YOU ARE COMING to visit, the uniforms warn, excited for me.

I’m one of the blessed. So many linger in their alone nest, mouths in a snore-gape position.

I’m a fortunate me to have a considerate you. One who’ll travel through the liquorice hours it takes to. Many here have around-the-corner sons who don’t visit in a month. You do a fortnight.

They get me ready for inspection.

They say I’ll want to look lovely. What shoes to go with what pantsuit? The apricot slip-ons with gold swirlings? My apricot pantsuit is pretty, they say. The nice scarf that goes with it, a silk-soft addition.

And here you are. They’ve fussed with my face and say, ‘Lovely.’ And: Oh, my hair! They’ve sprayed and they’ve combed. They’ve poked and they’ve combed again. They’ve pinned it. I’m ‘perfect’ for a day on the town.

You are a letdown in jeans, though you’ve washed them. A blue shirt you’ve ironed at least. But no Twinkle collar and tie that says Formal. You have sweat dark under your arms. A jacket of a Twinkle effort would have hidden that.

But look what you’ve brought in Tupperware containers: my rings and my gold watch inside. A choice of gold bracelets. My bracelets—their clasp-bother. You help them on. Pearl necklaces you made sure wouldn’t tangle by being in more Tupper. You’ve even thought of rubber bands to fatten the rings for my now-size fingers. I am in the shop of myself, admiring.

The uniforms say, secret-silent: Have her back by two. She’s a bit quiet, they say. That’s to help you. They would not wish an episode of stubborn from me. They would not want unruly complaining. I’ve had some medicine and that solves me.

We are walking out here?

You are walking me slow—not that fast time.

Over the lino river to the…back to…out the door…

A taxi.

So you can sit in the back. Secure me. Fasten me. Keep me in.

Where to with this taxi? You open the door to in-there. Into the belt and a fellow talking. What a nice day. Good day for an outing. He’s been to this restaurant himself, he says. For his missus’ birthday. Top notch. Beautiful. They can really cook a barra.

‘Is it my birthday?’

I make a list on the air. I want new curtains. I want a car. I want…I want nothing. I want Lladró—I had some—a boy patting a puppy. Where are those same things? I had a set. You say you’re keeping them safe. But how true?

The taxi’s cold with no window down. The man pushes something and it’s warmer.

You say I liked the restaurant when Twinkle took me. You say I’ve never liked fish that comes with bones. Bones make for choking. And they’re fiddly. Fillets are safer. Fillets with batter. Tartare sauce. Chips and sour cream. You say they’re my favourite. And safest. I didn’t know food came with fear. ~ Yes, it is my birthday. It’s my birthday. You say it. It’s official. You’ve prepared.

Here we are. In we go and a lady greets us. ‘Looks who’s here,’ she says. ‘I remember your husband. A real gentleman’s flair.’

Over by the fountain pond, she tells us. Best table, in her view. Tropic. Private.

Napkin’s little sheet-flourish across my lap. Flower pot of ice you’ve ordered ahead. With champers in it. Garlic bread’s on the way. You ordered the briskness. I only have so much waking time, smiling time. Medicine falters. It falters me into sleepyhead eyes. Or I stand to wonder-wander.

You untwist the wire hat and peel the gold foil.

Pop! Frost-smoke dribbles down the side. You pour fizz into fizz out of the bottle into smaller drinking. You say, ‘Happy birthday.’ You lift your smaller. My smaller clinks it. You sip and I sip. The sting. My tongue and lips smacking, speaking in numb. My nose trying to sneeze.

My shoes slip off under the table. You bend them back on.

Garlic bread’s my favourite. It comes in a silvery bun. It drips on the cloth.

I adore oysters, you say. Kilpatrick. You’ve ordered a plate. On a salt bed, like crushed diamonds. Half each, but you have more. They fall off my fork. I am already full. You spoon them in me. You say leave room because we’ve our main course.

Here comes chips. How I always have them, you say: not peppery. The cream. The tartare. Here comes orange roughy. Battered in a crust of wrinkles.

No, I do not need…Yes, my mouth’s too far from…

I do need your forking.

You’ve two forks in your hands. One for my open-wide. One for yours. I look elsewhere when you do it. Food misses my open-wide, or it stays open and chewed and unchewed.

