by Susan Lewis
The other person she longed to call was Rosalind, but if Rosalind were to slam the phone down on her, or worse, tell her father the reason Lisa had been in touch … Well, given David’s unsteady temper these days, Lisa didn’t particularly want to think about the kind of scene it might cause.
Eventually she decided to return to her study, where she’d been trying to focus on the second chapter of her book when she’d heard David letting himself out of the front door. This morning they had been like strangers in the same house, which had been more disconcerting and distressing than usual, coming so soon after the wonderful evening they’d shared last night. He’d cooked, she’d lit candles, they’d opened an expensive bottle of wine, and he had complimented her on the beautiful home she was creating. She hadn’t told him, because it wouldn’t have been appropriate then, that she was starting to lose her passion for the place. Though she’d never deny it was exquisite, or that it was the kind of home anyone would be proud to own, there were days now when she found herself almost overwhelmed by a sense of it closing in on her, as though it was going to crush and bury her inside its walls. Even knowing these feelings were tied up with the uncertainty of what was happening between them didn’t make them any the less unnerving, since it seemed like one more thing that was driving her away.
She was almost at her study when she noticed that the door to his was open, and without any clear idea of what she intended to do, she walked inside and went to sit down at his desk. Everything seemed to be in its place, files of pending constituency cases piled at one corner, photographs of her, Rosalind and Lawrence forming a triangle in the other, and his laptop, open and on, in the middle. Putting her coffee on the coaster next to the keyboard, she pulled open the top right-hand drawer of his desk and found, to her surprise, the small black notebook that he generally took everywhere with him. Closing the drawer again, she slid open the next one and felt a sudden jar in her heart at what she saw. Surely he hadn’t found her purse and not bothered to tell her? Perhaps he’d forgotten?
Picking the purse up she opened it and found all her cards in the wallet, and around forty pounds in cash tucked inside the zip. Nothing was missing – even the receipts from the shopping she’d done the day she’d lost it were still there.
Feeling faintly peculiar, she put the purse on the desk, and returning to the top drawer she took out the notebook. Written on the inside cover, in clear script, were both his addresses, in London and in Bristol, and all three phone numbers, followed by a list that struck some oddly discordant notes as she read it. Next to ‘Wife’ he’d written Catrina (dead); Lisa. Below that was written: ‘Daughter’ Rosalind; ‘Grandson’ Lawrence; ‘Son-in-law’ Jerry; ‘Sister-in-law’ Dee; ‘Head of Staff’ Miles, and so on through all the key people in his life. Had it been written by a child she’d probably have considered it sweet, but that it had been written by him felt unsettling and even ridiculous.
At the top of the facing page was a large note saying: Date and time at bottom right-hand corner of computer screen. Beneath that was a date in August which seemed to be heading up everything he needed to do that day. The next page was the same, and so on, much like a diary, but with far more explicit notes than she’d have thought necessary. They were more like instructions than reminders, with things like: Dog = Lucy; belongs to Lisa, Lisa giving to Lawrence but needs to be sure Rosalind will treat her well. Or: Call Miles to discuss party conference arrangements including hotel, how to get there and make clear no interviews or speeches.
It was when she came upon an entry for the Monday of the week they were in – today was Thursday – that she felt her heart slowing to a standstill.
Sitting back in the chair she pressed a hand to her mouth and tried to persuade herself that she was misunderstanding, except it was so clear that it simply wasn’t possible to read it any other way. Her head started to spin as she imagined him going through the motions he’d so carefully written down. It was so shocking that she almost couldn’t bear it. Why hadn’t he told her? What had made him think he must do something like this alone? Unless Rosalind had been with him, but there was no mention of her, and given how detailed everything else was it didn’t seem likely he’d have overlooked that.
Opening up his email box, she began searching for messages that might tell her more about Monday’s entry, but she couldn’t find anything, so she tried Google and his search history to see if that might throw more light on matters. A few minutes later she was staring at the screen, unable to move as she realised she’d rather have found porn than what she was looking at now. It wasn’t making any sense – and yet at the same time it was explaining everything in a way that was completely terrifying.
It wasn’t as though nothing like this had ever entered her head, because she had to admit that it had, but she’d always dismissed it, knowing it was what everyone said, or thought, when people became forgetful or behaved out of character. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be, because he was too young. It was an old person’s disease, not something that struck down men like David in the prime of their life.
With shaking hands she went back to the notebook and opened it to today to find out if it might tell her where he was now. Though the date was carefully written at the top of the page, there was nothing else until the following Monday, where he’d written ‘BRACE’ and next to it a time: ten thirty, followed by specific directions and where to park.
Quickly typing BRACE into Google, she felt herself starting to panic as the results began downloading. There were several options, dental braces, neck braces and even a pop singer called Brace, but she knew right away which one was relevant to David.
‘What are you doing?’ he said from the door.
Starting, she turned to look at him. She tried to speak but no words would come out, then seeing how angry and afraid he was, she quickly went to him and wrapped him in her arms. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she choked through her tears. ‘I thought … I didn’t know … Oh David, you should have told me.’
For a moment he stood rigid and unmoving, but then his arms came round her crushing her to him as he buried his face in her neck.
