She is still slightly shaken by her encounter with Norma – Norma whom she’d thought was ever-smiling; Norma who seemed so happy in her girlish world of curtseys and dancing and funny little tunes. Maggie sighs. There are so many unfamiliar faces; so many who are obviously a bit funny in the head. If only she could see someone she could talk to. There’s always Peggy, she supposes. Peggy is sitting on her suitcase in the corner, make-up all smudged and smeared as though applied by a chimpanzee. But if she goes over to Peggy, she’ll have to sit there and look interested while Peggy opens her suitcase and counts the thousands of bus tickets she keeps in it.
    After a while, she begins to get used to the heat and the smell. She looks around. In some parts of the room there are little pockets of normality, people at tables playing cards or ludo, or standing in groups, talking and smoking like normal guests at a normal party – normal except for the paper cups and lack of anything interesting to drink. A little cartoon deer with a blue bow capers across her memory; I’d love a Babycham . . .
    At last she spots Pauline talking to a thin, dark-haired man who looks a bit like George Harrison. She starts at the thought; how on earth can she remember the name of some man from some stupid pop group when she remembers so little of what’s happened to her in the last seven or eight months? Pauline, who looks more cheerful, is now beckoning her over. That picture of Pauline’s husband and daughter comes into her mind again, making her wonder whether . . . but no. She looks at her hand: no wedding ring; no mark where a wedding ring might have been.
    ‘Fancy a game of Monopoly?’ Pauline says.
    The man looks at her and smiles. He doesn’t look too mad, so she pulls up a chair and joins them.
    ‘Sam,’ the man says, shaking her hand. His skin is warm and dry, and he has a gentle Scots accent, soft and dark, like damp earth. Maggie finds herself listening closely to the melodic rise and fall of his voice. As he sets up the game, the cuff of his shirt rides up, revealing a knobbly scar on the inside of his wrist. Maggie tries not to look. The three of them begin to play, talking generally about who’s gone home recently and who’s due to go. Soon, inevitably, they talk about their own breakdowns and treatment.
    ‘I can still hardly believe I’ve had ECT.’ Maggie rolls the dice and moves six spaces. ‘Regent Street, I’ll buy that.’ She counts out the money. ‘I vaguely