You say closed-mouth chewing is proper for people. That’s what I’d taught you.

I do not hear. My mouth is full of looking. People peer through leaves. They’re admiring me, aren’t they? My pastel and pearl. My fussed hair and golds. My face is still lovely, they think, don’t they? I’m seen out quite a bit, I say.

You: Is that so?

Me: I get around, you know.

Then you falter. I’ve done nothing but give a wave through the leaves. Food falls, open-wide bits you chin-wipe off me. You do it with jabs not dabs. I don’t like jabs that wipe my face hard. You ask me to close my mouth for food’s sake and you jab. We don’t want to become embarrassed, do we? I don’t care. You’re the one embarrassed. I see your blink-eyes and flared horse-nostrils in you. Jabbing. Jabbing. You always were the embarrassment of me. I want to say that. I was always refined. I was. I’m trying to say it. You see so. The medicine doesn’t falter. I still say it silent. I’ve said it loud before the falter-pills. Many times: your glums, my lack of like for you. You see so. The anger of loud not allowed. The medicine can shut it now. The loud was years ago let out before. You see. You know.

Then, ‘What’s this!’ You point.

‘Birthday girl,’ sing-songs the carrying woman.

A cake with one sparkler fizzing like a stick of champers that’s not to drink. You and her sing ‘Happy Birthday’. You cut the cake for me on the hip-hip-hooray. I eat some icing, but I am a bird. Beak-bites. Isn’t food little? This all is big. I eat the crumbs first. Crumbs are the little I prefer.

Here’s the doggy bag, the carrying woman hands. A box with sparkler cake in it. Leftover champers stoppered with a gadget. A plastic bag for it. And now we’re ready.

You bend my shoes on again.

We nod Bye to the leaf people.

In we go to another taxi.

In we go through doors to the lino.

In we go to my room of linen lie-downs.

‘A nice time?’ says a uniform.

‘Oh yes.’

‘You’re a spoilt one. There are wedding cakes, and there are birthday cakes. There are no better cakes than occasions. No occasion is just eating.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘We’ll put it aside and perhaps others can share?’

You nod: of course.

I shake my head. I’ll not share. This is my belongings.

She’s in with sly-you. You two waiting till I sleep to share.

Where is he going, my son-man?

‘The fridge, dear. Look—he’s left you some champers.’

No, plastic glass is not champers. I dig my nails in my hairdo. Dig-dig. Fuck. Shit. I cry waterless sobs of seething.

They’ll have to pill me harder, they’re saying. Not to you direct, but you hear. You comprehend whispers. They’ve cottoned on well to my emptying-outs. They’ll get food in me. She’s cunning. She’s trying to starve. They’ll get food in and make me open wide. They’ll check for pills I’m too angry to swallow. Pills and food are good for me, they say. Good for all my systems—my happy systems and my down-there systems. Bothers won’t bother me. I won’t get the runs.

Goodbye, you wave, as if to drive off home. ‘Good horse weather we’re coming into,’ you say. ‘Soon dapples will glow on summer bums.’

You’re waiting for me to sleep.

Now it’s me with the glums.

You show the bell I should hold. ‘Use this bell for attention.’ I kick the blankets. I can walk in bed, lying down. Up needs people.

‘Push the button and they’ll stand you on your feet. I can’t be here always. So push.’

You leave.

I push.

The uniforms come when the bell bells. But bells go all the time. It’s what the other mes do. The uniforms peep in or take bells from our pushing. We’re on our last voice, called ‘belling’.

Ding-dong. Cuckoo-clock conversations. Ding-dong. Them in the me wing to them in the east. Them in the north. Ding-dong. Ding-dong.

I think I went to The Beatles, I ding-dong. My mother made sandwiches. I threw them in a street bin. I didn’t faint like my sister. They were not men I thought handsome.

Fred MacMurray was an actor. He once caught trout near our grandfather’s farm. I was too young but rowed out and tried to make passes. He was old and not handsome for an American.

I had glamour on my dresser—an ivory hairbrush and jingle bracelets. My big mirror had plastic candles around.

Then I do sleep. You un-rubber my ring jewels.

Off they went. My golds and my pearls, you snaked them down for no tangling in your Tupperware.