The next day when she arrived for evening visiting hours after a long day at work, she found her mother slightly worse.

Someone had brushed her hair back off her face, destroying what was left of the curl, and giving her a severe and somewhat masculine appearance, which would have horrified her if she had been able to see it. Looking around, Jean noticed with dismay that the other patients had been treated to a similar grooming regime and now looked like members of the same androgynous tribe.

She was thankful that there were no mirrors within range. For a recluse, her mother had always been particular about her appearance, fretting over her diminishing looks, taking great comfort from her remaining advantages—slender ankles, straight teeth—and frequently reapplying lipstick and powder, even though there was no one but Jean to appreciate it.

Today her confusion was deeper, robbing her of confidence and causing her to retreat into silence, with occasional bursts of chuckling. Inquiries as to what was amusing her produced the mysterious one-word explanation—“Badgers.” She seemed fascinated to the point of obsession by the woman in the opposite bed, an unlikely source of entertainment, as she was mostly asleep and snoring. If a nurse approached, momentarily blocking the view, she would crane her neck and wave her imperiously out of the way in case she missed something important. Jean, by contrast, she barely noticed.

The nurse on duty expressed surprise when Jean mentioned her concerns. From their point of view, Mrs. Swinney was an ideal patient—placid and untroublesome, grateful for small attentions, where others were restless and obstreperous.

“But she’s not herself,” Jean protested. “She was perfectly sane when she arrived. Now she hardly knows who I am.”

She remembered with shame her previous irritation with her mother’s irksome habits and predictable conversation. What trivial dissatisfactions these now seemed.

The nurse looked disappointed. There was a hint of reproach in her voice.

“I’ll tell the doctor what you’ve told me. But we’re all really pleased with her progress.”

Jean cycled back to the empty house and a supper of beans on toast. She was getting used to having the place to herself and a little flexibility was creeping into her routines. Her evening meal could be anytime and consist of anything—bread and jam if she fancied it—and bath night could be whatever night she chose. She could listen to the record player, the radio or neither without any negotiation and after nine o’clock.

By the time she returned from the hospital in the evening it was hardly worth lighting a fire, so she took a hot-water bottle up to bed instead and left the grate unswept. In an exceptionally bold act, she threw out the threadbare brown rug from the sitting room, which had come with them from the flat in Gipsy Hill with the rest of their belongings. Jean had always hated it, because it curled at the corners to trip the unwary and darkened an already dark room.