‘Have you been doing any work, or has my mother been using you as cheap labour?’
Daisy laughed. ‘She’s lovely, your mother. I’m getting enough work done to keep the wolf from the door.’
‘What are you drawing?’
‘A spaniel called Rupert.’
Taran chuckled. ‘Funny name for a dog.’
‘His owner is called Mrs Percival Blythe. I don’t know what her first name is. She’s Mrs Blythe to me.’
‘Old?’
‘Sort of. One of those formal types.’
‘Not like my mother, then!’
‘Your mother asked me to call her Celia.’
‘She must love you a lot.’
‘Well, the feeling is mutual. She’s got a lot on her plate right now, and grieving on top of it. I feel sorry for her.’ Daisy hoped she’d shame him into coming home.
‘Listen, I’m reluctant to use you as cheap labour, Daisy, but Dad’s study is a mystery to her. No, it’s worse than that, it’s a migraine. There’s a list of things the executors need for probate. I’m coming over in a few weeks, but in the meantime, can I ask you to go in there and dig out a few things for me?’
Daisy’s spirits lifted at the thought of him coming back. ‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘Anything you need, just ask. I’m here. And your mother really shouldn’t have to deal with that sort of thing. I worked in an office at the museum in Milan and had to deal with admin all the time, so I’m used to it. Fire away.’
‘All right. Do you have a minute right now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Go to his study and I’ll call you back in a few minutes. It’s easier if we do this over the phone than texts and emails. I can talk you through it. Dad’s filing made sense only to him, but I’m sure together we’ll find everything.’
Daisy went into Sir Owen’s study. The only time she had seen it was when Taran was using it for work. She remembered him lounging on the sofa with his feet up on the stool, reading a document. She could see him now, lifting his eyes off the page, a note of irritation in his voice as he’d told her to come in, but a twinkle in his eye that belied it. That was the moment they had become friends. The room was quiet now, and empty. It smelt of smoke from the open fire and of Sir Owen; a slightly musty smell of old tweed, walking boots, worn leather and dog. Although Daisy hadn’t known Sir Owen well, she recognized him in the smell and felt the resonance of his presence, as if he had only just been in there, sorting through the papers on his sturdy antique desk.
The telephone rang. She answered it. ‘Hi,’ she said.
‘Hi,’ said Taran. ‘Right. You’re in Dad’s study.’
‘I am,’ she replied.
There was a pause as if he was picturing her there. ‘It’s as he left it,’ he said and Daisy detected the wistfulness in his voice.
‘As you left it,’ she replied, hoping to raise his spirits a little. ‘It’s a bit chaotic.’
‘Organized chaos. Don’t be fooled.’
‘There’s a shelf of what look like old ledgers.’
‘Yes, Dad was a bit Dickensian. He liked to write everything down by hand. If he’d had a feather and quill he’d have used them.’
‘There’s a shelf of silver trophies,’ said Daisy, wandering over to take a closer look at them. ‘Farming trophies.’
‘He was very proud of those.’
‘They need a good polish.’
‘Tell Sylvia.’
‘No, you tell Sylvia. It’s not my place. She’ll think I’m muscling in.’
‘I’m not sure that woman does much more than a little dusting here and there.’
‘And gossiping,’ Daisy added wryly. ‘She keeps the village informed of what’s going on up at the big house.’
He chuckled. ‘That’s good to know. I can have some fun with that when I come back.’
Daisy laughed and wondered what he meant.
‘Shall we go out again?’ he asked suddenly.
Daisy hadn’t expected that. ‘Sure,’ she replied, recalling their drunken midnight walk. ‘I might not drink quite as much, though.’
‘On the contrary, I insist that you do.’ Taran laughed and she laughed with him. ‘We can go for another midnight walk and sit on Dad’s bench.’
‘I’d like that,’ she said, envisaging the bench and the view. Envisaging the kiss that didn’t quite happen. ‘Shall we get to work?’
‘I suppose we must. I’d rather just talk to you.’
‘You can talk to me as we work.’
He sighed. ‘All right. Go to his desk . . .’
‘I’m here.’
