Now she knew why they had chosen to name it after ‘demented’, because one went mad with frustration, worry and embarrassment. One went crazy with fear – if one let oneself. She sat down in the pew and put her hand in the empty place beside her that was reserved for Dennis. She wouldn’t let herself go crazy with fear, she told herself, because Dennis was here to look after her. As long as Dennis was here, she’d be okay.
Until she no longer remembered him.
Suddenly, the doors opened wide for the bride. The congregation stood. Marigold had to strain her neck to see her. But there she was, her daughter, resplendent in her princesscut wedding dress, with flowers in her hair and pearls sewn into her veil, and Marigold began to cry quietly. Dennis was beside Suze, in the suit he had bought especially, looking so handsome and happy. Marigold wasn’t sure whether her heart felt as if it was going to burst on account of her pride, or her pain.
How long until she forgot who Suze was?
Or Daisy?
How long until she forgot the people she loved?
How long had she got?
Marigold didn’t see them walk down the aisle because of the tears in her eyes. But suddenly Dennis was beside her and Suze was standing next to Batty, who was grinning across at her, his eyes brimming with affection.
Dennis took Marigold’s hand.
Marigold looked at him. In her eyes he saw her pain, raw and fearful, and he knew then that she had seen the letter. He squeezed her hand and turned away. He couldn’t witness that fear, knowing there was nothing he could do to help her. He just couldn’t do it. He focused on his daughter, taking her vows, and tried to suppress the ache in his heart.
Dementia. The word hung between them like a demon, refusing to move. But Dennis held on to her hand. He held on to it all the way through the service and he held on to it when they walked out into the sunshine when the service was over. He wanted to hold on to it for ever and never let it go.
Would there come a time when she would no longer hold his hand?
Because she wouldn’t know it was his?
Chapter 19
Marigold was pleased that the wedding had been everything that Suze had hoped it would be. Suze had embraced her, kissing her on the cheek and whispering, ‘Thank you, Mum. You’re the best,’ and Marigold’s eyes had filled with tears again. Dennis had put his arm around her and drawn her close. He hoped she’d always remember this day. But hope had no power against dementia. Hope was futile, like a feather in a hurricane.
Nan had agreed that the wedding had been beautiful. ‘I’m so pleased Patrick was there,’ she sighed when they had returned home. ‘We were all together again, just like old times.’ Then she had pursed her lips and added sourly, ‘He looked rather tired, though. I hope Lucille isn’t making too many demands. He needs his sleep. He always has. I might have a quiet word with her later when they come for supper.’
It wasn’t until the next morning, when Dennis and Marigold were alone in their bedroom, that Dennis broached the subject of the letter. He perched on the edge of the bed while Marigold sat at her dressing table, looking for a suitable pair of earrings in the jewellery box he had made her. ‘Goldie, we need to talk.’
Marigold’s eyes dimmed at the sight of the letter he held in his hand. Her fingers trembled a little as she closed the door of the jewellery box. She got up and went to sit beside him. She sighed and laid her hands in her lap. ‘That doctor person, whatever she’s called, thinks I have dementia.’
Dennis’s jaw tensed. He knew he had to be strong for both of them. ‘Yes, she does,’ he replied. ‘The early stages.’
There was a long silence as they stared at the letter. They knew what it said and yet they gazed at the word as if hoping it might change and become something else. Something less frightening. Something that didn’t sound like ‘demented’. Eventually, Dennis put the letter aside and took her hand instead. He brought it onto his lap where he sandwiched it between the two of his. Marigold looked at it there, small and fragile between his big, rough ones. Like a bird it was, and she felt encouraged.
‘I looked it up on the internet,’ she told him. ‘There wasn’t much that was positive. Apparently, it’s like a bookshelf full of books. The books on the top shelf are new memories, those below are older. The ones right at the bottom are the oldest memories, from childhood. If you shake the bookshelf with dementia, the books on the top shelf fall off. Perhaps some on the shelves below fall off too. But the ones at the bottom remain. Well, they remain until they fall off as well. I suppose they will fall off, in the end, won’t they? They’ll all fall off in the end.’
