She wondered whether her sudden change of heart was a rebound thing. After six years with Luca, it was difficult to believe that she could fall for another man so soon. And Taran was not a good bet. He lived in Canada, he had not shown any ability or desire to commit – he was, after all, leading his on–off girlfriend a merry dance. He was just the kind of man she should be running from. Yet, she couldn’t stop thinking about him.
She ignored Luca’s text and switched off her phone. Until he called to say that he was ready to give her what she wanted, she did not want to hear from him.
Suze was standing at her bedroom window in her dressing gown, gazing out at the rain and photographing it. Why did it have to rain today, on the most important day of her life? She was furious. Nan appeared in the doorway with a little blue embroidered flower. ‘This is for something blue,’ she said. ‘You hadn’t forgotten, had you, Suze?’ she asked.
Suze had definitely not forgotten. She had written a whole article about the tradition for Woman and Home magazine. Beneath her dressing gown she wore a blue garter she had bought especially and posted on her Instagram site (which had received a lot of likes), but she didn’t tell Nan.
‘Thank you, Nan. I’ll pin it to the inside of my dress. But the rain is making my mood blue, so I’ll wear that too!’
‘Don’t worry about the rain. It’s good luck. It rained on the day your grandfather and I got married and we had fifty-eight happy years together.’
Suze sighed. Nan must have told her that a dozen times. ‘I know, but luck won’t stop my hair frizzing.’
‘No, it won’t. I’m sure Atticus likes you for you and not your straight hair.’
‘I like myself for my straight hair, Nan. That’s the point. This is my day and I want it to be perfect.’
‘Then you’ll be disappointed,’ said Nan briskly. ‘Nothing is ever perfect.’
Suze turned back to the window. ‘You’re right, nothing is ever perfect.’ She sighed heavily and put her hands on her hips. ‘But I don’t think it’s asking too much to have a sunny day.’
Marigold had awoken feeling positive. She was going to have a good day. She didn’t feel tired, her head felt clear and she was full of energy. Today was Suze’s big day and Marigold was going to enjoy every minute of it. She had been a little disappointed when she saw the weather, but then she had cheered up because it looked brighter on the horizon so there was a chance that the sun would come out in time for the wedding.
She picked up the Post-it Notes she had written in the night to remind her of the things she needed to do. Then she looked in her little book. There was a long list of things, but she didn’t think she needed prompting today. How strange, she thought as she slipped into her dressing gown, that some days were bad, but other days, like now, she felt almost back to her old self. Since the brain scan the week before she had begun to feel a little better. Perhaps it was all in her mind, as Nan said. Perhaps she was making a right old mountain out of a molehill!
The post arrived after breakfast, when everyone except Marigold was upstairs getting ready. She wandered into the hall and picked up the pile of letters from the mat and brought them into the kitchen. There were a couple of bills, but those were Dennis’s department, and the usual junk mail of unsolicited catalogues. Then she noticed a letter addressed to her. She turned over the envelope and lifted the gummy flap. When she saw the letterhead, from Caroline Lewis’s office, she sat down, a little nauseous suddenly. Her eyes scanned the sentences about how articulate and intelligent she was, and how impressed Caroline was that she managed to do so much etc . . . Then her eyes homed in on the only important word on the page. Dementia. In Caroline Lewis’s professional opinion Marigold was possibly in the early stages of the dementing process. But she would know more in six months when they met again.
Dementia. A cold, hard grip squeezed Marigold’s heart and held it tightly. She had worried she might have dementia, but Beryl had insisted she was just like everyone else, growing older and forgetting things, which was normal. But Marigold had known she was not normal. She had known her level of forgetfulness was higher than other people’s. She had feared that word and because she had feared it, she had buried it deep. But now it had unearthed itself and lay right in front of her eyes, in black letters on the page, and the truth was undeniable and unavoidable, and devastating. She put the letter back in the envelope and resealed it. She didn’t want Dennis to know that she’d read it. He would only worry about her, which would ruin his enjoyment of Suze’s big day.
Marigold had closed the shop for the day because of the wedding. Now she switched on the lights and the computer and googled dementia. If she had it, she might as well know what it meant. Without the worry of being disturbed, she pulled up the stool, put on her spectacles and looked into the screen.
