B07B2VX1LR

by Imogen Clark

  ‘I do indeed,’ she says, her head nodding to show that she’s with me. ‘That’s only to be expected, given his condition. He can’t help it, of course, but it does make it a bit difficult to get on with everything else.’

  I am immediately less nervous. She understands what it has been like for me all this time and I feel the pressure lift just a little.

  ‘We all have our moments,’ she continues. ‘I know I certainly do. It’s just a matter of knowing how to deal with them. Through here, are we?’

  As she smiles widely at me, I see that her front teeth have a gap between them that modern dentistry wouldn’t have left alone. She pushes open the sitting-room door before I have chance to show her. In any other part of my life, I would find this directness uncomfortable, but as I watch her make herself comfortable on my sofa I realise that this is exactly what I am looking for. Someone to play the grown-up so I don’t have to.

  ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’

  ‘No thank you,’ she says, dismissing my question with a flick of her hand. ‘I’m awash with the stuff. Now, why don’t you tell me something about your father and how things work around here?’

  And so, before I know it, I am telling her everything: my frustration with Dad’s unpredictability, my inability to cope with his constant questions, the guilt. As I speak she nods like she’s heard it all before, which she probably has. From time to time, she interrupts with phrases like, ‘He does that, does he?’ or, ‘Oh, he’s one of those,’ which gives me confidence. And the more she seems to understand, the more details I share with her until my feelings of disloyalty have completely left me and I have laid bare our life together, such as it is.

  ‘I work from home, too,’ I add, ‘which makes things a bit tricky.’ I nod at the pile of bridal magazines on the coffee table. ‘I’m not about to get married,’ I say when her eyes dart to my left hand. ‘I design wedding dresses for a living. I have a workroom here in the house.’

  She nods but she doesn’t ask any questions about me, which I find strangely disappointing even though I usually hate talking about myself.

  ‘Anyway,’ I continue quickly, ‘I talked it over with my brother, Michael. He lives in London now and we don’t see that much of him.’ I don’t tell her why. I don’t want to scare her off before we’ve even started. ‘And we agreed that the time has definitely come to call in the professionals. And so here you are.’

  I sit back a little in my seat, smiling at her like a schoolgirl with a headmistress, and it crosses my mind how much I want to please her. Things would be so much less complicated if I could just offer her the job and get on with it but I remind myself that I need to be sure. This is about Dad and his needs, not me and mine.

  ‘Well, I’m happy to go ahead if you are,’ she says, as if reading my mind. ‘I can work whatever hours you need,’ she says. ‘Evenings too, at a rate to be agreed, and I can live in to cover the nights when we reach that point. That’s if you don’t want him to go to a hospice, of course.’

  A lump rises in my throat like a stone. Having someone talk in such matter-of-fact terms about the end of my father’s life is like a stab to the heart but at the same time it’s almost comforting to hear her practical honesty.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she says when she sees me struggling to hold back the tears. ‘I know this must be hard for you, but never you worry. I’ve seen it all before. My job is to make things as painless for you as I possibly can.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I reply, my eyes pricking. ‘It’s just that . . . well, you know.’ Swallowing hard, I return to practicalities, pushing the pain back down. ‘When he was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s five years ago, he was okay really – just a bit confused sometimes. But now he seems to be declining quite quickly. He’s not safe to be left on his own anymore. He gets muddled really easily and then he gets upset. He doesn’t tend to be violent but he can be.’

  I’m suddenly worried that my honesty will put her off, which makes me realise how much I want her to stay.

  ‘That’s not a problem, is it?’ I ask quickly. ‘It’s not very often – the violence, I mean. It’s really quite rare. Maybe once a month or something. And he’s never hit me. He tends to throw stuff. I suppose it’s more frustration than anything else.’

  The nurse nods, like she understands exactly what I am trying to say.

  ‘That’s okay,’ she says. ‘It’s very common. It can be a little bit frightening but it’s just a matter of knowing how to handle it. You’ll see from my references that I’ve plenty of experience of nursing people with Alzheimer’s. I do understand how hard this must be for you. Entrusting the care of someone you love to a stranger is a difficult thing to do but hopefully I won’t be a stranger for long.’

