Page 13 of Meet Me in Berlin

‘Aren’t you hungry?’ I unwrap the cloth napkin from around the cutlery and set the knife and fork by her plate.

‘I want pie and mash.’

‘Pie and mash?’ I say, surprised.

‘Yes. My dad brought a pie home every Saturday when he finished work and Mum would make the creamiest mashed potato and mushy peas. It was my favourite meal. He was a fishmonger, you know, at the Billingsgate Market.’

As her Alzheimer’s has progressed, she’s talked more and more about her past. I know she’s referring to London, but I want her to latch onto a memory and keep talking. ‘In London?’

Mum’s eyes light up. ‘That’s right.’

I cut the meat for her since she doesn’t appear inclined to do it herself. ‘You’ve told me about growing up there’ – I pass her the fork – ‘but I’d love to hear more.’

She takes a small bite of pork and chews slowly. ‘Hmm, it’s all a bit hazy now.’

‘You remembered your dad and your favourite meal.’

Her brows rise. ‘I did, didn’t I?’ She scoops in a spoonful of mashed potato, and after a few seconds she says, ‘And it was nicer than this.’ She reaches for the salt grinder.

As the salt crystals fall onto her food, I gently say, ‘Mum, that’s a lot of salt.’

She shoots me a glare. ‘I like salt.’

‘I know, it’s just your risk of another stroke…’

She cuts me off with a wave of her hand. ‘A bit of salt never hurt anyone. My parents lived until…’ Her forehead creases. ‘Well, I don’t know, but they were old and had plenty of salt their entire lives.’ Her words come fast – a sign she’s getting distressed.

I rub her back. ‘Sorry. I just worry.’

Her face relaxes. ‘I know you do, but I feel okay.’

‘Good.’ I’m eager to return to the topic of London, hoping it’ll put her back in a nice place. ‘You were telling me about growing up in London. I’d like to go back there.’

‘Would you?’

I shift my gaze to the winter darkness outside the large windows. ‘I’d like to find someone,’ I add softly.

‘Then why don’t you?’ Mum says matter-of-factly.

I face her and give a short laugh. Such a simple perspective. ‘It’s not that easy.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘I can’t just up and leave. I have a job and a partner. And you.’

She points to herself. ‘Me?’

‘Yeah. I’d miss you.’

‘Well, that’s lovely of you, but don’t worry about me.’ She waves her fork around. ‘I have all these people, and your brother and his family. You’re far too young to spend your days sitting here with me.’

‘I like being here with you, Mum.’

She pushes her half-finished dinner to the side and picks up the small bowl of apple pie and custard. She breaks off a section and spoons it into her mouth. Her eyes soften as she chews, the way a baby’s do when they taste something sweet for the first time. ‘Who do you want to find?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You said you wanted to go to London to find someone.’ She points her spoon at me, eyes narrowed. ‘Some things I remember.’

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