Dementia is not a specific disease. It’s an overall term that describes a group of symptoms associated with a decline in memory or other thinking skills severe enough to reduce a person’s ability to perform everyday activities. Alzheimer’s disease accounts for 60 to 80 per cent of cases.
There are no treatments to stop the diseases that cause dementia . . .
Investment in dementia research is still low . . .
Dementia has a bigger impact on women . . .
There was nothing positive to be found. Nothing at all.
As Marigold made her way back across the courtyard to the house, she considered the word ‘dementia’. Why did they have to choose a derivative of ‘demented’? She was good with words. She knew what ‘demented’ meant. It meant insane, deranged, lunatic, crazy, mad, disturbed. As mad as a March hare, eight letters.
She could hear Nan calling her name. ‘Marigold!’
But she wasn’t calling for the answer to a crossword clue. She was calling because she’d just spoken to Patrick.
Marigold hurried into the house. Nan was in the kitchen, still in her dressing gown. ‘Patrick is coming to the wedding,’ she told her excitedly. ‘He’s here, with Lucille, staying at The Gables down the road. Isn’t that good of him to come all the way from Australia for Suze’s wedding? He said he wouldn’t miss it for the world. He wanted to surprise us. Well, he’s certainly done that!’ Nan smiled proudly. ‘He’s a good boy, is Patrick!’
Marigold hadn’t seen her brother in about eight years and, as much as she was pleased he was going to be at her daughter’s wedding, she couldn’t help but feel the old resentment bubbling to the surface. Patrick had always been careless with other people’s feelings, thinking only about himself and how to get the maximum amount of attention. It was typical of her brother to make Suze’s day all about him. ‘Goodness! That is a surprise. How lovely,’ said Marigold, struggling to muster some enthusiasm. Years of being sidelined by Patrick’s dominant personality and infectious charm had rather tempered her affection for him. ‘Though I do wish he’d just replied to the invitation like everyone else,’ she added. ‘We’re going to have to redo the seating in the church. I’ll have to tell Daisy.’
‘He’s so busy and Australia is the other side of the world. But family is family and I knew he wouldn’t miss his niece’s big day. He might be cavalier when it comes to phoning his mother, but he’s got a good heart.’ Nan smiled. A wide smile that made her face look unfamiliar to Marigold. ‘He’s always had a good heart.’
Marigold went to find Daisy. In her panic about the seating plan, she forgot about Caroline Lewis’s letter. It lay on top of the pile of post on the kitchen table, which is where Dennis found it.
He read the name Caroline Lewis. Then, when he read the woman’s opinion at the bottom of the letter, he froze. Marigold couldn’t have dementia. She just couldn’t! Not his Marigold.
He sat down slowly and scratched his beard. She was just forgetful, that was all. It wasn’t dementia. Dementia was what old people got. Marigold wasn’t old, she was sixty-six. He recalled hearing somewhere that dementia eventually killed the brain entirely, so that it ceased to work at all
. The body would forget how to breathe and die. A nasty end. That couldn’t be Marigold’s future. It just couldn’t. Not his Marigold’s.
Dennis heard the scuffle of feet and hastily folded the letter and put it in his pocket. He decided he wouldn’t tell Marigold until after the wedding. He would try to forget about it for today. He didn’t want anything to spoil Suze’s big day. He didn’t want anything to spoil Marigold’s, either.
Marigold appeared. ‘Guess who’s turned up? Patrick!’ she told him. ‘He wanted to surprise Suze.’
‘He’s surprised us all,’ said Dennis.
‘So typical of him. I’ve had to ask Daisy to find him a place in the church. Of course she’s thrilled he’s here and isn’t at all anxious about the seating plan.’
‘I suppose living in Australia for twenty years has made him rather laid-back,’ said Dennis, searching Marigold’s face for evidence that she’d read the letter. There was no sign of anything other than concern about places in the church. He realized, with some relief, that she hadn’t seen it.
‘It’s got nothing to do with being laid-back,’ said Marigold. ‘And everything to do with having to be the big star. But Suze will be thrilled. She loves Patrick and she’ll be touched that he’s travelled halfway across the world to see her married. And it’s going to be a lovely day.’ She glanced out of the window. ‘Look, it’s already brightening up.’
