Dennis remembered the conversation they’d had in his shed, when Marigold had told him that she would understand if he put her into a nursing home. He had been appalled. The idea had seemed inconceivable then. Now it was just unbearable.
‘I can’t afford a nursing home,’ he admitted and the words cut him deeply, because when he had said his vows in church he had really meant them. In sickness and in health . . . till death us do part. Call him old-fashioned, but looking after Marigold was not only his desire but his duty. Now he was ashamed that he was failing in that duty. He lowered his eyes.
‘I still have the money I got from selling my house,’ said Nan. ‘I put it away for a rainy day. Well, I’d say it’s pretty much a downpour now, wouldn’t you?’
Dennis nodded. ‘A downpour is exactly what it is.’
Daisy cleared her throat. She didn’t want to undermine her grandmother’s generous offer, but she had done her research and knew how much a good nursing home would cost. Her grandmother’s money would soon run out. ‘Taran and I would like to pay,’ she said, glancing anxiously at Nan. ‘I mean, we’d like to share the cost with Nan.’
Nan smiled at Daisy and then put her hand on Dennis’s arm. ‘That’s what family is for,’ she said. ‘You can’t rely on the government. But you can rely on us.’
Dennis looked from Nan to Daisy and his eyes shone. He couldn’t find the words to express his gratitude. He couldn’t find any words at all.
‘I’ll contribute too,’ said Suze, not wanting to be left out, although she and Batty had little to give. ‘It won’t be much but it’ll help.’
‘It’s the thought that counts,’ said Nan. ‘The point is, it can be done and must be done. For you, Dennis, but also for Marigold. She needs professional care now.’
He took a sip of tea and sighed. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do without her,’ he muttered. His hollow eyes glistened. ‘She’s my Goldie, isn’t she? She’s always been my Goldie.’
‘You can visit her every day, if you like,’ said Daisy.
‘We’ll choose a place that’s close by,’ said Suze.
‘Beryl told me that she took her to visit Seaview House a few years ago,’ Nan told them. ‘It’s about a twenty-minute drive. On the coast, so she’d be able to see the sea. You know how much she loves the sea. I believe it’s a nice place.’
‘Will you look at it with us?’ Suze asked Dennis.
‘You don’t have to make any decisions now,’ said Daisy gently. ‘Just come and have a look around. If you don’t like it, we can find somewhere else.’
There was a long pause as Dennis considered their proposal. No one spoke. Daisy looked at Suze and frowned. Suze gave a little shrug. They drank their tea and waited. Finally, Dennis spoke. ‘I don’t know how Marigold will manage without me,’ he said quietly. ‘She’s always had me to lean on.’
‘She doesn’t recognize you half the time,’ said Nan. ‘It’s only going to get worse.’
‘I wish I could cope,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I’m letting her down.’
‘Oh Dad,’ Daisy cried. ‘You’re not letting her down. You’ve been her knight in shining armour.’
‘You couldn’t have done more,’ added Suze tearfully.
Nan nodded. ‘No, you couldn’t have done more. No one could have. You’re a good man, Dennis, like Arthur. Good men. Marigold and I have been very lucky. We both know that.’ She put out her hand and patted his across the table. ‘Marigold might be losing her mind but she’s still got a heart. She knows you love her and she’ll know that any decision you make will be done with love.’
‘And we know too,’ added Daisy.
‘All right,’ Dennis said, nodding his agreement. ‘Let’s go and take a look at this Seaview House. Let’s see if it’s good enough for our Goldie.’
Chapter 29
The seasons came and went, one after the other in regular succession, and Marigold watched them all from the armchair by the big sash window that looked out onto the lawn of Seaview House. Although they were labelled with the words summer, autumn, winter and spring, none of them was ever the same. The reds and yellows of autumn were sometimes a deeper crimson and a brighter gold. Sometimes it snowed, but most often it didn’t. Occasionally frost drew pictures on the window panes and it was fun to try and work out what they were. Marigold found fairies, goblins and leprechauns in the ice, but they’d melt away in the sunshine and then, just as she lamented their departing, the birds would draw her attention, flapping about the feeders in the garden, because no matter what season it was, there were always birds. Marigold loved birds. Their lighthearted song touched her somewhere deep and timeless, in the place where all the love she had received in her life was stored, even though she couldn’t remember those who had given it.
Little by little Marigold’s memories faded away, like wisps of smoke from a dying fire. But she didn’t notice their passing. She gave them up without a fight. There was no struggle, no anxiety, no pain, just a gentle relinquishing of pictures that were no longer vital to her sense of self. As her father had told her, the car was gradually deteriorating and the engine was flagging, but Marigold was still in the driving seat and she was as perfect and whole as she always had been, as she always would be. She took pleasure in the moment. There was lots to enjoy there. She watched the sea, the undulating waves, the light dancing on the water, the foam about the rocks and the seabirds flocking to feast on the shoals of fish just beneath the surface. If one remained in the moment one was never bored or unhappy. What’s wrong with now? she asked herself; nothing was ever wrong with now.