* * *
A while later David was standing at the sitting-room window, staring out at the rain that was sweeping in from the hills. Lisa was watching him from the sofa, feeling her heart breaking with the fear that must be weighting his own. She wondered what was going on in his mind now. The doubt, the dread, the torment of what he could be facing must be terrible, even crueller than she could imagine. To think of what he’d been putting himself through over these past weeks, the strain and anxiety, the tests, scans and interminable waiting that still continued, made her want to weep for how foolish and uncaring she must have seemed all this time.
As if he sensed her watching him, he turned to look at her. ‘I didn’t know how to open the gates,’ he said. ‘Can you believe that? I didn’t know how to open the damned gates.’
She felt so helpless she barely knew what to say. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she told him gently.
‘But it does, everything does, I just …’
When he trailed off she let the silence rest for a while, then steeling herself, she said, ‘I read your notebook, so I know you’ve had tests, including a CT scan.’
Though he must have heard what she’d said, his thoughts seemed to be drifting as his eyes moved past her.
‘When you go to your next appointment on Monday,’ she said, ‘I’m coming with you.’
His eyes flicked to hers, then away again. ‘I don’t need any more tests to tell me what’s wrong,’ he replied gruffly. ‘You’ve seen the way I am, you’ve read what the websites say …’
‘You can’t just not go …’
‘You know what this is, Lisa,’ he cried angrily. ‘You’re as capable of understanding the symptoms as I am, so why don’t you save me the trip and spell it out for me? It has a name, so say it.’
‘David stop …’
‘I want to hear you say it
.’
‘No, I will not, because I don’t know what it is.’
‘No, it’s because you’re afraid to. Well I’m not. I have some form of dementia, Lisa, and whichever one it is we both know there’s no turning back from it. So no, you can’t come with me on Monday. It’s not your problem. It’s mine, and I will deal with it.’
Going to him, she grasped his hands tightly in hers and forced him to look at her. ‘If what I read in your notes is accurate,’ she shouted, ‘then we don’t know anything for certain yet. So please, let’s stop jumping to conclusions about what’s wrong with you. That’s what the specialists are for. And no matter what you say I will be coming with you on Monday, so don’t waste your breath trying to argue any more.’
Chapter Seventeen
BLACKBERRY HILL HOSPITAL was a complex of austere grey stone buildings that in too many ways still resembled the eighteenth-century prison it originally had been. In more recent years the place had become a centre for mental health, as well as a secure unit for the criminally insane. These days only the latter were still housed there, in a block not visible from the road and set apart from the rest of the site. Now, appearing as eerie from the outside as its empty wards and corridors did within, the rest of the hospital sat sprawling over a vast acreage of the Fishponds area of Bristol, surrounded by deserted car parks, towering trees and signposts directing infrequent visitors to places no longer in use.
The BRACE unit – Bristol Research into Alzheimer’s and Care for the Elderly – was a newer and slightly friendlier-looking single-storey building with its own car park. The entrance boasted a small porch, allowing David and Lisa to step in out of the rain as they waited for someone to answer their ring on the bell. Though this unit was no longer used for memory tests, apparently arrangements had been made for David’s to be carried out here instead of at a more public clinic, where he probably would have been recognised.
‘Ah, you’ll be Mr and Mrs Kirby,’ said a large, casually dressed black woman with merry eyes and a broad smile, opening the door wide. ‘I’m Melinda, one of the nurses. We’ve been expecting you.’
The waiting room they stepped into was full of the usual stacking chairs pushed up against the walls, with a couple of coffee tables strewn with out-of-date magazines, a water cooler and a portrait of Princess Anne with a brass plaque beside it commemorating the date she’d opened the unit.
‘Fiona’s already here,’ Melinda informed them. ‘That’s Dr Milton, but we tend to use first names, if that’s all right.’
‘It’s fine,’ David assured her, ‘provided it works both ways.’
Melinda beamed. ‘Can I get you a tea or coffee?’ she offered. ‘Kettle’s just boiled.’
‘I’ll have a coffee, thank you,’ he replied.
Starting to wonder which of them was the more nervous, since he seemed to be handling himself so well, Lisa said, ‘Me too, thank you. My name’s Lisa, by the way.’
After Melinda had gone off to rustle up the drinks, Lisa and David sat side by side beneath a notice-board full of information on how to deal with various mental health issues, and a clock that was five minutes slow.
Slipping a hand into his, she whispered, ‘OK?’
‘I am, question is, are you?’
No, she wasn’t, but she was hardly going to admit it when she was supposed to be here as a support for him.
They sat quietly then, listening to the silence and gazing blankly at a young Princess Anne. It seemed disorientatingly surreal to be there, as though they’d wandered off the wide, sunny road they were supposed to be on to find themselves lost in a backwater with no apparent way out. How could they have got here? Where had they gone wrong? They didn’t belong here. Their lives were somewhere else, in a world that had somehow become mixed up with this one, so they must do something to try and straighten it out.
‘Aha, I know you’re David, because I recognise you,’ announced a plump, pretty little woman with huge brown eyes and a glorious shock of red hair. ‘I’m Fiona Milton, aka the psychologist who’s conducting your test today.’
