“Was her madness visible"? Dad asked.
I thought for a moment, "How would I know? Nanny died when I was twelve, you were there."
Thinking about what they did to her could lead me down a perilous path. So I focused on the Mason Pearson hairbrush on my dresser, remembering how I used to arrange her silver-grey hair around the intriguing lump on her head. I thought of the wonderful lardy toast that she sneaked to me, a vegetarian, not the cooker she left on at night. The sixpence she gave me, not the notes hidden all over the bungalow. The asylum's conker tree we sat under together, not the crying, rocking woman. The happy singing at Christmas parties, not the nurses overheard hushed whispers mentioning 'lunatic cutlery'.
My heart couldn't take that she had no future, that my own parents sent her away. My head couldn't keep the memories.
It's now that past I crave, if for a short time only. I want it as an adult, I want to know the truth.
What did the Park Prewett staff in Basingstoke do to her, what electric currents did she have to endure for their peaceful shift? I want her here, in flesh and blood, to let me know
Why do I need to know? Because you, Father, have brought it up and stirred it all up again. Am I kidding myself that homes are that different these days, Can I trust the staff to care for you as I would, do they treat the elderly with dignity and respect or are the ghosts of a broken and abusive system still very much alive?
About the author
Gillian Silverthorn grew up in a village in Hampshire before moving later in life to Cornwall where she lives with her husband Kevin. In the last few years she has taken up writing short stories and poems.
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