Sometimes Marigold sat and thought, other times she just sat. Occasionally, she would emerge out of the mist and the engine would unexpectedly fire up and the car would cough and splutter and Marigold would come back to life with a little of the enthusiasm that had characterized her former existence. But those days were rare.
It was Christmas Day. Two cars pulled up outside Seaview House and six adults stepped out into the snow with various small children. There was a wreath on the front door and, when they entered the hall, a large Christmas tree decorated with silver tinsel and snowflakes was in the place of the round table that was usually positioned in front of the fireplace which was never lit. The building smelt of cinnamon and baked apples.
Dennis led the way through the hall, armed with a basket of gifts and a bunch of pale pink roses. Behind him Nan followed, holding Suze’s young daughter, Trudie, by the hand. After them came Daisy, carrying her ten-month-old son Owen, and Suze, who was pregnant again. Behind them Batty carried their fifteen-month-old boy and the nappy bag. Taran brought a box of mince pies from his mother, which Sylvia had made.
They entered the sitting room and saw Marigold at once. She was settled into her usual armchair by the window, gazing out onto the white garden. She looked neat and tidy in a skirt and cardigan. The collar of her floral shirt had been ironed with care. Her hair had recently been washed. She wore a little make-up, not too much, just enough to look her best. On the table beside her was the puzzle they had given her. She couldn’t put the pieces together these days, but the nurses said she liked to look at the pictures and read the inscriptions on the back. She was often seen smiling at them, they said, with a tender look on her face.
The party made their way across the room. It was very quiet. The television was on and a group of white-haired ladies were sitting on the sofa, watching a carol service. On the coffee table in front of them, among the magazines, was a recently published book by Suze Fane, entitled Loving with Dementia. It had been a bestseller.
As the family approached, Marigold turned away from the window.
She swept her eyes over the approaching group, not realizing at first that they had come for her. Her expression was curious, the face of a passive observer. Of someone who wasn’t expecting to be part of the action but was quite content to watch it happen around her. Then Dennis smiled at her and she looked a little startled. ‘Hello, love,’ he said gently.
He knew better than to bend down and kiss her. That’s what he used to do but things were different now. He took one of the chairs and sat down. ‘Happy Christmas, Goldie. We’ve brought you some presents.’ He hadn’t brought her a puzzle. She didn’t remember their tradition anymore.
When Marigold saw Nan, her face lit up and she smiled with recognition. She remembered her mother. ‘Hello, Marigold,’ Nan said and took the chair beside her. Suze’s daughter climbed onto her great-grandmother’s knee and watched Marigold warily. Batty and Taran pulled up some more chairs and the four of them sat down. There was a lot of bustle as Batty put the nappy bag on the carpet and Taran found a table for the mince pies. Daisy sat close to her mother, her baby in her arms, while Suze sat beside Nan. A moment later Trudie put out her arms and Suze gathered her onto her knee. The little girl continued to watch Marigold with suspicion.
‘Well, isn’t this nice,’ said Dennis, heartily patting his knees, trying to act as if everything was normal. ‘Isn’t the snow lovely. Like Narnia,’ he added.
‘You like snow, don’t you, Marigold?’ said Nan. ‘You’ve always liked snow.’
Marigold turned her eyes to the snow and remained there a while, enjoying the way the sunlight caught the crystals and made them glitter.
‘I love Christmas,’ said Suze. ‘I’ve always loved presents.’
Marigold turned her attention back to the group. She smiled at Daisy, the gracious smile of a stranger. ‘How very kind of you,’ she said.
‘And I’ve brought mince pies from my mother,’ said Taran.
Marigold didn’t know who he was, let alone his mother, but she didn’t want to let on. ‘That’s very sweet of her. Thank you.’ Again the gracious smile of someone wanting to be polite, of someone not wanting to say the wrong thing.
‘How about we make some tea,’ suggested Daisy, hoping to diffuse the tension that was slowly building around them.
Marigold’s face grew animated suddenly. ‘That’s a good idea. Let’s have a nice cup of tea,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing nicer than a cup of tea when it’s cold outside.’
Daisy stood up and handed the baby to Taran. ‘I’ll pop to the kitchen and boil the kettle.’
Suze stood up too. ‘I’ll help you,’ she declared. ‘We’re a big party and I imagine we all want one.’
Marigold looked at the two pretty girls, then at the men. What a handsome group, she thought. Then she turned to Nan. ‘Whatever happened to that lovely man, Dennis? Did he ever marry?’ she asked. ‘He was handsome, wasn’t he?’
Daisy and Suze froze. They looked at their father in panic. Dennis stared at Marigold. She did not notice the pain she had inflicted.
Nan opened her mouth to say something. Daisy felt an urgent need to pre-empt her, but couldn’t find the words. Then Nan patted her daughter’s hand and nodded, realizing at last what was required of her. ‘He was indeed very handsome,’ she said softly. ‘He married a lovely girl. A beautiful, kind and unselfish girl. The two of them have been very happy. In fact, I’d say, they’ve been happier than anyone else I’ve ever met.’
