They mention the spot on my face. The small white spot: a painless sore. Fingers touch my face and they ask if it hurts. No, I reply; it does not: it a painless sore. That is how the doctor described it I say, but they are not convinced and faces come and go in front of me, floating and bobbing, questioning. Someone mentions dead skin pumped with wax, flesh embalmed, and I smile to myself, thinking of mannequins laid stiff in coffins, hands clasped in prayer.

My eyes are closed.

‘Is he sleeping?’ I hear someone ask; a new voice: a woman’s. The room responds with hush; voices fade away, leaving only the snap of a handbag clasp and the stir of a teaspoon in private conversation.  They are waiting; the silence is interminable. Am I expected to perform – even at this late hour? Yes, I believe I am. They are expecting it, and are prepared to sit and wait in their draughty church hall somewhere, coats buttoned to the neck, while I stand on their temporary stage and cough nervously.

I open my eyes. ‘I’m just resting,’ I tell them. They are relieved. The hush has passed and a cardigan is free to be pulled tight across a bosom; a skirt can be smoothed of wrinkles; a neck-tie brushed free of crumbs. The room, as a whole, shifts in its seat. Would a sweet do him any harm? someone asks, as a hand reaches for chocolates on the side-table, and deftly, like a bird returning to its nest, pops the chocolate into my mouth. White chocolate, mint flavoured. And while someone agrees that, no, a sweet won’t do any harm, another decides that this is an opportune moment to help themselves to a biscuit.

The chocolate melts on my tongue like wax.

A hand touches my arm and a name is mentioned: Crabtree, they say; old ‘Cabbage’ Crabtree. Don’t you remember? Yes, I do. Mr Crabtree, banging on the kitchen window; that toothless grin, waving a cabbage. And Mother being startled; jumping clean out of her skin. ‘Old Goat!’ she would shout, before bidding him to sit on the back door-step, in the sun, drinking milky tea, while she washed and chopped the cabbage. ‘Look at it!’ she would say, holding up a veined, crinkly leaf to me as I stood on the chair beside her, ‘As green a green as the darkest seaweed.’

The curled leaf is there in front of me now, in her hand, like an emerald oyster shell with its deceit of a promised pearl. I take it from her and show it to Crabtree who fills it with water from the outside tap and places it to my lips to drink; his mouth open in mute laughter as the water dribbles down my chin. Mother scolds him fondly for soaking my shirt, as if we are brothers or playmates, telling him she has enough to do without extra washing. My shirt is removed and Crabtree sits on the step staring at me; his mouth forever open; his bloated tongue licking at a sore in the corner of his mouth.

Yes, I remember Cabbage Crabtree: the silent, toothless clown. And his name is rippling round the room now as people remember him and other things too. The past rises like bubbles through water to burst upon the surface. Do you remember? they ask each other, back and forth, back and forth, as if in a contest. I want to tell them that I remember everything; that I am nothing but the sum of my memories, but this seems somehow pompous – though undeniably true.

A woman’s voice tells me to be still; that we are only remembering the good times today; that I shouldn’t vex myself. But I continue, leaning forward in my chair; wanting my voice to be heard.

‘I remember coming home on bright, sunny afternoons and finding every one of those curtains drawn. I remember the kitchen in darkness, the hall in darkness, the landing in darkness. I remember Mother lying in bed in total darkness.’

And there I stop. It is enough. No more need be said. My sister is crying, dabbing her eyes. She is still that young girl, silently placing a white teacup on her mother’s bedside table; staring at the grey shadow of her mothers face on the pillow, hoping for a response. She is still the young girl who would prepare her brother a boiled egg, before tucking him into bed, telling him to be good and sleep; telling him that tomorrow Mother may be well.

And for this I love her.

I’m tired now and wish that everyone would leave, but they don’t. Someone has decided on another cup of tea and the table is being laid. My sister has moved to sit beside me, taking my hand in hers and squeezing it intermittently, as if trying to resuscitate it. My hand should respond I know; I should open my eyes and smile, hold her hand tight and give her a sign: some affirmation of a life still being lived.

But I cannot; it would be dishonest.

Like my mother, I have been seduced. I am ready to go.