by Kate Hewitt
Last night, after Simon had left, she’d done an Internet search on these types of tests and cringed inwardly at how patronising they seemed, even though she knew they weren’t intended to be. But drawing a clock? Recalling the date, or an address you’d be told moments before? Of course her mother could do those things, and it was an insult to her to think otherwise.
And yet…why did Olivia feel dread rather than relief? What was she so afraid of?
Her mother was waiting outside the building as Olivia pulled up. She sat on a stone bench, her gloved hands folded in her lap, her coat zipped up to her chin. She looked remarkably composed, more so than Olivia had seen her in a while, and she felt a flicker of hope, even though she couldn’t articulate what it was exactly that she was hoping for.
“Hey, Mum.” She jumped out of the car and hurried around to open the passenger side.
“Thank you, darling, but I’m not an invalid. Not yet.” Her mother’s voice was tart but she was smiling.
“Sorry, just trying to help.”
“I know.” As Olivia climbed back into the driver’s side her mother reached over and patted her hand. “I fear, Olivia, that this is going to be much harder for you than it is for me.”
Her stomach plunged unpleasantly at that quietly stated remark. “What do you mean, Mum?”
“I knew this was coming. I tried to pretend it wasn’t, but I knew all the same.” Tina gave her a sidelong glance. “I’m afraid that you didn’t.”
Olivia swallowed hard, keeping her gaze straight ahead as she navigated the narrow road out of Witney. “Do you mean you knew you were having trouble with your memory?”
“Yes, among other things.”
Pain lanced through her, along with fear. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to worry you, and I didn’t want to acknowledge it out loud, or even to myself. We can all be quite good at self-deception when we choose to.”
“Oh, Mum.”
“It’s all right.” Tina squared her shoulders. “I’ve lived a good life. I’ve followed my dreams—in having you, in opening Tea on the Lea. I don’t regret anything.”
A lump was forming in Olivia’s throat with every word her mother spoke. “Don’t make it sound as if—as if you’re dying, Mum.”
“I know I’m not dying,” Tina said briskly. “Yet, anyway.”
“Mum—”
“But things are going to change,” her mother cut across her, her voice gentle but firm. “They already have, even if we’ve both closed our eyes to it.”
Olivia struggled to know how to respond. Yes, they’d changed, but how could her mother be having such a calm and knowledgeable conversation about the decline of her own mind? It didn’t make sense.
“Let’s see what the doctor says,” she said finally, and her mother just smiled.
Olivia hadn’t been to the GP very often since moving to Wychwood—a chest cold once and her tri-annual cervical smear—but now as she sat on one of the vinyl-padded chairs she took in the noticeboard full of messages for memory clinics and dementia support groups, often accompanied by photos of cheerful-looking seniors and chirpy slogans such as “I Live One Day at a Time” and “Memories are Worth Fighting For.” They made her want to cry. She so wasn’t ready for this.
“Tina James?” The nurse at the door to the examination rooms was smiling and friendly as both Olivia and her mother rose and followed her down the hall.
“So you’ve been referred for a cognitive test,” the GP, one Olivia hadn’t met before, asked as he scanned her mother’s notes on his computer. “After receiving a burn on your forearm?”
“Yes.” Tina sat in the chair next to his desk, her coat and bag on her lap. Olivia sat in the plastic chair opposite, everything inside her wound far too tightly.
“And do you feel you’ve been having problems with your memory?” The doctor gave her mother a kind but direct look.
“I think I may have been. Of course, it’s difficult to say. It’s so easy to excuse little lapses, blame it on age.”
“And how old are you?”
“Seventy-three.” Her mother’s chin tilted upwards a notch. “Seventy-four in March.”
“Memory loss or confusion is not actually a normal part of ageing,” the doctor said kindly. “So if you are experiencing those symptoms, it is important to get tested.”
“Which is why we’re here.” A steely note entered Tina’s voice. “To determine if I am in fact, losing my mind.”