David and Lisa rose to their feet. ‘It’s good to meet you,’ David told her politely as he shook her hand. ‘This is my wife, Lisa.’
‘Lisa,’ she said cheerily. ‘Ah, I see Melinda’s got the coffee going. Great show, Mel. Shall we take them into the office?’
A few moments later Lisa and David were seated in a room whose only redeeming feature, as far as Lisa was concerned, was the doctor herself. Her vibrant hair lent the only colour to a setting that was otherwise as drab and dated as it was depressingly medical.
‘Not exactly the Ritz, is it?’ Fiona commented wryly, ‘but believe me, it’s a lot better than some of the places where we have to carry out our clinics.’
After taking a sip of her coffee, she set her cup aside and turned to the computer on the desk that was pushed up against the window. ‘OK,’ she said, reaching for the mouse to scroll down the screen, ‘I think I have everything I need … Yes, looks like it,’ and from a drawer she took a file containing some official-looking forms. After filling in David’s name and the date at the top of one, and assigning a visit number, she said, ‘Right, I guess we can get this show on the road. I’ll start by explaining that the test battery, as we call it, is designed so that it can be modified as we go along, either to include more detailed tests if I think they’re necessary, or to exclude those that don’t seem relevant. There’s nothing to worry about,’ she assured them, ‘it’s true to say that some of the tests are difficult, so you should expect to make mistakes, and some are easier. This is so we can stretch everyone, including very bright people like your good self. So, are you ready?’
Lisa looked at David as he nodded, and wondered how he was managing to stay so calm.
Fiona smiled. ‘Nice and simple to begin: I’d like you to rate your memory for me. How do you think it compares to other people your age? For example, would you say yours is poorer than average? About average? Better than, or very good?’
David took a breath and blew it out slowly. ‘It always used to be very good,’ he told her.
She waited a moment, hand poised over her form, then seeming not to mind that he hadn’t given a direct answer, she asked, ‘How much time, would you say, have you spent feeling a bit low, or sad, over the past month?’
Lisa looked down at David’s tightly bunched hands. ‘More than I’d like to admit in front of my new wife,’ he replied.
‘So you’d say a good bit of time?’ Fiona prompted.
He nodded. ‘Probably.’
‘And how anxious are you feeling about this assessment? Extremely? Moderately? Just a little? Or not at all?’
‘I guess that would have to be extremely,’ he replied, trying to make it sound wry.
Fiona’s smile was sympathetic. ‘OK,’ she said, after circling something on her form. ‘Can you tell me what year it is?’
‘Two thousand … Oh, crikey, twenty …’ He stopped, shaking his head in frustration.
‘Month?’ she asked.
‘September.’
‘Date today?’
He started to respond, but then didn’t.
‘What day is it?’
‘Monday.’
‘Do you know which season we’re in?’
‘It could be winter, but it’s autumn.’
‘What’s the name of this hospital?’
He seemed uncertain again.
‘Which floor are we on?’
‘Ground.’
‘Do you know which city we’re in?’
‘London.’
‘Which country?’
‘England.’
‘OK, I’m going to say some words now which I’d like you to repeat. Are you ready?’
David nodded.
‘Ball. Flag. Tree.’
‘Ball. Flag. Tree.’
‘Starting with one hundred, I’d like you to work backwards, taking seven away each time. Do you understand the question?’
‘I think so. That would be ninety-three, eighty-six, seventy … eight? Seventy-one. Sixty-five …’
‘That’s enough. Can you spell the word “world” backwards?’
He frowned. ‘D-R-L-O-W.’
Noting it down, she said, ‘I asked you to repeat some words earlier, can you tell me what they were?’
‘Uh, yes. Ball. Tree …’ A frown again crossed his face.
Next to him Lisa’s heart was beating wildly. It seemed incredible that he couldn’t remember flag, when he’d only just heard it. He’d got the backward spelling wrong too, and some of the subtraction, as well as saying they were in London instead of Bristol and becoming confused about the year. Was it normal to make these mistakes? Did everyone when they were under pressure? What exactly were these answers saying about him?
To her relief the next few minutes proved more encouraging as he successfully identified a watch and a pencil, and repeated the phrase ‘no, ifs ands or buts’ correctly, but when it came to a paper-folding exercise he became so frustrated with his clumsy attempts that he bunched the paper in his fist, and only just managed to stop himself slamming it down on the desk.
‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised, clearly embarrassed.
Fiona simply smiled, then asked him to compose a short sentence about anything he chose. Taking the pen he wrote, ‘How am I doing so far?’
With a meaningful look that made him smile, she handed him another sheet of paper, saying, ‘I want you to carry out the instruction printed here.’ It said, CLOSE EYES.
David looked at her.
Lisa tensed.
Fiona nodded for him to continue and he promptly closed his eyes.
Next he had to draw a pentagon, which was fine, but when Fiona took out a clock with no hands and asked him to pencil in one forty-five Lisa could hardly believe her eyes. After seeming uncertain he ended up drawing the small hand pointing towards the one, and the other pointing between the four and the five.