‘Move the papers so you can see my name scratched into the wood.’ She did as she was told. Taran was carved in childish scrawl on the beautiful desk.
‘You little vandal!’
‘I did that when I was about seven and Dad went crazy . . .’ Daisy sat down in the big leather chair and smiled. This was going to be a long call. She wondered whether he needed her help after all, or whether he just needed to talk.
Marigold sat at Beryl’s kitchen table with a cup of tea. Beryl was now walking without her stick and was in high spirits, having just baked fifty chocolate brownies for the summer fair. Marigold had totally forgotten about the summer fair and had made nothing. She wondered why no one had asked her.
‘Enough about me,’ said Beryl. ‘How are you?’ She narrowed her eyes and scrutinized her friend. ‘You’ve been a little distracted lately.’
Marigold swallowed a mouthful of tea and summoned her courage. ‘I have dementia, Beryl,’ she said.
Beryl’s eyes widened and she looked cross. ‘Rubbish,’ she exclaimed. ‘Of course you don’t.’
‘Why do you say that, Beryl?’
‘Because you can’t have it. It would just be so unfair.’
‘Life isn’t fair, is it?’
‘Who says you have it? Your doctor? Not that useless GP, what’s he called? You see, I forget things too! That GP has misdiagnosed me more than once. I wouldn’t listen to a word he says.’
‘I’ve been tested.’
‘By whom?’
‘A clinical psychologist.’
‘Well, you can’t be that bad if you remembered “clinical psychologist”.’
‘I can’t remember her name, though.’
‘That doesn’t mean anything.’
Marigold looked her friend in the eye. ‘Beryl, I also had a brain scan which showed my brain deteriorating. I think it looks like a piece of cheese. Anyway, I’ve looked up the symptoms.’ She tried not to show her fear. She smiled. ‘It’s not the end of the world, is it? I’m still here, at least. Many aren’t that lucky, are they?’
‘If you have it, Marigold, I’ll do anything to make your life easier.’
‘There is one thing I would like you to do for me.’
‘What’s that? Make your excuses at the meeting tonight?’ Marigold wasn’t aware there was a meeting tonight. ‘Julia is very annoying,’ Beryl continued. ‘I’d like to make my excuses too, but my sense of duty to the community won’t allow it. I’m stuck, but I can make excuses for you, Marigold.’
‘No, it’s not that. I remember you saying you had a friend with dementia in a nursing home not far from here.’
‘Yes, I did. Well remembered. You see, you can’t have dementia if you remember things like that. Rosie Price. Poor thing.’
‘Yes, Rosie. I’d like to visit her.’
Beryl was horrified. ‘Why would you want to do that? Won’t it be very depressing?’
‘I want to see where I might end up.’
‘Dennis won’t let you end up in there.’
‘He’ll have to if he can no longer look after me himself.’
‘He’ll always be able to look after you, Marigold. Your Dennis is not like other men—’
Marigold interrupted her. ‘He is just a man, Beryl, and in spite of his greatest efforts, he might find it gets too much.’
Beryl sighed helplessly. ‘Oh
Marigold!’
‘I know, I’ve googled.’
‘You shouldn’t google, you should ask an expert. Google is very unreliable.’ She sighed again. ‘All right. If you must, I’ll take you. When do you want to go?’
‘Today?’
‘Who’s manning the shop?’
‘Tasha. I’ve taken a back seat now. It’s beyond me these days.’
‘Eileen will be sad if you’re not there to talk to.’
Marigold smiled. ‘Don’t worry. Eileen will find me in my kitchen instead.’
Beryl stood up. ‘All right. I’ll arrange a visit this afternoon.’ She gave her friend a searching look. ‘If you’re absolutely sure you want to go.’
Marigold nodded firmly. ‘I am, Beryl,’ she said. ‘I need to go.’
Chapter 20
Beryl and Marigold stood in front of the big oak door of Seaview House and rang the bell. Marigold had felt sick from the moment she had got into the car, but she felt sicker now. The sight of the austere Gothic mansion gave her chills. If she was going to end up here, in this cold, formidable place, she might as well throw herself off the cliff and end it all now.
‘It’s nicer inside,’ said Beryl.
