In FLAME
By Charlotte Jones
ALEX
The nursing home.
Here we are then, Mother.
Nothing to hold you back now. And I’ve brought you another treat. Raspberry Royal. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? They had Sherry Trifle too but you turned your nose up at that last time. Ah. We’re going for the silent treatment, are we?
Well. It’s my birthday today. I didn’t get your card. Second post, maybe. Thirty-six today. I don’t look it? Thank you very much. I use extremely expensive eye cream. Guaranteed to cover that “not-quite-as-fertile-as-I-used-to-be look” that’s creeping up under my eyes. Anyway, I’m meeting Matt later. Did I tell you about him? I don’t think you’d approve. He’s an acquired taste. And he’s married. I fell right into that cliché. Very good in bed, though. We get up to all sorts. Your mind, if you had one, would boggle. He never holds my feet though.
Come on, tuck in. Can’t let a good Raspberry Royale go to waste. Raspberries fit for a queen. Come on. You don’t have to watch your figure any more. Open wide and let the choo-choo train in.
Eat up, Mother. It’s a treat. Come on.
Oh dear, it’s all down your front, Mother. You look aright old mess, don’t you?
You’re very quiet today. Now you haven’t got your audience ... But I can see you’re thinking. It’s all going on in there, isn’t it? Pickfords must have been, Mother. The careful movers. Packed you away with the crocks and the glassware. Slugs leave trails, you see.
Alex comes right up close to her.
I was a little girl. You were the one who turned it into a competition. I was just a little girl. Sweetness and light, my arse. You play dirty, don’t you, Anne?
Well it doesn’t matter. He’s dead now. My dad’s dead. I still dream about him, though. It’s a reoccurring dream. We’re at Weston-super-Mare and we’re burying you in the sand. And we just leave you. We run off together and have ice cream. Neopolitan flavour, because I can never choose. And I wake up and I feel safe and then I realise that we’ve forgotten you, you’re still buried in the sand and I feel guilty for the rest of the day ...
What’s so ironic, what you don’t realise, Ma, is I still want to help you. I’m here with my spade. And I’m ready to dig ...
But you’re not interested, are you? ...
Just answer me one thing, Mother, why does it feel like a punishment? You being ill, and helpless. Tell me what I’ve done. Come on.
Well, you win.
Alex leaves.