Matty was beside her at once, hands half-raised. Not touching, just there.
“Alright?” she asked.
“I’m not made of glass,” Gloria snapped, clutching the cane hard enough to whiten her knuckles.
“Didn’t say you were.”
Matty moved with her, through to the downstairs loo, slow step by slow step, giving her enough space she didn’t feel handled, but not enough to let her topple without warning.
At the door, Gloria turned and fixed her with a look.
“I can manage.”
Matty lifted both hands. “Fine. I’ll stay out here. Shout if you need me.”
“As if I’d shout for you.”
Matty smiled, leaning one shoulder against the wall outside. “Course not.”
She heard muttering. The rustle of clothes. The awkward shuffle of someone trying to do something alone that would plainly be easier with help. Matty looked down the hall towards the lounge, then back at the closed door.
There was a sharp scrape. A thud. A gasp that was more fury than fear.
Matty was through the door before Gloria could tell her not to be.
Gloria was half-slid off the toilet seat, twisted awkwardly, one hand scrabbling for the grab rail and the other clutching uselessly at her skirt. Her cane had clattered to the floor. One slipper had come off. Her face was blotched crimson with rage.
“Don’t you dare,” she hissed, as though Matty had walked in to mock her.
“I’m not daring anything,” Matty said, already crouching. “I’ve got you.”
“I said don’t—”
Matty kept her voice even. “I know what you said. But unless you fancy spending the afternoon on the bathroom floor, you’re going to have to let me help.”
Gloria’s mouth tightened into a thin line, humiliation scrawled across her cheeks. “Fine.”
Matty stepped in carefully, one arm braced round Gloria’s back, the other steadying her hip. She could feel how little room there was for error; how easily the whole thing could go wrong. Gloria was lighter than she’d expected and somehow heavier too, all dead weight, resistance, and indignity.
“On three,” Matty said. “One, two—”
“Don’t count at me like I’m a child.”
“Fine. No counting.”
Matty slid her arms under her. Gloria gave a small, strangled sound as Matty shifted her back upright. “Are you alright?”
Once she was steady again, Gloria kept her face turned away. She ignored the question, but muttered, “My knickers are caught.” Each word dragged out of her throat with a mix of anger and frustration.
Matty blinked, then nodded as if this happened to everyone, every day. “Alright. I’ll sort it.”
“Can’t even go to the toiletby myself,” Gloria grumbled.
Matty crouched again, untwisting fabric as quickly and matter-of-factly as she could, refusing to rush, and refusing to make it weird. She could feel the heat rising in her own face, could smell the sharp mix of bleach, old-lady perfume, and something sour beneath it, and suddenly this was not a joke, not a favour, but a proper job.
She was seeing Gloria for who she was—a capable woman, trapped by her disabilities and the lack of patience surrounding her.
“There,” Matty said quietly, stepping back, and not commenting on Gloria’s remark. “Try now.”
