112

Late one October afternoon in 1921, a shabby young man gazed with fixed intensity through the window of a third- class compartment in the almost empty train labouring up the Penowell valley from Swansea.

The day starts well. I clean out the chickens, replace the kitchen bulb, remove the brieze blocks from Angus’ room, and stack his sound system in the corner.

I ring my mother. She is feeling worse. The blood results yesterday were abnormal and she needs to see a specialist next week. We agree that Jol should take her up to London when he goes to pick up his girlfriend and that I will head down to look after her over the weekend.

I cancel arrangements for the next few days and take the train to Euston with a bag packed for the week. Just in case.

At the flat mum is in bed. She is weak and clearly not well. At 9:30, while I’m saying goodnight, she’s sick - brown liquid - blood. I belatedly grab a bowl and call 112 for the first time ever, asking for the ambulance.

A paramedic arrives in minutes, followed shortly by an ambulance. All three are calm, antipodean men. They take measurements, wrap her up, and take her to the ambulance. We blue light down Marylebone Road to St Mary’s. Mum’s got oxygen and her pulse is high, blood pressure low.

A&E is clean and quiet. She is wheeled into a cubicle and a succession of professional women investigate, reassure, and explain. She’ll be kept in while they try to locate the bleed - and until they do, there’s nothing to go on.

I phone my brothers and go back to the flat. Mum’s sheets go into the washing machine and I rub bleach into the stained mattress. When the washing machine cycle ends, I hang the clean linen up to dry and go to bed.