‘It’s got a pretty view,’ Marigold conceded.
‘Oh yes, that’s why they bought it, I suspect. The view is very comforting.’
The door opened and a middle-aged woman appeared in a pair of navy trousers and cardigan, comfortable shoes and a short, practical haircut. She smiled and Marigold imagined she spent her life trying to make people feel better about the building by smiling. ‘We’ve come to visit Rosie,’ said Beryl.
‘Of course you have. Welcome to Seaview House. Please come in.’ She stepped aside and Beryl and Marigold made their way through a porch into a large hall where the ghost of a fireplace, flagstone floor and elegant sweeping staircase remained from when the house was once a private home. A display of flowers on a round table in the middle of the hall – lilies, roses and cow parsley – made Marigold feel much better about the building, or perhaps she was just clutching at anything that lifted her flagging spirits. Trying, as she always did, to find the silver lining around a black cloud.
They were led into a cosy drawing room. The first thing that struck Marigold was how homely it was. A big flat-screen television was on, one or two women were on the sofa watching it, others were sitting in armchairs and on sofas arranged in clusters around the room. There were large sash windows looking out onto a lawn, trees, borders of shrubs and flowers, and the navy-blue sea beyond. It felt more like a club than a nursing home. This was encouraging. This was definitely a silver lining. Marigold felt better about that.
Until she realized that no one was talking to anyone else. They were all alone, lost in thought, or perhaps just lost. People further down the line than Marigold, much further, she hoped, existing in the moment because that was all they had.
Beryl went straight for a tidy, well-dressed lady who was sitting on her own by the window, gazing out onto the garden, her hands neatly folded in her lap. She didn’t look unhappy or distressed. She had a vacant look, to be sure, but it wasn’t tortured or depressed. It reminded Marigold of Winnie-thePooh. Her father had read those stories to her when she was a little girl. Sometimes I sits and thinks, and sometimes I just sits. Remembering Pooh made Marigold feel a great deal better. Rosie was just sitting. There was something rather peaceful about that.
‘Hello, Rosie,’ said Beryl, smiling. ‘I’m Beryl, your old friend.’
Rosie smiled back, a flicker of recognition lighting up in her eyes. It was the same gracious smile that Marigold gave people when she didn’t remember who they were. A smile that concealed the fear and panic she felt inside. But Rosie didn’t appear to be hiding anything other than her lack of memory. ‘Hello, Beryl,’ she replied.
‘This is Marigold. The three of us were at school together a very long time ago!’
Rosie did not recognise her. ‘Hello, Marigold,’ she said, still smiling serenely. She turned to Beryl and lowered her voice. ‘I don’t know who all these people are and why they’re in my house.’ She slid her eyes around the room suspiciously. ‘I wish they’d all go home.’
‘They’ll be leaving soon,’ said Beryl, taking a chair and sitting down. This seemed to be welcome news to Rosie.
Her shoulders relaxed and her smile became more natural. ‘Oh, I am relieved to hear that. You see, Mum and Dad will be back later and Aunt Ethel is coming for tea. They won’t want all these strange people here.’
‘They’ll be gone by then,’ said Beryl, and Marigold knew that Rosie’s parents were both dead, as was Aunt Ethel. Beryl was just humouring her. And why not? She wouldn’t remember the conversation and if it made her happy anticipating seeing her parents and aunt, then what was the harm in pretending?
‘Shall I make a cup of tea?’ Marigold asked, looking around hopefully. ‘There must be somewhere I can get us all a cup of tea.’
‘There’s tea and coffee in the kitchen next door,’ said Beryl, pointing to the end of the room.
‘I’ll go and make it, then.’ Marigold fled to the kitchen. She searched for comfort in the taking down of mugs and the boiling of the kettle. A routine that had served her well over the years. But her heart was racing and the palms of her hands had grown damp. Was this her future? Not knowing where she was? Thinking she was home when she wasn’t? Believing her parents were alive when they were dead? Was this what she had to look forward to?
She didn’t want to be put in a nursing home, not ever. She couldn’t imagine living anywhere else but where she lived now, with Dennis and Nan and Daisy. She liked her things around her. She liked the familiar feel of her own home. Her throat grew tight and her movements shaky as panic took possession of her.