The doctor looked as if he wanted to argue with her choice of phrasing, but then he smiled and inclined his head. “Part of the testing process is to rule out other options. Why don’t we go through your health history?”
Olivia tried to relax as he took Tina through her medical history, and then finally turned away from his computer. “Shall we get started, then?”
Tina gave a rather regal nod, and Olivia had to keep from clenching her fists and gritting her teeth as the doctor went through a test similar to the one she’d found online, asking her mum to recall today’s date, which she could, and then draw a clock face on the pad of paper he pushed towards her.
Olivia watched, holding her breath, as her mother carefully drew a wavering circle, and then hesitated before filling in the numbers.
“Sorry, sorry,” she muttered as she scratched out the nine, which had been in the place of the six, and put it where it belonged. The doctor watched impassively and Olivia had to bite her lips to keep from saying something pointless and unhelpful.
Anyone could mix up a six and a nine. It was normal. She’d done it on occasion. Then the doctor asked Tina to recall the address he’d told her at the beginning of the test, and Olivia watched with a sinking heart as her mother’s brow crinkled.
“Yes, of course I remember that…it was…let me see, it was…” She paused, pursing her lips, her eyes scrunched up with the effort.
It was fifty-one Woodford Close, Mum, Olivia wanted to shout. You said it after him, twice! Come on!
“Something to do with…” Her mother trailed off and then shook her head, her expression turning resolute and rather stony. “I’m sorry. I can’t remember.”
“That’s all right.” The doctor spoke easily, as if this wasn’t a big deal, but Olivia knew it was. It had to be. “It was fifty-one Woodford Close. Does that ring a bell?”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Tina nodded. “Fifty-one Woodford Close. Now I remember.” Except Olivia didn’t think she did.
“Well.” The doctor sat back, his hands folded. “As you probably realise, you had a few issues with some parts of the test.”
“Yes.” Tina pressed her lips together.
“I think the best thing to do is leave it for a few weeks, and then take you through another test, perhaps after Christmas, to see how you’re getting on. In the meantime I’ll schedule you for a blood test so we can rule out any other options.” He gestured to her arm. “The nurse will change the dressing on your arm before you go.”
They’d had their ten minutes of time, and they were now kindly but firmly ushered out of the GP’s office. Olivia felt strangely numb, and Tina looked composed.
“That wasn’t as terrible as I thought,” she said as they waited to see the nurse. “Although I can’t believe I forgot how to draw a clock.”
“Anyone can get sixes and nines confused, Mum—”
Tina gave her a sharp look. “Don’t make excuses for me, Olivia. We’re past that now, I think.”
“Still, he wants to do more tests…” Olivia faltered at her mother’s steely look, then rallied again. “I just don’t want to throw in the towel at the first opportunity, Mum. Let’s wait and see how the next few tests go.”
Tina nodded in seeming agreement, but Olivia felt as if her mother was just humouring her. She’d already made up her mind about what was going on.
An hour later, having dropped her mother off back at home, Olivia returned to Tea on the Lea feeling mixed-up inside, a tangle of hope and fear
. Harriet looked up from the till as she came in.
“We’ve had a run on cupcakes! Apparently word is getting around.”
“Have you?” Olivia was pleasantly surprised. It was only one o’clock in the afternoon; the cupcakes usually sold later in the day.
“Yes, a mum came in to buy six for a dinner party she’s having tonight. And someone else bought two…”
“Are there any left?” Olivia couldn’t keep a note of anxiety from her voice, and of course Harriet picked up on it.
“Oh, yes. There’s still two left. I wouldn’t have sold the last one, don’t you worry. I know you need to save one for your cupcake man.”
Olivia didn’t want to get talking about that again. “He has a name, remember.”