‘I won’t have rain on my little girl’s big day.’
‘Our little girl, all grown-up.’
‘And moving out,’ Dennis added wistfully.
‘We’ll only have Daisy then, and Nan, of course.’ Marigold frowned. ‘It’s going to be quiet without Suze. I might even miss her tantrums.’
‘There’s bound to be one today.’
Marigold chuckled. ‘One last tantrum. Very like Suze. Still, it’s the way it should be. It’s time she started the rest of her life with Batty. Do you think we’ll have to call him Atticus after they’re married?’
‘No, I have a feeling that nickname’s going to stick.’
‘He’s a nice boy, though. We couldn’t ask for a nicer one.’
‘No, we couldn’t.’
‘I hope Daisy finds someone as decent as Batty.’
‘Let’s marry Suze off first and then we’ll concentrate on Daisy,’ he said.
‘Good idea,’ said Marigold. ‘One at a time.’
Dennis glanced at his watch. ‘I think you should go and change, Goldie.’
Marigold looked down at her dressing gown. ‘Goodness, you’re right. I thought I had!’ She got up. ‘Lucky you noticed, Dennis. I wouldn’t want to have gone to the church like this!’ She smiled at him. ‘You look handsome. All dressed up.’
Dennis smiled back. ‘I don’t want to let Suze down.’
‘Neither do I,’ Marigold agreed and left the room hurriedly.
As she climbed the stairs she remembered the letter. It just popped back into her head. Her mood deflated a little. Dementia. She remembered now: she had dementia.
She dressed in the skirt and jacket she had bought especially in town with Daisy. It was pale blue and she had found a pale blue handbag and hat to match. She felt very together, as Daisy had assured her she would. Marigold didn’t wear much make-up, just a dash of powder and some mascara. She had never been a beauty, well, not in the eyes of anyone but Dennis. She stared at her reflection and knew that Dennis would like the way she looked today. That was a silver lining. A silver lining that was always there. She was lucky to have married Dennis.
Daisy had helped Suze into her dress. Her beautiful, princess-style, pink dress. The pink of a delicate sugared almond. Marigold stood in the doorway and looked at her with tears in her eyes. ‘You look beautiful, Suze,’ she said huskily, for her emotion had made her throat tight. ‘Really beautiful. The most beautiful bride ever.’
Suze’s eyes shone and she fanned herself with her hand. ‘If you make me cry, Mum, I’m going to be furious. You can’t imagine how long it took me to do my make-up.’
‘And it’s perfect,’ said Daisy.
Suze went to the window and looked at the sky. ‘I think the sun’s going to come out.’
‘Of course it is,’ said Marigold. ‘It’s your big day. It’s not going to stay in and miss it.’
‘You look perfect too,’ said Daisy to her mother. ‘It was a good choice, that blue.’
‘I suggest you go and get ready, Daisy. It’s not long before you and I should head to the church with Nan.’
‘It’s okay. We’ve got plenty of time before Cedric comes to pick us up.’
‘Good old Cedric,’ said Suze. ‘And good old Commodore for lending us his Bentley. It’s an old one too. Gorgeous.’
Nan appeared behind Marigold and pushed her way through. ‘Goodness, you look lovely, Suze,’ she exclaimed. ‘I wouldn’t have chosen pink myself, but I don’t doubt that Atticus is going to be dazzled by his bride.’
‘Batty,’ corrected Suze.
‘I think you’ll find he’ll change it to Atticus after he’s married. No child wants a father with such a silly name. He’ll get bullied at school.’
‘He can’t change it now. It’s tattooed on my shoulder,’ said Suze with a wicked grin.
Nan’s mouth fell open. Marigold gasped. Daisy screwed up her nose. ‘Seriously? A tattoo?’
‘He’s got Suze on his. Romantic, isn’t it?’ Suze enjoyed the horror on the faces of her mother and grandmother. It was just the reaction she had hoped for. ‘It was a pre-wedding present we gave to each other. I’m going to Insta it on our honeymoon. My fans will love it.’
‘Fans?’ repeated Daisy.
