Golden Hour by William Nicholson

wriggle her limbs. They all respond. Bruised but not broken. So she begins the slow arduous process of raising herself up off the ground.
    The first stage is to get into a sitting position. This she achieves by pushing against the doorframe. But getting up on her feet is another matter. Not that she’s a heavy woman, there’s not much of her at all. But try lifting yourself up when there’s nothing to pull on and you’d think you were tied to the ground with leather straps.
    She heaves and strains, and feels what little strength she has left draining out of her. She could try crawling, but that means turning onto her knees, and one knee hurts. There’s a dustbin nearby, she could pull herself up on that, but it’s not quite within reach.
    So there she sits, in the open back doorway, with the cool night breeze sucking the heat from her body, and the bruises from her fall pulsing in her thigh, her knee, her elbow. Tears form in her eyes, but she’s too tired to cry.
    It’s all Bridget’s fault. She left the door half open. She made me fall. She left me to cope on my own. How wonderful is that, Elizabeth?
    She knows now what it is she must do. She must press the red panic button that hangs round her neck. She’s not injured, it’s not an emergency. But if she stays here all night, who knows what state she’ll be in by the morning?
    Don’t fall, Elizabeth says. Whatever you do, don’t fall. Well, now I’ve fallen. You try staying on your feet all day at my age. Try doing anything at my age.
    She fumbles for the string round her neck, pulls out the heavy plastic fob. Her stiff fingers feel for the dome of the button. She presses. Then she presses again, and again. Nothing happens, it makes no sound. Now all she can do is wait.
    A few minutes go by. Then her phone starts ringing. It rings and rings, then falls silent. Another minute. Then the Lifeline speaker by the phone wakes up with a cackle. A boomy echoey voice says, “Mrs. Dickinson? Are you all right?”
    â€œNo,” she says. “Send someone.”
    â€œMrs. Dickinson?” calls the voice. “Can you hear me?”
    I can hear you but you can’t hear me. My voice isn’t strong enough. I’m by the back door. My knee hurts. I want to be in bed.
    The crackling and booming ceases. Silence returns. Nothing to do now but wait.
    She feels the need to sleep. It tugs at her like a child. Then she feels another need, to be held, to be cuddled, to be comforted. Take me in your arms. Make me safe, make me warm.
    Love me.
    She finds she’s crying. Angrily she pushes the tears from her face. She doesn’t want pity. But just because she’s old and her body is failing doesn’t mean she has no need of love.
    How did this happen? How did I get so there’s no one who loves me? It must be my own fault, but I don’t know what I did wrong. Rex pretended to love me, then he left. Elizabeth does her duty, but she finds me a burden. The grandchildren never visit. Perry’s gone. All I’ve got is Bridget, and she hates me. Am I such a despicable creature? Am I so worthless that no one in all the world loves me?
    Then she sleeps a little, sitting in the doorway. As sleep relaxes her, she tips slowly to one side, and feeling herself falling again, she wakes.
    Time passes. Impossible to say how long.
    Then the sound of a car, and footsteps, and the front door opening. Someone coming through the hall, into the kitchen.
    Elizabeth.
    â€œOh, my God! Are you all right?”
    Elizabeth takes her hand and helps her up. Mrs. Dickinson feels tottery, her legs seem to have forgotten how to support her. But with Elizabeth’s help she makes it to her bed in the room that used to be called the study. Elizabeth talks all the way in that tight high voice she uses when she’s stressed.
    â€œWhat happened? Why on earth didn’t Bridget get you to bed? How long have you been there?