When she appeared with the tray of mugs, Rosie looked at her and smiled, the same gracious smile she had given before. ‘Hello,’ she said and it was clear from her tone of voice that she was seeing Marigold for the first time.
Beryl didn’t flinch. ‘This is my friend Marigold,’ she repeated, as if Marigold had only just arrived.
‘Hello, Marigold.’
Marigold tried to smile, but she couldn’t. ‘Hello, Rosie,’ she said, trying to keep the sadness out of her voice. ‘I’ve brought you a nice cup of tea.’
‘Oh, that’s lovely,’ said Rosie, looking pleased. ‘I like tea.’
‘You like it with sugar,’ Beryl added.
‘Do I?’ Rosie frowned, trying to remember. ‘Yes, I think I do.’
Marigold handed out the mugs, then she sat down and took a gulp. She had never needed a cup of tea more than she needed it now.
As soon as Beryl had dropped her back at home, Marigold went for a walk. She didn’t go into the shop, so great was her despair. She didn’t go into her kitchen, either, because she didn’t want to see Nan, who thought there was nothing wrong with her. And she didn’t go and find Dennis, because she didn’t want to upset him; she needed to be alone.
Up there on the cliffs she cried into the wind. Big sobs that hijacked her body and left her gasping for breath. She found a bench and sat down facing the horizon, now flushing pink as the sun turned its attention westward and descended towards the sea.
She felt utterly helpless. So completely lost. As if she were a little boat with a rudder that was fixed towards a dark and frightening horizon, and there was no way to change it. That whatever happened, she’d eventually reach that dark and frightening place and be consumed by it. The inevitability of such an end was terrifying. It snatched her courage. It made her want to run away. But how could she run away from herself ?
A movement to her left caught her attention. At first she thought somebody had come and sat down on the bench beside her. But then, as she focused, she realized that it wasn’t just somebody: it was her father.
‘Dad?’ she gasped in surprise. ‘Is that you?’
Her father turned and smiled at her tenderly. ‘Yes, Goldie. It’s me.’<
br />
And it really was.
‘Oh Dad, I’m so frightened,’ she choked.
He put a hand on hers. It felt reassuring, just as it had done when she was a child in need of comfort. ‘You mustn’t be frightened, Goldie. You’re not alone, you know.’
‘But I feel so alone.’ She began to cry again. ‘I feel like I’m slipping down a slope and no one can stop me.’
‘No, no one can stop you if you’re meant to be slipping down a slope.’
‘Am I meant to be slipping, Dad?’
‘Of course you are. This is part of what you’re here to experience. No one can interfere with that. It’s all part of the Big Plan. But you’re not slipping on your own. I’m always with you, Goldie. I’ll never leave you. You won’t see me, not every time, but like I always used to tell you, no one really dies. They just shed their bodies, which are really very heavy when you’ve spent time without one, and go home.’
‘You’re here now.’ She blinked at him gratefully and managed a wobbly smile.
‘I’m here always,’ he said firmly, and the knowing in his smile took away some of Marigold’s fear.
He looked well. Not the frail old man who had died of cancer, but a vibrant, healthy man with glossy brown hair and bright hazel eyes, more alive than ever.
‘I’m losing my memories, Dad,’ Marigold told him. ‘I think I’m losing my mind as well.’ She looked at him in desperation. ‘What am I without my memories?’
‘But don’t you see, Goldie,’ he said calmly. ‘You’ll always be you. No disease can take that away. You’re eternal. Nothing can ever destroy you.’ He looked at her with such confidence, as if he was telling her something that was so obvious he was surprised she didn’t already know it. ‘Imagine you’re driving a car. The car is your body and the engine is your brain, but you, you’re separate. You’re only driving the car while you’re on your journey. Once you finish your journey, you’ll no longer need it. Right now, the car is losing the odd wheel and the engine’s breaking down, but you’re as perfect and whole as you always have been. As you always will be.’ His smile was now beaming. ‘You don’t need the car where you’re going, Goldie. All you need is love, and you’ve got enough love to get there and back.’
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