Marigold laughed. ‘I used to do that as a child, put my toes in the water. It was very cold. I don’t like being cold. I think I’ll keep my shoes on.’
As they walked downstairs, Marigold slipped her hand into his. ‘How clever of you to bring me here,’ she said and this time Dennis did not correct her.
After lunch they strolled up the beach. Gulls wheeled in the skies above them and gannets and terns hopped about, searching the sand for small creatures left behind by the tide. The afternoon sun was warm on their faces, the wind fresh and blustery in their hair. Marigold pointed out things that interested her, like small crabs racing for cover, shells peeping out of the sand and the odd piece of bottle-green sea glass, which she bent down to collect, imagining precious treasure from a pirate ship shattered on the rocks many centuries ago. As they enjoyed these small pleasures Dennis realized that Daisy and Suze’s gift was, in fact, more than a couple of nights in a chic hotel, it was the Present. The Now. It was where Marigold was most comfortable. It was where they could co-exist without doubt. The Present was the very best present they could have given.
That evening they had dinner in a restaurant in the harbour. The twinkling lights of the houses stacked up the hillside were mesmerizing, shining like the stars in the night sky above them. It was warm enough to sit outside so they took the table at the edge of the terrace, close to the water, and Dennis ordered a bottle of wine.
‘What are we celebrating, Dennis?’ Marigold asked when the waiter poured a little Pinot Grigio into Dennis’s glass for him to taste.
‘We’re celebrating us,’ said Dennis, sipping it.
Marigold smiled. ‘That’s nice.’
Dennis raised his eyebrows. ‘Good,’ he said approvingly. ‘Very good.’ The waiter filled their glasses then left them alone. Dennis reached across the table and took Marigold’s hand. His eyes were shiny, his face boyish in its desolation. Knowing he was going to lose her made his desire to hold on to her urgent. ‘You’ve always been my sweetheart, Goldie,’ he said. Marigold’s face flushed with pleasure. ‘Ever since we first met. Do you remember, Goldie, when we first met?’
‘You were wearing a red carnation in your buttonhole.’
‘I was. You’re so right. You were wearing a yellow dress with blue flowers, and a blue flower in your hair.’
‘And you asked me to dance.’
‘I did. You were the best-looking girl in the hall.’
‘Only to you, Dennis.’
‘You smiled at me and I was yours.’ She laughed with pleasure and felt his hand tighten its grip. ‘And every smile you’ve given me since has won me all over again.’
‘Oh Dennis, you’re such a romantic.’
‘Only to you, Goldie.’ He hoped she didn’t notice the tear he wiped away with his free hand. ‘I do love you, you know.’
‘And I love you.’ She frowned, trying to harness a memory that came suddenly and was now slipping away. ‘Love is all that matters,’ she said. She didn’t remember who had told her that, but she remembered the warm, secure feeling that person had given her. ‘Most people don’t realize it, but life is just about love. They go through life missing the whole point of it.’
‘You sound just like your father,’ said Dennis.
‘Do I?’ she replied.
‘Yes, that’s the kind of thing he would have said.’
‘Well, he’ll laugh when I tell him then, won’t he?’ Marigold picked up her wine glass and took a sip. Dennis frowned and looked at her sadly. ‘Very nice wine, Dennis,’ she said, oblivious of the sorrow in his eyes. ‘To us.’ She raised her glass.
‘To us, Goldie,’ echoed Dennis.
Dennis was awoken by the screaming of the telephone. It was dark. The middle of the night. He reached across to the bedside table and felt about for the phone. When he found it, he pulled it to his ear. ‘Hello?’ he said sleepily.
‘Mr Fane, I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, but your wife is in reception. I think you should come down and get her.’
Dennis sat up with a start. He looked across at the empty space which should have been occupied by Marigold: it was empty. His head was thick with sleep. He tried to make sense of the thoughts now crashing through it. He wasn’t sure he wasn’t having a nightmare. He switched on the light and replaced the receiver, got up swiftly and grabbed the dressing gown off the back of the bathroom door. He then hurried out into the corridor. A sick feeling was building in his belly. What was Marigold doing in reception at this time of night? he asked himself. Was she unwell? Why hadn’t she woken him up? He waited impatiently for the lift. It seemed to take an eternity. All the while his heart was thumping in his chest. Marigold was in trouble.