‘How nice,’ said Marigold.
And Dennis realized then that the book entitled Dennis had finally fallen off the shelf. He wondered what the point was in coming here, week after week, year after year. What was the point of it all? He looked at the pale pink roses on the carpet at his feet and wondered why he bothered. They had long ceased to bring her back to him. He lifted his gaze to her guileless face, to the sweet smile that hovered uncertainly upon it, and something snagged inside his heart.
And then he knew. He knew with a certainty that rose in him like a powerful wave, an indestructible wave of unconditional love, and he understood. It didn’t matter that she didn’t know who he was, because he knew who she was. She was his Goldie, his beloved, beautiful, irreplaceable Goldie, and she always would be.
Acknowledgements:
My heart goes out to all those living with dementia and to the friends and family members who love and support them. During my research I met some truly inspiring people, both patients and carers, and was struck by the strength of their devotion. Here and Now is the story of Marigold’s decline, but above all it is about love, enduring love, the kind of love that survives whatever obstacles are put in its way.
I could not have brought Marigold and Dennis to life without the wisdom and advice of my dear friend Simon Jacobs. It was the time I spent with him that inspired the core message in the book, which is a spiritual one: as the memory fades and the personality retreats, the soul – the true self – is still perfect and whole and eternal. I’m so grateful for our many years of friendship and for the magical things he has taught me.
Dennis is inspired by my friend Jeff Menear, who is an extremely talented carpenter. He’s made many wonderful things for me over the years, converting my wild ideas into masterpieces with the skilful craftsmanship of a truly gifted artist. I can’t thank him enough for his time and for all the details he gave me about the profession which helped me develop my character. I also want to acknowledge his wife Siobhan and his late mother Jean, because the little, seemingly irrelevant things they chipped into the conversation were pearls.
When I saw Sam Sopwith’s beautiful drawings of animals I decided that Daisy had to be an artist like her. Sam’s animals are extraordinary. They gaze out of the paper with a depth of emotion one doesn’t find in photographs. I wanted my heroine to have that talent and sensitivity. So, thank you, Sam, for being my muse and inspiration. It’s only a matter of time before I ask you to draw my dog!
I would also like to thank my Argentine friend, Pablo Jendretzki, who is an architect living in New York. Handsome, charismatic, charming and gifted, he was the perfect man to inspire Taran. Thank you, Pablo.
I am grateful to my parents, Charlie and Patty Palmer-Tomkinson, for giving me the most loving, free and stable childhood, and for being my best friends and wise advisors during my adult years. I thank my aunt Naomi Dawson, James and Sarah Palmer-Tomkinson and their four children, Honor, India, Wilf and Sam, because as I get older I understand more fully the value of family. I thank my late sister, Tara, for teaching me about loss and love. I miss her.
I am deeply grateful to my brilliant agent, Sheila Crowley, and my film agent, Luke Speed, and to all those at Curtis Brown who work on my behalf: Alice Lutyens, Katie McGowan, Callum Mollison, Anna Weguelin, Emily Harris and Sabhbh Curran. A huge thank you to my editor Suzanne Baboneau, who works so diligently and sensitively on my manuscripts, my boss Ian Chapman, and their excellent team at Simon & Schuster: Gill Richardson, Polly Osborn, Rich Vlietstra, Dominic Brendon, Sian Wilson, Rebecca Farrell and Sara-Jade Virtue.
I had many a happy hour working in the peace of Fountains Coffee Shop and the Bel & Dragon in Odiham, listening to Hans Zimmerman’s Pearl Harbour soundtrack and drinking caffé lattes sprinkled with chocolate. I’m so grateful I’m able to write books because they give me such pleasure. However, it would have remained a hobby had it not been for the book-sellers and my readers, I thank you all.
Finally, and most importantly, I thank my husband Sebag and our children Lily and Sasha, for the laughter and the love.
More from the Author
The Secret Hours
The Temptation of Gracie
The Last Secret of the Deverills
The Gypsy Madonna
Daughters of Castle Deverill
The Italian Matchmaker
Also by Santa Montefiore
Meet Me Under the Ombu Tree
The Butterfly Box
The Forget-Me-Not Sonata
The Swallow and the Hummingbird
The Last Voyage of the Valentina
The Gypsy Madonna
Sea of Lost Love
The French Gardener
The Italian Matchmaker
The Affair
The House by the Sea
The Summer House
Secrets of the Lighthouse
A Mother�
��s Love
The Beekeeper’s Daughter
The Temptation of Gracie
The Secret Hours
The Deverill Chronicles
Songs of Love and War
Daughters of Castle Deverill
The Last Secret of the Deverills
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First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2020
Copyright © Santa Montefiore, 2020
The right of Santa Montefiore to be identified as
author of this work has been asserted in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
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Hardback ISBN: 978-1-4711-6966-3
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-4711-6967-0
eBook ISBN: 978-1-4711-6968-7
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places
and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or
are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living
Here and Now Page 35