Jane

I quicken my pace and cross over the road, my shoes sticking to the melting tarmac, but he crosses behind me.

“Jane, stop. You need to come back with me.”

The kids playing football in the sunshine stop and look for a moment before continuing with their game. How the hell does he know my name? I should be able to lose him, he must be in his eighties at least, but he’s sprightlier than I thought and keeps up, about twenty yards behind me.

I keep walking as I shout “Get away from me. I don’t know you!”

“Jane, don’t say that. Please, stop.”

I turn left, towards the police station. Even though he is very old I am frightened. Who knows why he is following me or what he wants to do. I am sweating and breathing heavily as I push through the glass doors and walk through a waiting area to the reception. The policeman behind the desk looks up at me.

“How can I help you, madam?”

The police station is thankfully cool. The sweat dries on my skin and I shiver slightly.

“There’s an old man following me.”

The policeman raises his eyebrows. “How old would you say he was? Older than you?”

“Oh yes, in his eighties, at least. Maybe even nineties. Smartly dressed, about six foot tall and wearing glasses.” I pause and think what else I can tell him. "He's white. With white hair. Brown jacket and trousers."

The doors swing open and the old man comes in. I shrink against the desk.

“Jane! Please, just come home with me.” He looks at the policeman. “I’m really sorry about this, officer.” He leans against the back of a chair to catch his breath.

“Do you know this woman?”

“She’s my wife.”

The policeman looks at me.

“Of course I’m not his wife, he's old enough to be my granddad!”

The policeman rubs his forehead as if he has a headache and picks up the headset of the phone on his desk. As he dials he says to us both “Sit down for now. We’ll get all this sorted out.”

I sit at one end of the waiting room, the old man sits at the other. I am careful not to make eye contact with the old man, but I study him out of the corner of my eye. He would have been handsome in his day. His white hair is neatly combed and behind bifocal glasses his brown eyes are still bright and clear. I start to feel sorry for him. Maybe I shouldn’t have involved the police. But what else could I have done? At least this way he’ll get the help he needs. A ceiling fan hums above us and I close my eyes for a moment as the cool air blows over me.

A petite woman in uniform approaches me. “I’m WPC Linnet. Would you like to come with me to the interview room? We’ll get all this straightened out.” I follow her down a corridor lined with crime prevention posters and into a comfortable room. Not like police stations on the telly. I'm ready for a grey room with a two-way mirror and chairs screwed to the floor, the comfy seats and cushions surprise me.

“The kettle’s boiling, would you like a nice cup of tea?” asks the policewoman.

“Ooh, yes please. Milk and two.”

WPC Linnet leaves the room to get my tea. Through the door I hear her talking to someone.

“At that age, you don’t want to give them any shocks. You have to humour their delusions a bit. That’s what I got told anyhow” says a male voice.

I start to feel better. They are going to go gentle on the old man and get him some help. I did the right thing.

WPC Linnet returns and hands me a mug of tea, apologising that they’ve no proper cups.

As I sip the tea she asks me my name, my address, my date of birth; she keeps on asking the same questions over and over again, as if she doesn’t understand me.

She asks “If you don’t know him, how does he know your name?”

“It must be coincidence, it’s a common enough name.”

There is a knock on the door of the interview room. A young policeman comes in with a piece of paper and sits down between me and WPC Linnet. He wears a turban and is fanning himself with a battery operated fan.

“I’m PC Singh. This was in Mr Jones’ wallet. Do you recognise this picture?”

He hands me a faded black and white photograph. Mr Jones must be the old man, and I was right, he was handsome in his day. In the picture he wears an RAF uniform, his hair groomed in the same style as it is now, but darker. Next to him in a skirt suit, holding a bunch of flowers is a dark haired woman in her early 20s. I gasp.

PC Singh points at the woman in the picture “This woman…”

“She does look just like me, doesn’t she? How odd.”

PC Singh and WPC Linnet look at each other, then WPC Linnet pats my hand and says “I’ll get you another cuppa.”

PC Singh leaves the room with her. I yawn, this has been quite tiring. But at least the mystery has been solved. By some strange coincidence I look just like the late Mrs Jones, who was also called Jane. Mr Jones must have seen me on the street and thought his dead wife returned to him, poor man. He probably has a touch of senility. Case closed. I look at the photo PC Singh has left on the table. It must have been their wedding day. During or not long after the war, I should think. They look so happy. And now she’s gone. I can’t help myself, I start to cry.

WPC Linnet comes in with a fresh mug of tea and sees me crying. “Mrs Jones, what’s the matter?”

I look up sharply. “I’m not Mrs Jones.”

Behind WPC Linnet is a man in a green and yellow jumpsuit, carrying a large bag.

“Jane, I’m Bob MacDermott. I’m from the ambulance service. We’re a bit worried about you.”

“About me?”

“Yes. We think you might be a bit dehydrated. It can make you confused. It happens a lot in the hot weather.”

“I’m not confused.”

“We think you are dehydrated, though. Will you let me give you a saline drip?”

Bob doesn’t need to take me to the ambulance, he has the stand and the needles all here. I do feel better as the salt water drips into me. Bob and WPC Linnet sit by me and look concerned. I close my eyes for a moment.

Waking up, I look down at the needle in my wrist. My hands are gnarled and age spotted. My wedding band is halfway up my ring finger, it won’t go over my swollen knuckle. On the table is a picture of my wedding day, me and John. Where is John?

“Is my husband here?” I ask WPC Linnet. She smiles, relieved. She opens the door.

“Come on in, Mr Jones”

And my John comes through the door, as handsome as the day we got married. He sits next to me and takes hold of my right hand.

“She’s normally not too bad," says John, "just a bit forgetful. Is this a sign?”

“It could just be the weather. Dehydration can magnify the effects of dementia. I’d like her to come to the hospital to be on the safe side.” He turns to me. “Will you come with me to the hospital, Mrs Jones?”

“Can John come with me?”

“Of course.”

“You’ll stay with me, won’t you John?”

“Always, my love.”