The reception was empty when he stepped out of the lift. He looked around frantically until his gaze found Marigold’s white face. She was sitting on one of the blue sofas in her nightdress, wringing her hands and crying. The receptionist was sitting with her, trying without success to comfort her.
When Marigold saw Dennis she stood up and ran to him like a child. ‘Oh Dennis!’ she cried with relief. ‘There you are!’
‘What are you doing down here, Marigold?’ he asked, wrapping his arms around her. He could feel her trembling against him, which sent him into further panic because he had never seen her like this before.
The receptionist walked over, clearly grateful to have been relieved of the responsibility of having to look after a crazy woman. ‘She appeared in here, asking to go home. I don’t think she knew where she was.’
‘Thank you,’ said Dennis. ‘She was probably sleepwalking. I’ll lock the door tomorrow night.’ He led her back to their room and settled her into bed. ‘You all right now, Goldie?’
She looked up at him in bewilderment. ‘I didn’t know where I was,’ she said.
‘That’s okay. Next time, wake me up.’
She nodded. ‘But I didn’t know where you were.’
‘I was right next to you.’
‘Were you?’
‘Yes.’
She sighed and closed her eyes. ‘I’ll be fine in the morning.’
‘Of course you will. We’ll go and explore and find a pub for lunch.’
‘That’ll be nice,’ said Marigold. Dennis watched her a moment. She was sleeping now.
Peaceful, all the worry gone from her face.
But Dennis was unable to shake off his own worry as easily. He went to the mini bar and found a small bottle of whisky. He poured it into a glass and took it outside onto the balcony. The moon was high. Big, round and luminous, like a fortune teller’s crystal ball. It cast a trail of silver over the ocean, a magical pathway to Heaven. He leaned on the railing and took a swig. The whisky warmed his gullet and settled the nerves in his belly. Marigold was getting worse. There was no denying it. Her decline had started to gather momentum. It wasn’t just the forgetfulness, it was a general slowing down, of her movements, of her speech, of her ability to focus. She was distracted and dreamy. She had always been good with words, but now the simplest words eluded her. He remembered the way she used to finish his puzzles. He’d really thought he’d made the best jigsaw puzzle for her ever, but it had turned out to be the worst. It remained on the table in the sitting room, incomplete. A metaphor for her brain. But in her case, the lost pieces would never find their correct place.
He sighed heavily and surveyed the silvery beauty of the night. He looked at it through Marigold’s eyes and smiled with tenderness, because he could hear her voice commenting on the tips of the waves that sparkled, the deep indigo sky that shone with stars and the large, swollen moon, so close one could almost reach out and touch it. Marigold found enchantment in everything. That was one of the things he loved about her the most. Her ability to see the best in everything. He wondered where she’d find a silver lining to this. He took another swig. Because, with all the will in the world, he couldn’t find one anywhere.
The following morning Marigold had forgotten all about her midnight wander.
She awoke with enthusiasm and went straight to the window. ‘Another beautiful day, Dennis,’ she said. ‘What shall we do?’
‘We’ll go and explore. I think there’s a ruined castle near here.’
‘I love ruins,’ she said.
‘So do I.’
Dennis put the drama of the night behind him and concentrated on making the day special, for both of them. They didn’t go away much and he wondered whether they’d ever go away again. He was determined to make this holiday one he would never forget.
Taran called Daisy almost every day. He claimed he was calling to find out how his mother was, or for small pieces of information that could only be found in his father’s study, but Daisy recognized very quickly that those were merely excuses. The truth was, he wanted to talk to her. Mostly about nothing, but increasingly about his father. Slowly those occasions became more frequent and the conversations about his loss grew longer. He began to open up and Daisy was flattered. She realized that she had misjudged him. He was just a typical product of his class and education. The emotions were there, he just didn’t know how to express them.