‘Fans,’ said Suze, admiring herself in the mirror. ‘I’m becoming a bit of a celebrity, you know. Someone recognized me in the mall the other day. Imagine that?’
‘Nothing good comes of fame, Suze,’ said Nan, recovering slightly. ‘Nor tattoos. I hope you don’t divorce. You’ll never find another man called Batty.’
When Daisy, Marigold and Nan reached the church all the guests had arrived and were already seated, except for Patrick, who was walking down the road with his wife Lucille. Daisy climbed out of the car and hurried to greet them. Nan didn’t wait for Cedric to open her door and followed hurriedly after her, throwing her arms around her son with more enthusiasm than she had mustered in years. Patrick bent down and embraced her back.
‘You’ve grown!’ she exclaimed.
‘I think you’ll find you’ve shrunk, Mum,’ he replied with a chuckle.
‘And you sound like an Australian.’ She pulled away and scrutinized his face. ‘But you’re still my boy, Australian or not.’
Marigold waited for a pause before she stepped forward. ‘Hello, Patrick,’ she said.
‘It’s my golden girl!’ said Patrick, flashing her his big, dazzling smile. ‘You look great, Marigold.’ He kissed her powdered cheek. ‘And you smell nice, too.’
Patrick never changed. He’d aged in the greying of his hair around his temples and in the lines around his eyes and mouth, but he was tall and slim and athletic, which made him look younger, and his expression was still full of humour, as it always had been. ‘You look good, too,’ she said truthfully. Patrick had always been handsome. ‘I’ve aged more than you have. If I’m not careful, everyone will think you’re my son!’
She turned to the woman he was with. She was smiling at her as if she knew her, but Marigold was sure she had never seen her before. Panic gripped her stomach but she smiled back and allowed the woman to kiss her with the familiarity of someone who had known her a long time. ‘Lovely to see you, Marigold,’ said the woman, in an Australian accent.
‘You too,’ Marigold replied. But she knew she was looking vacant. She could tell by the puzzled expression on the woman’s face.
Nan embraced her and Marigold was mystified. She watched Daisy link arms with her and the two of them walk off towards the church. ‘I’ve put you at the front with us,’ Daisy said. ‘But really, Patrick
could have let us know.’
The woman laughed, the light, tinkling laugh of a woman at ease with the people around her. ‘You know Patrick,’ she replied. ‘He’s so laid-back, he’s horizontal.’
Patrick walked between his mother and sister. Marigold longed to ask who the woman was, but everyone seemed to know her. They must have been dating then for some time, she deduced. She needed to ask subtly, so as not to give away the fact that she hadn’t recognized her. She cursed her forgetfulness. As they reached the door to the church, she turned to her brother. ‘Patrick, is that the woman you’re going to marry?’
Patrick looked at her and frowned. ‘Sorry? What did you say?’
‘Is that the woman you’re going to marry? She seems very nice.’ Marigold smiled up at him, expecting him to be pleased that she had complimented his girlfriend.
‘That’s my wife, Marigold. Lucille. You know, Lucille?’ He stared at her, confused.
Marigold froze. She manged to hold her smile even though it felt as if her stomach had hit the floor. ‘Lucille, yes, of course it is. Must be wedding nerves. Really, I’m as nervous as the bride.’
Patrick smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes, which were gazing down at his sister with concern. ‘That’s all right, Marigold. You’re the mother of the bride. It’s a big day for you, too.’ They walked down the aisle and Marigold tried to recall that Patrick was married. But she couldn’t. She had no memory of his wife. No memory at all. Did he have children? She wasn’t sure. She certainly couldn’t remember any. And now she was too embarrassed to ask. She couldn’t bear that baffled, apprehensive look he had given her. It made her feel like an alien. She never wanted to see it again.
As she passed her friends, who sat on the right side of the church, Marigold realized that many of the faces were unfamiliar to her. She knew she should know them. They were all here because she knew them. Yet, they might just have well have been strangers, gatecrashing her daughter’s wedding. Then she remembered the letter. The word ‘dementia’ appeared again, in her mind’s eye, and clung on with sharp claws. Was this what it was going to be like? Forgetting that her brother was married? Forgetting faces she had known for years? Just forgetting, over and over again?
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