  Even though this sounds like a well-rehearsed speech, I decide there and then that I’m going to offer her the job.

  ‘Shall I show you around?’ I ask her. ‘I’m afraid it’s a bit of a tip. Things have got slightly on top of me.’ I smile apologetically but she dismisses my fears with a wave of her hand. I like her more every minute. ‘Dad’s room is still upstairs,’ I continue, ‘but there’s a room that we can use down here when he can’t make the stairs anymore. We’ve already had various alterations done, handrails on the stairs and in the bathroom and what have you. You can see and then, if you’re happy to go ahead, we can arrange for you to meet Dad.’

  She looks at me with a kind, broad smile.

  ‘That would be just fine,’ she says.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Annie, 1969

  Annie dreams of running away to Frinton-on-Sea. She has never actually been to the smart little seaside town but her mother received a postcard from there once and Annie liked the look of the place. For a few weeks, the card was proudly displayed on the mantelpiece in the best room and Annie would stare at it for as long as she could get away with, losing herself in the row of wooden beach huts that lined the shore. Her favourite was painted a delicate shade of pistachio green. She pictured a tiny bed nestling inside, with a pink satin eiderdown, a rocking horse and stripy seaside curtains that she could draw against the world. Her perfect home.

  The postcard sat propped against the carriage clock until one day her father snatched it down during some row or other and ripped it neatly into four pieces. Annie wanted to stop him, to explain about the tiny bed and the rocking horse. But in the end it was easier just to let him tear it up. She was already learning that her dreams would often end up in tiny pieces in the dustbin.

  When she told her older sister, Ursula, that she was going to run away, Ursula laughed at her. How could she possibly escape? There was nowhere to go. Annie spat back, telling her about her beach hut in Frinton-on-Sea. For just a moment, Ursula looked confused. How could there be a safe place that Annie knew about and she did not? Then she just laughed at her again because she was older and knew everything and Annie cried hot, angry tears of frustration. She never mentioned Frinton again but she squirrelled it away in her memory for use in emergencies, for when things got really tough.

  Of course, Annie can’t run away anyway. She’s only ten. It’s just a stupid dream. Ursula, at thirteen, stands a better chance of escape but she never seems to crave it as deeply as Annie does. When things are bad, Ursula just takes herself off to her room and sketches until it’s safe to come down again. Later, Annie comes to realise that that was Ursula’s escape, into her art. Annie had to rely on her mind to get her out of there. She comes to see, though, that her mind was a false friend, sometimes on her side but more often leading her down blind alleys and into dark places where she should never have been.

  Right now, Annie is in the kitchen of the family home in East London peeling the potatoes for dinner. The peeler is blunt, the string unravelling from the handle and getting in her way, and the pile of potatoes still to be peeled seems to be growing not shrinking, as if someone keeps adding one when she isn’t looking. She puts her hand into the cold, muddy water and chases a potato a
round the sides of the washing-up bowl, finally catching it and lifting it out with a flourish. She examines it for eyes and green bits but this one is blemish-free. She is just sliding the peeler across its skin when she hears the front door bang. Her eyes flick up to the clock on the kitchen wall. It is only half past four. He’s early. She lowers her head and peels more quickly. She can hear him moving about the house, dropping his keys in the bowl on the hall table, hanging up his coat, opening the door to the front room. She knows he will come into the kitchen next. She peels faster still, removing far more flesh than skin even though she knows that will land her in trouble too.

  The door opens and there he is, her father: a short, compact kind of man, with thick, sandy hair that sits in tight waves under the Brylcreem that he uses to keep it under control. Everything about him is solid.

  ‘Hello there, sweetheart,’ he says. ‘What’s for dinner?’

  She can tell as soon as he speaks that, for now, things are going to be normal. She allows herself to relax slightly but steals a glance up at him, just to check. He is standing steady in the doorway, a broad smile showing his tobacco-yellow teeth.

  ‘It’s egg and chips, Dad,’ she says. ‘I’m just peeling the spuds.’

  ‘Good girl,’ he says.