She guessed he didn’t talk to his on–off girlfriend about his father. Otherwise he wouldn’t need to talk to her.
‘That boy calls you a lot, doesn’t he,’ said Nan, who was watching the television in the sitting room, while Daisy sketched by the window. It was too hot to sit outside and Nan enjoyed watching quiz shows. She liked to get the answers right before the contestants did.
‘Taran? He’s calling because I’m helping him sort out his father’s estate as well as looking after his mother.’
‘I would have thought Lady Sherwood had an army of helpers. A house of that size requires a lot of maintenance.’
‘She just has Sylvia.’
‘Ah, Sylvia, a paragon of discretion.’
‘She’s not very discreet, is she?’ Daisy agreed.
‘Sir Owen has left the entire estate to Taran. He was hoping to live seven years so that he wouldn’t have to pay tax on it. But sadly, the Commodore’s moles scuppered his plans. Poor Taran will probably have to sell the place. The inheritance tax on it will be horrendous.’
Daisy put down her charcoal. ‘Did Sylvia tell you that?’
‘No, she told Eileen, who told me.’
‘The village grapevine is very efficient.’
Nan chuckled. ‘You have no idea.’
‘Did she tell you anything else?’
‘He’s going to sell it to developers. Apparently, he’s already got interest there. It wouldn’t be hard to get planning permission because the council are desperate for more houses. The logical place to build them would be right outside our back gate.’
Daisy bit her lip. ‘We can’t tell Mum and Dad. Not until it happens.’
‘Well, they’d have to move house, of course.’
‘Nan!’
‘We couldn’t stay here with all that noise going on! It would drive me mad. I’m old and frail and need peace and quiet.’
‘And Mum can’t move. I’ve been doing my research and people with dementia have to stay in the same house where everything is familiar. The worst thing for them is to be moved to an unfamiliar place.’
‘Your mother doesn’t have dementia,’ said Nan, tweezer-lipped.
‘Why are you so sure?’
Nan folded her arms and lifted her chin. ‘Doctors get things wrong all the time and that scan was not decisive. Dementia is hard to diagnose. As for the clinical psychologist, well, I wouldn’t trust her opinion if my life depended on it.’
‘Caroline Lewis is an expert in her field,’ Daisy argued.
‘What is a clinical psychologist anyway?’
‘To be honest, Nan, I don’t think a diagnosis is really going to make a difference. There’s nothing they can do for her anyway.’
‘She’s pushing seventy, Daisy. It’s natural to become forgetful.’
Daisy didn’t want to argue about this again. Nan was determined not to accept that her daughter was declining.
‘Everyone has to label everything these days. The slightest deviation from the norm and there’s a label for it, a diagnosis, a therapy – and a therapist. It’s all come from America. And everyone has something. Dyslexia, autism, Asperger’s, Alzheimer’s, dementia – people are just people and not everyone is the same. Marigold is just doddery, as simple as that. In my day it was called “getting old”. But if you all feel better putting a label on her, then go ahead.’
‘I hope they’re having a nice time,’ said Daisy, changing the subject.
‘Well, it’s England, isn’t it,’ said Nan. ‘You can never be too sure about the weather. Your grandad and I went to Spain once and every day was beautiful. Sunshine, warm, perfect. They’ve been lucky with the weather, I suspect, but there’s nothing like going abroad.’
Daisy went back to her sketching and switched off as Nan launched into a long tale about a holiday in Cyprus with Grandad. She turned her thoughts to Taran and the developers to whom he was supposedly going to sell his estate. Surely there was a way to stop him. Perhaps if she told him that her mother had dementia he’d reconsider. It wasn’t much of a plan. But she couldn’t think of a better one.
Her phone buzzed with a text. Still missing you, Margherita, it read.
This time Luca had attached a photograph to his message. It was of the two of them, arms around each other, smiles on their faces. A happy, carefree moment. Before Daisy had realized she couldn’t change him. Before she had realized how much she wanted to.
Nan’s voice grew distant as Daisy stared into the photograph. Two fools, she thought sadly. Two stubborn fools.