“Yes, I remember. About that, Olivia…”
She held up a hand to forestall any of Harriet’s bumbled apologies or worse, warnings. “Let’s not talk about it, Harriet—”
“No, I don’t want to. I just want to tell you to ignore me. I shouldn’t have said anything, and I don’t know anything, not really—”
Despite her obviously good intentions, Harriet was still making it worse. “I know,” Olivia cut her off, hoping she would finally drop it. “It’s fine. I’m just going to let Simon speak for himself.”
Harriet’s eyes rounded. “So you’re going to ask him?”
Ask him what? “No, I’m going to let the conversation unfold naturally,” Olivia said, holding on to her patience with effort. “And act like we never had this conversation.”
Harriet finally looked as if she were getting the message and she nodded, abashed. “Right. Sorry. How’s your mum, anyway? Is the burn healing all right?”
The burn was just about the least of Olivia’s worries, but she still didn’t feel like sharing what was going on with Harriet, even though she’d already told some of it to Simon last night. “Yes, it’s healing nicely,” she answered. “Thanks for minding the shop.”
Harriet left a few minutes later, and Olivia bustled around, tidying up, rearranging the cakes, and generally trying to keep busy. She turned on some Christmas carols to lift her mood, wanting to get back into the holiday spirit, but after a little the cheerful noise just grated on her and she turned it off.
Two elderly ladies came in for afternoon tea, and Olivia served them, watching them surreptitiously. They looked older than her mum, and they didn’t have dementia. They were both sharp as tacks, exchanging pointed comments about the village’s flower guild.
Why her mum? Why her? And what was going to happen now? What was the future going to look like for both of them?
Back in the kitchen, tidying up at the end of the day, Olivia told herself to get a grip. She was nearly forty years old. She ran her own business, lived her own life. This wasn’t the end of her world. But was it the end of her mother’s?
And, she realised as she flipped the sign to closed, Simon hadn’t even come in for his cupcake.
Upstairs Dr Jekyll was thankfully feeling friendly, and Olivia ate her mug of noodles for dinner with the fluffy cat nestled in her lap, trying to suppress the stab of loneliness that kept attacking her unawares.
She wasn’t used to it; she’d always liked her own company. But now, with her mother’s diagnosis in the offing, Olivia couldn’t keep from being painfully aware of her single state. At least she had drinks with Simon to look forward to, and whatever the rest of the evening would bring.
Chapter Eight
The Three Pennies had its usual clusters of well-heeled villagers scattered around the low-ceilinged room as Olivia stepped across the threshold, ducking her head under the ancient oak beam. Bing Crosby was on low volume, his melodious voice caressing the syllables of “White Christmas,” heard over the murmured conversations and few bursts of laughter.
Olivia scanned the crowd for Simon, trying not to feel self-conscious or look nervous. She’d spent over an hour trying to pitch her look between made an effort and trying too hard. Wearing a crimson jumper, skinny jeans, and knee-high leather boots, her hair tamed into natural-looking waves—well, ish—she hoped she’d succeeded.
“Olivia.” Simon rose from a cosy table in the back of the room and Olivia smiled and started forward, her heart feeling as if it were bumping against her ribs. Simon was in his usual charmingly semi-dishevelled state—hair a bit too long, corduroy blazer decidedly battered, with a button-down shirt and faded jeans. He looked scrumptious.
She came to a stop in front of him, unsure of the protocol. She’d never been one for air kissing, despite her years in London where mwah-mwah was the usual greeting, and anything more than that felt like too much, anything less—like a handshake—too formal. In the end, they simply smiled and stared at each other before Simon gestured towards the bar.
“What may I get you to drink?”
“Um…a glass of white wine, please.”
“Be back in a mo.” Olivia settled herself in her seat as Simon went to the bar. She glanced around the pub but thankfully didn’t see anyone she knew, which was always a danger in Wychwood-on-Lea. She didn’t fancy someone coming in to the shop tomorrow with a beady eye and a knowing look, wanting the low-down on her one date night since she’d moved to the village.