‘Maybe not for a long time,’ said Dennis.
‘Maybe not for a long time,’ Marigold agreed.
There was another lengthy pause. They heard Nan in the corridor asking Daisy whether she’d finished in the bathroom. Dennis squeezed Marigold’s hand. ‘You’re not alone, Goldie. I’m here for you. I always will be.’
‘I know that, Dennis,’ she replied and leaned her head on his shoulder. ‘I’m so lucky to have you.’
‘What shall we tell the girls, and Nan?’ he asked.
‘I suppose we’ll have to tell them, won’t we? I don’t want to upset them. But I think they had better know. If I get worse, I won’t be able to keep it from them, will I?’
‘I think it would be for the best. That way we can support you together, as a family.’
Marigold lifted her head off his shoulder and looked at him with large, frightened eyes. ‘What will happen when I no longer remember who the girls are, Dennis?’
Dennis looked appalled. ‘Of course you’ll remember who they are, Goldie. They’re your children. You won’t forget them.’
Marigold was reassured. ‘No, of course I won’t forget them. I gave birth to them and brought them up. They’re part of me, aren’t they? I can’t forget parts of myself, can I?’
‘Of course you can’t, love.’
‘But, Dennis,’ she said, the fear dimming her eyes again. ‘What will happen if I forget that I love you? What will happen then?’
Dennis’s throat tightened with the effort of having to hold himself together. He clenched his jaw and pulled her against him to hide the tears now stinging his eyeballs. He pressed his cheek to hers and smelt the familiar scent of her face cream. He closed his eyes. ‘It doesn’t matter if you forget that you love me, Goldie, because I have enough love for the two of us.’
Marigold cried then. She wrapped her arms around his big shoulders and let him envelop her with a strength that she didn’t have. She felt the warmth of his body, the muscles in his arms and chest, his beard against her temple, and she felt secure and cherished.
At length she pulled away from him, took his face in her hands and looked into his eyes. ‘Dennis, if I forget I love you, it doesn’t mean I don’t. Do you understand? I will always love you. You mean everything to me. Everything.’
Dennis felt the tears running down his face and her thumbs wiping them away. She kissed him tenderly on the mouth. He couldn’t find the words to reply, but he didn’t need to. She rested her forehead against his and smiled. ‘But I won’t forget, because love isn’t in my brain, is it? It’s in my heart and there’s nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong at all.’
He laughed in spite of his deepening sorrow. ‘No, Goldie, there’s nothing wrong with your heart.’
At breakfast, Marigold casually told Daisy and Nan about the letter. She didn’t wait for Dennis to come down. She didn’t want to make too much of it and alarm them. Daisy stared at her mother in horror. Nan shook her head. ‘Caroline Lewis says it might be dementia,’ she said tightly. ‘She can’t be sure until she sees you again in six months’ time. That’s December. I don’t think it’s necessary to make a drama out of it until we know for sure that it is dementia. And by the way, doctors get things wrong all the time.’
‘I’m afraid I think the psychologist is right,’ said Marigold calmly, concentrating on not alarming her daughter. �
��I imagine the brain scan will confirm it. But life goes on. I’m determined that my life is not going to change. With your help and understanding, I don’t think dementia will make a difference. I’m just more forgetful than most people.’
‘We’re all forgetful,’ said Nan sharply. ‘Being forgetful does not mean your brain is dying.’
‘Nicely put, Nan,’ said Daisy sarcastically.
‘Marigold’s got a better brain than I have,’ she argued. ‘She’s brilliant at crosswords and puzzles. She always has been.’
‘I can’t do Dennis’s puzzle,’ Marigold admitted. ‘I could have done it a year ago, without any trouble. But I can’t do it now, not on my own.’ Her smile faltered then. ‘But you’ve been such a help, Daisy,’ she added. ‘I can do it if you do it with me.’