Chapter 22
Dennis and Marigold returned home in high spirits. Daisy put the kettle on and the four of them sat round the kitchen table while Dennis told them how the weekend had gone. He shared all the stories, except the one about Marigold’s midnight wander. He decided he wouldn’t tell anyone about that. Marigold would not want him to, even though she had forgotten about it.
They were aware of Suze’s absence. The house felt imbalanced without her. They had got used to Daisy being at home, but her presence did not make up for the lack of Suze’s. They missed her wit and her laughter. They even missed her sulks. They never thought they’d miss those.
‘Have you heard from Suze?’ Marigold asked.
‘No, I think she’s busy being married,’ Daisy replied wryly.
‘Hasn’t she even popped in?’ Dennis remarked in surprise. ‘Surely there’s something she must want.’
‘Well, she has Batty’s mother to do her washing and ironing. I’ll give her a call. See how she is.’
‘I’m not very good on the telephone these days,’ said Marigold. ‘Perhaps she can pop over for a cup of tea. I’d like to hear how she’s getting on and I’m sure she’ll want to know how our weekend went. So clever of Dennis to think of it.’
Dennis caught Daisy’s eye. From the subtle look he gave her, she knew not to correct her.
But Nan didn’t. ‘It was Daisy and Suze’s idea,’ she said firmly.
‘Was it?’ Marigold flushed. ‘Of course it was,’ she said quickly. ‘That’s what I meant. How clever of Daisy and Suze to think of it. We had a wonderful time, didn’t we, Dennis?’
‘We did, my love,’ said Dennis, giving her a broad smile, hiding his irritation at Nan’s tactlessness.
‘It was their Christmas present to you,’ Nan continued. ‘Very generous of you, Daisy. I don’t imagine Suze contributed much.’
‘Oh, she did,’ Daisy lied. ‘She paid her share.’
‘How she makes any money is beyond me,’ said Nan. ‘She should get a proper job.’ And Daisy thought that if her mother was losing her memory, Nan was becoming very repetitive. She wondered whether Suze was avoiding coming home in order to keep clear of them both.
Suze did not want to go home. She knew she should. She knew her parents would be missing her, but she didn’t know how to behave around her
mother. The truth was, Marigold’s decline frightened her. She’d rather avoid her altogether than witness her deterioration.
Suze was aware that she was being selfish, but she couldn’t help the way she was. After all, hadn’t her parents made her this way by doing everything for her? It really wasn’t her fault. The trouble was she had grown accustomed to her mother taking care of her. She wasn’t ready for this new shifting of roles, of suddenly having to take care of her mother. She wasn’t ready to be the adult in the relationship. Even though she was married and living with her in-laws, she wanted her dynamic with her mother to stay the same. She wanted the foundations of her home to remain reliably solid. She wanted her mother’s support when things weren’t going well, her ear when she needed to offload, her strength when she was feeling unsure. Suze just wanted Marigold to be the mother she had always been; but from now on she wasn’t going to get what she wanted.
Then there was Daisy. Daisy who was good at everything. Daisy who was even-tempered and genial. Everyone heaped praise on Daisy. No one heaped praise on Suze, they just rolled their eyes. Daisy knew how to look after their mother. She had patience, compassion and a strong sense of responsibility and duty. Suze had none of those things. She’d never had to acquire them. She’d been able to stand back and let Daisy do everything for her.
Dementia meant an end to Suze’s childhood. She was going to have to grow up.
Batty was now looking to rent a flat locally so they could have a space of their own. Suze was a little anxious about this because she knew she’d have to be responsible. She wasn’t used to tidying up after herself, or washing and ironing her own clothes, and she hated cooking. It wasn’t that she couldn’t do all those things, rather that she didn’t like to.
What if they decided to have a baby? Who would help if Marigold wasn’t capable? Suze liked her mother-in-law, but she wasn’t cosy like Marigold. She wasn’t as maternal as Marigold either, or as generous, and she was very busy with her job as a teacher. The mountain of homework she had to mark was horrendous. Suze realized, with a sinking feeling, that Marigold was irreplaceable.
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