“Oh, Mrs G, that’s lovely that is. You’re so clever.” The young woman in her navy polo says as she arches her back. “Best keep on and get this bed made,” she continues, her lilting voice filling the silence of the little room. “Where’d you learn such beautiful stitching?”
“Don’t know,” the old lady replies. “Think I’ve always done it.” She pauses, a nobbled finger winding embroidery cotton tight as another pokes a fine needle through linen. Every knuckle is swollen, the white tips of bone obvious under papery skin, but her fingertips are calloused, a thick white layer able to withstand the prick of any stray needle.
“Someone must have taught you when you were a wee girl, then. What’s that you’re sewing, anyway? Those beautiful golden flowers–is it someplace you’ve been?”
“Must be,” Mrs G replies quickly, eager to end the inquiry. She can’t remember where it might be. The silly young woman should know that. That’s why she’s locked up in this place. Can’t remember a damn thing. Brains rotting apparently and the kids are worried she won’t be able to find her way home from her own damn mailbox.
Marguerite daisies emerge as she sews daisy chains atop meadow green cotton stems. Carnelian red roses rise on pinwheels over blue forget-me-nots in tiny french knots.
“Mrs G, your daughter is here, and goodness me it’s dark in here. How long have you been sitting in this one place?” It’s that damn polo-shirt woman again. Can’t she see she’s busy? And daughter, what daughter? She doesn’t have kids, does she? Been planning on a few, but Bill says we have to save a few quid first. Where is Bill anyway, and why is she in this dark little room?
“Hello Mum, how are you?” A middle-aged woman pecks her on the cheek then hovers momentarily over the linen and sighs. “Oh, Mum. I haven’t seen that garden in years. It’s the one from the old house, yes?”
Mrs G stares at the embroidered garden and nods, hoping to stop the visitor’s questions, but the woman continues without pause. “I remember those forget-me-nots. Dad hated them. All the little seed heads would get in his socks and spread everywhere. He would spend hours pulling them out and still they would come. You used to tell us it didn’t matter what he did. Those plants would remember to come up every year because they were forget-me-nots. So, what else have you been doing? The nurses say you’ve been to a few nice outings. Gardens, they said. Perhaps that’s what brought all these memories flooding back?”
She has no idea what this visitor is talking about, but if she just smiles and nods, perhaps she will stop asking questions and go away. “I bought you some more cottons. All the colours you like. See this rose pink? You could even do a few of the dianthus that used to be in pots out front.”
Mrs G sighs as she secures the needle in a stitch. “Very nice,” she says and starts. Whose voice is that? Surely not hers. It’s thin and wispy, not bright and gay. That’s what Bill said. Her laugh would light up a room. Where is Bill, by the way? Surely, it’s getting on time he was home from the factory, and she should be getting things ready for tea. She smiles at the woman. “Nice of you to visit, dear, but I must be getting on. I didn’t realise the time. My husband will be home soon, and I haven’t started his tea.”
Small tears are slipping down the woman’s cheeks. “You don’t know who I am, do you?” she says in a sniffling whimper.
“I am sorry dear, but I just can’t place you. You do seem familiar, but never been good with names.”
The tears have accelerated, and the visitor hastily draws a tissue and stands. “Why don’t you sit and finish those last few stitches? I’m sure your husband won’t mind. I’ll turn this light on so you can see a bit better and fetch us a cup of tea in case he turns up, shall I?”
She returns with a tray laden with a silver pot, two fine China teacups and Iced VoVos. Whoever this woman is, she has lovely taste. Served just the way she likes it, and her favourite biscuits. “Thank you.” Mrs G smiles as she puts her embroidery to the side and picks up the cup. It’s perfect; black with just a tiny squeeze of lemon. A sigh of pleasure escapes her lips, and she blushes as the woman notices.
“Glad you like it,” the visitor says with a chuckle.
“I really am sorry dear. I just can’t remember who you are. I’m a bit forgetful these days. Tell me who you are again.”
“It’s OK,” she replies as she lifts her cup. “I’m sorry to have upset you. My name is Daisy.”
“Well, lovely to meet you, Daisy. That’s a funny coincidence, that is. Bill and I were just saying that if we ever have a daughter we will call her Daisy, like the little daisies in the garden.”
“Is that your garden you’re sewing?”
“Oh no. That’s just wishful thinking from my fingers. I put the cotton in my hands, and it just appears–like they have a mind of their own,” she laughs wistfully. “Don’t know where it comes from–but it keeps me busy.” She lifts the linen, retrieves a needle secured mid-petal, and continues sewing. Daisy watches as her mother’s fingers dart between the skeins of colour creating another garden bed.
She quietly picks up the cup and kisses the thinning hair on her mother’s bent head. “I’ll come again tomorrow, will I? I’ll bring you some more cottons.”
Mrs G looks up. “Yes, I’d like that. Thank you for visiting Daisy. It was lovely to meet you.”