Nan folded her arms. ‘That woman has a lot to answer for, putting ideas into your head to frighten you. If you don’t have dementia now you will have it soon enough, because she’s led you to believe you’ve got it. Belief is a dangerous thing. The brain is very suggestible. Do you know, once when we were on a cruise, your father said he hoped I didn’t get seasick. Well, if he hadn’t mentioned it, I wouldn’t have got seasick. But he put the idea in my head and I threw up for the entire ten days. It was very unfortunate. That cruise had cost him an arm and a leg, and he had to go and mention seasickness!’
‘We’ll support you, Mum. Don’t worry,’ said Daisy, reaching out to touch her arm.
‘I’ll tell Suze when she’s home from honeymoon. I hope she’s having a lovely time.’
‘I’m sure she is,’ said Daisy.
‘The food is terrible in Spain,’ grumbled Nan. ‘It’s all pork. I’ve never liked pork. It’s too pink.’
Dennis came into the kitchen in his best suit, ready for church. It being a Sunday, Marigold got up to make his favourite breakfast. ‘Morning, love,’ she said brightly, boiling the kettle and taking a mug down from the cupboard.
Dennis gave her a kiss, holding her close a little longer than he normally did. ‘Morning, Goldie.’
‘Marigold tells us she might have dementia,’ said Nan.
Dennis looked at his wife enquiringly.
Marigold shrugged. ‘It’s fine. Let’s not make a big song and dance about it,’ she said.
‘We won’t,’ said Daisy, anxious to cut her grandmother off before she said something else that was tactless. ‘It will be fine, because we’re all going to rally round and help.’
‘That Caroline Lewis woman is very irresponsible if you ask me,’ said Nan tartly. ‘If it might be dementia it doesn’t need to be said. No point upsetting a patient unless you’re sure of your diagnosis.’
Dennis squeezed Marigold’s shoulder in a silent show of support. ‘That’ll do, Nan,’ he said firmly and Nan looked at him in surprise because it was rare for Dennis to use that tone.
Marigold went to the fridge to get the milk. Her eyes homed in on the list on the door: Lunch Patrick and Lucille here was written in red. She hesitated a moment, confused by the sudden sense of apprehension that cramped her stomach. What was she going to cook everyone? Would she cope? And who was Lucille? Patrick’s girlfriend? She searched through the fog to find Lucille’s face, or any small detail, but nothing emerged.
Daisy noticed her mother staring at the list in bewilderment. ‘Mum, I’m cooking lunch today,’ she said brightly. ‘You don’t have to do anything.’
‘Whatever you’re going to cook, you’d better cook double,’ said Nan. ‘Patrick has a large appetite. He always has.’
‘We’re having an Italian lunch,’ Daisy told her. ‘I’m good at Italian food.’
‘After six years in Italy, I’d be surprised if you weren’t,’ said Dennis.
‘It’s a miracle you’re not the size of a house,’ said Nan. ‘Italian women are all enormous.’
Daisy laughed. ‘That’s not true, Nan. When were you last in Italy?’
Nan ignored the question, because it was so long ago. ‘Why do men always pinch women’s bottoms in Italy? Because they’re always big.’
‘That’s ridiculous, Nan.’
She lifted her chin. ‘Ridiculous but true.’
Dennis chuckled. ‘If a man tries to pinch a woman’s behind these days he gets a thick ear and quite right too. Times have changed since you were there, Nan.’
Marigold stood by the stove, stirring the baked beans and watching the eggs frying in the pan. She knew she should be grateful to Daisy for helping her, and she was, very grateful, it was just that she was accustomed to cooking all the meals and looking after everyone. She loathed the thought of becoming redundant. Of not being useful, of relying on others and becoming a burden.
When Dennis’s breakfast was ready, she brought it to the table and placed it in front of him. ‘That looks delicious, Goldie,’ he said, beaming up at her. She made an effort to smile, showing him the face he knew, not the pinched, anxious one he didn’t, and wondered how long it would be before she could no longer make him breakfast. Before Daisy had to do it in her place. Marigold looked down at her hands and felt a sinking feeling in her heart. When she was incapable of doing the simplest household tasks, what would she do with her time? She glanced out of the window, at the birds diving in and out of the hedges and playing on the grass, and knew that as long as she had her garden and her birds, she’d be content.
