'Twitter' by Peter Hodges

The room that is hers is on the first floor above the entrance and looks out onto the drive where it circles the fountain that is silently playing. The room has a balcony. As it is a warm summer's day she is on the balcony. The formality of the gardens matches that of the house: ordered, respected, timeless, one might say, endless. That is how the house is: endless with memories long gone.
Three people are walking toward the house. They reach the fountain, two pass one side, the third, a girl endlessly tapping on a phone, passes the other. She, on the balcony, is watching them, her eyes following, seeing and not seeing. The man has a stick, the woman takes his arm. An old couple. The girl ignores them and takes a seat, her back to the house. She may know them, these people.
Although they are her son and his wife and their daughter she does not know them. She does not know them, a fact now determined, it seems, not by her but by circumstances. A girl, phone in hand, dabbing incessantly, as if transfixed, is, it is said, twittering.
They would be at her door soon, the couple. Knocking gently on the door, as if afraid to disturb. Out there the girl, her back to the house, playing with a phone. Short dress, sandals, long red hair, long legs stretched out. It is summer. The phone seems to gather up the whole of the girl's attention, she leans over it, clutching it in both hands as if its twittering and tweeting is a sort of magic. Like people, it tweets and twitters all the time. Like magic it means nothing. It is summer, warm like summers used to be.
The knock comes to the door. "Hello, Mother…" no more than 'hello mother' because more is not worth the effort. They sit, the wife takes the chair carefully arranging her dress, while he awkwardly perches on the arm, rests his stick on the floor, eases his collar and adjusts his tie. The armchair is the only chair. She has not moved, she remains staring down on the drive where they had been only a minute ago that could have been years. Where the girl twitters and tweets. The granddaughter who never ventures here to see the grandmother with no mind. Ages so far apart as to make it not worth the effort.
‘Hello mother’ is all they say, can say, soon they will talk between themselves. Twitter and tweet. Soon to say 'goodbye mother' and the twittering will cease. Like a summer's day long before.
Marjorie, have you put my clothes out? His lordship will return soon. Where is my father? Oh yes, of course, the hunting party. The mauve, I think, for this evening. Thank you, Marjorie, you may go now.
"Marjorie, are you there?" The sudden speech stops them dead.
"What was that, Mother?"
The wheelchair clatters, grates against the balcony rails, a skeletal arm snakes from under the rug to find the call pull.
"Mother, what is it?" He lurches to his feet and stares at the back of the head.
How they twitter and now they tweet. Like that girl down there, all tweet and twitter.
The door opens. "Did you call, Marjorie?" The care assistant smiles. "Too warm, dear? The sun's moved round. Shall I take the rug?"
It will be the mauve this evening. His lordship will like that. Did you hear, Marjorie?
The assistant's name tag says 'Mary'. The son is confused. The assistant explains that names get mixed up now. "Hers with mine. But we don't worry about it, do we, Marjorie?" The woman laughs cheerily.
His lordship prefers the mauve. What are those old people doing here? All twitter and tweet. Don't they know that the hunting party will return soon? Tea will be served then. Are you there, Marjorie?
Cards of congratulation line the small table. The Queen's telegram is in front. He scans them again. He does so each time he visits now because it is a useful ploy to move along time so that he feels less guilty when eventually, thankfully, he can leave. His wife studies her fingernails. Outside, their daughter twitters and tweets.
All there is. Twitter and tweet.
The care assistant whispers as she leaves the room, "Nothing goes in now. Comfy though. Everything in the past now. You know what I mean. Now, how'd you fancy a nice cup of tea? She'll have hers later." He nods a 'thank you' as the door closes.
How much is there? Really there? None, except… What? He finds himself staring at the back of the head again. Once he thought her beautiful. Mauve suited her. Made her skin glow like alabaster. Rich red hair over alabaster shoulders. Mauve always suited her. Tall and elegant with movements like a… he stumbled with his own remembering, seeing again out of a child's eyes, a small child looking up and blinking at her beauty, hand taken and he was being led away. Your mother will call for you later, he was told. Later, later… later, he was always told. Now he stares at a white skull showing through a nothing of hair. A head with nothing. All around, inside and out, is a waste of twitter and tweet, and nothing.