“Here we are.” Simon reappeared with a glass of white for her and a pint of bitter for himself. He put the drinks on the table and then sat opposite her, smiling wryly. “So. We made it.”
“Cheers.” They clinked glasses and Olivia took a sip. “Funnily enough,” she said once she’d put her glass down, “I don’t actually know that much about you.”
Was she imagining the guarded look on Simon’s face? She must be. “I suppose you don’t.” Which wasn’t exactly an invitation to learn more.
“You’re a music teacher?” she asked, before she realised she wouldn’t have known that if Harriet hadn’t said anything. Now she knew she wasn’t imagining that guarded look.
“Yes…”
“My friend has kids at the local school,” Olivia explained, half in apology for no doubt seeming stalkerish. “When I mentioned your name, she said she knew you.”
“Ah.” Simon’s expression relaxed a bit, but he still looked watchful. “Do her children take music lessons?”
“Umm…I think her ten-year-old Will takes piano. What do you teach?”
“Cello and violin.” He smiled ruefully.
“Right.” She took another sip of wine; why did Harriet’s bombshell, or lack of it, this morning now feel like a hurdle she had to leap over, a mountain she had to overcome? She’d been looking forward to this evening, but in some ways it already felt, if not ruined, then at least hampered.
“What about you?” Simon asked. “What did you do before you moved to this lovely village?”
“I lived in London, working in marketing and development for a small not-for-profit.”
“What kind of not-for-profit?”
Now Olivia was the one smiling self-consciously. “An organisation that provides undergarments and sanitary products for girls and women in developing countries who have difficulty gaining access to them. I know, I know, it’s a bit of a conversation stopper.”
“Not at all,” Simon said, rallying after a second of looking a bit nonplussed. “That sounds like a very worthy cause.”
“It is,” Olivia agreed, “but people don’t really like talking about it all that much. Anyway.” She let out a breath. “After nearly fifteen years in the same sector, I was ready for a change. Is that why you moved here from London? For a change?”
“Yes, in a way. I needed one, at least.”
Needed one? Olivia knew she needed to stop thinking everything Simon said was suspect. Why had Harriet said anything? And yet even before she had, Olivia had wondered. It felt like there was something Simon wasn’t saying, but she could hardly ask him what it was.
“Anyway.” He smiled in his wry, charming way, his grey-green eyes lighting up. “Enough about that. Tell me something about you that doesn’t invol
ve cupcakes or sanitary products.”
Olivia nearly spat out her wine. “Now that’s one I haven’t heard before.”
“I only meant, not about work,” Simon said with a rakish grin. “I want to know about you. Where did you grow up?”
“Middlesbrough. Not exactly the garden of England.”
“Respectable enough. Happy families?”
“Yes, if not the usual one. My dad scarpered when I was two.” She spoke matter-of-factly, slightly offhand, as she always did when people asked about her father.
Simon grimaced, a look of sympathy in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. My mum did the job for both of them.”
“Which makes what’s happening now all the harder.”
“Well, yes.” She’d told him something of that before, and of course he’d remembered. “I suppose it would feel a bit different if I were married,” she said, and then realised how that sounded. “I mean…that’s what Mum said. She doesn’t want to burden me when I’m on my own, the only one to cope with what’s happening.”
“That’s understandable.” Thankfully Simon didn’t seem fazed by her marriage comment. Hopefully he hadn’t thought the subtext was she needed to snag a man so she could deal with her ailing mother. What a way to kill a first date. “Have you ever come close?” he asked lightly.
“To what?”
“Marriage. Kids. All that.”
“No, not really.” She hesitated, wondering how far she wanted to delve into her decidedly uninteresting romantic history, and then decided why not? At her age she should put all her cards on the table, and really, there weren’t that many. “I had a serious boyfriend for a few years about ten years ago. We talked about it, but it never felt right. And after that everything was pretty casual.” Which made her sound as if she hooked up all the time, which was so far from the truth it was ludicrous. “I mean, a couple of dates here and there. Mainly there.”