On the Monday morning Daisy went for a walk. She felt sick in her heart. Nan might be in denial about Marigold’s dementia, but Daisy wasn’t. It made perfect sense. As if the pieces of the puzzle that were Marigold’s forgetfulness, disorientation, bewilderment and tiredness had at once fitted together to make a clear and logical picture. Of course, Nan didn’t see it, because Nan didn’t want to see it. She liked to have everyone looking after her.
Daisy had tried to smile and laugh through breakfast as if nothing had changed and was exhausted from the effort. But everything was so uncertain now. What was Marigold’s prognosis? How long did she have before she had to retire from the shop, step down from her committees and remain at home? How long before they had to care for her? Daisy thought about the fields around the house that Marigold loved so much and felt more strongly than ever about Taran wanting to sell the estate to developers. How often had she heard her mother sigh with pleasure at the changing seasons so beautifully represented in the landscape beyond their garden. Yellow oilseed rape in spring, golden wheat in summer, richly ploughed earth in autumn and green shoots in the frosted ground in winter. Every day dawned with the same sun, but a different quality of light transformed the land and made every moment unique. If Marigold’s view became concrete and brick she’d no longer witness the seasons from her bedroom window. Daisy couldn’t bear to think of her being denied that pleasure, when so many of her pleasures were going to be taken from her.
The following morning she arrived at the Sherwoods’ farm to find Lady Sherwood in the hall with a couple of men, one old and bespectacled, one young and fresh-faced, holding clipboards and looking officious. ‘Daisy, may I introduce you to Simon Wentworth and Julian Bing from the auction house. They’re here to value everything for probate. Such a bore.’ She sighed and watched Daisy shake the men’s hands. ‘It’s going to take weeks to go through the house and all of Owen’s things.’
‘Can I help?’ Daisy asked.
‘Sadly not,’ Lady Sherwood replied. ‘Only I know what belonged to him. And he was a hoarder, unfortunately. Before you die, Daisy, make sure you don’t leave any clutter. It’s a pain in the neck for those poor souls left behind who have to deal with it. When this is over, I’m going to go through all my cupboards and have a good clear-out.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ said Daisy. ‘I’ll go to the barn, but don’t hesitate to disturb me if you need any help.’
‘Thank you, Daisy. I’ll leave you to get some drawing done.
I’ve taken up rather a lot of your time recently.’
‘Dogs can wait,’ said Daisy.
‘Yes, but
can their owners?’ Lady Sherwood added with a smile. ‘Some of them are awfully demanding, I know.’
Daisy left them to it and walked across to the barn. She was working on a springer spaniel who belonged to a woman in town. Cedric had recommended her and it was her first commission outside the village. A big step. Daisy hoped it would lead to more commissions further afield.
At two, Lady Sherwood entered the barn in a fluster. She was holding out the telephone. ‘Daisy,’ she called. When Daisy stepped out from behind the easel Lady Sherwood dropped her shoulders with relief. ‘I’ve got Taran on the phone. He needs a whole lot of stuff from Owen’s study. I don’t know where to look. Really, it’s beyond me. I wonder if you could help.’
Daisy’s heart gave a leap. The last time she’d seen Taran was outside her front door in the middle of the night, not long after he had possibly tried to kiss her. Her belly was seized by a pang of nervous excitement. She strode across the room and took the phone. ‘Hello, Taran,’ she said, determined to sound nonchalant.
Lady Sherwood left the barn, closing the door softly behind her.
‘Hi, Daisy, how are you?’ Taran’s deep voice was so familiar it instantly brought him back to her.
‘Fine. All good. You?’
‘Busy, you know. Got back and hit the ground running.’
‘Your mother’s busy here too, showing a couple of men around from the auction house.’
‘So I gather. Bloody tax man. Forty per cent is downright robbery.’
Daisy wondered, with a sinking feeling, whether such a large tax bill would mean he would have to sell the farm. That he’d have no choice.
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