  That pleases her. She craves his praise, despite everything.

  ‘Where’s your mother?’ he asks, with no hint of irritation, and she relaxes a bit further.

  ‘Not back from work yet,’ Annie says. ‘And Ursula’s gone to the shop to get more eggs.’

  ‘Good girl,’ he says again. ‘Be a treasure and make your old Dad a cup of tea.’

  He is loosening his tie as he leaves the room, signalling the end of one part of his day. She nods and puts the peeler down smartly in order to fill the kettle straightaway. Muddy water splashes back on to her blouse, telltale brown spots staining the blue fabric. She holds her breath but he has already turned to leave and does not see the mess she’s made. Her panicked mind is racing with solutions to the potential stain before the water has even fully soaked in. She’ll put her cardigan back on when she takes him his tea. He’ll never notice. She fills the kettle and places it on the hob, struggling a little with the weight of it. As she is lighting the flame beneath it carefully, the front door bangs again. Ursula is back.

  ‘That miserable old sod in the corner shop tried to sell me cracked eggs again. I think he thought I wouldn’t notice,’ she shouts as she comes through to the kitchen. ‘But I was on to him. “I might be young,” I told him, “but I’m not stupid. I’ll have half a dozen of your best eggs. Or at least ones that aren’t cracked.” He must think I was born yesterday.’

  ‘Dad’s home,’ Annie says, cutting across her tirade to give her chance to be quieter, but Ursula does not miss a beat. She puts the eggs down on the table with some coppers. ‘He’s all right, though,’ Annie adds.

  Ursula shrugs as if it is no skin off her nose how their father is but, as she takes her coat off to hang on the hooks on the back door, Annie sees her wince ever so slightly.

  ‘Does it still hurt?’ she asks quietly.

  Ursula scowls at her and Annie braces herself for more trouble but then Ursula’s face softens a little.

  ‘It’s not too bad,’ she says. ‘Just a bit sore.’

  ‘Do you think we should tell Mum? It might be broken or something.’

  Ursula’s scowl is back as fast as it had disappeared.

  ‘Fat lot of good it’ll do telling her,’ she says, the words spitting from her mouth like hot fat from a pan. ‘It’ll be fine,’ she continues, her voice gentler. ‘It just hurts sometimes, if I catch it wrong. It’ll get better. It just needs time.’

  ‘We could tell someone at school,’ Annie presses on. ‘Mrs Williams says that if ever there’s anything worrying us we can always talk to her.’

  ‘That’s junior school. It’s different when you move up. No one cares there. They’ve all got problems of their own. Don’t worry, Annie. It’ll heal. It always does. The important thing is just to stay out of his way. Now you get on with those chips and I’ll set the table.’

  ‘He wants a cup of tea,’ Annie says.

  Ursula’s expression blackens yet again and Annie thinks for one terrible moment that she is going to explode, but then she seems to think better of it.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ she says through gritted teeth.

  Annie fishes a half-peeled potato from the brown water and continues stripping away the muddy skin in steady, firm strokes, keeping her head down.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Cara, 2017

  ‘So, you think this nurse is what you need?’ Beth asks me when we meet for coffee in our favourite café in Ilkley later that week. Beth, best friend and confidante, has been constantly at my side since we were at primary school. We have scrambled over each and every developmental hurdle together and she is the person with whom I share the most memories. It’s hackneyed to say that she’s the sister that I never had, but she is.

  The café, tucked away at the bottom of town where only the locals can find it, is tastefully decorated in muted shades of grey with mismatched tables and chairs. Huge plate-glass windows are perpetually steamed up by the coffee machines and the breath of women. The aromas of roasted coffee and toasted teacakes mingle deliciously in the fuggy air.

  ‘I think so,’ I say, picturing the nurse in my mind’s eye as I speak. ‘She’s got the right experience and she seems really down to earth. I like her. We clicked.’

  I take the last mouthful of my coffee but it’s gone cold in the cup. I resist the urge to spit it back.

  ‘What’s her name?’ asks Beth. ‘We can’t keep calling her “the nurse”.’

  ‘Angela Partington,’ I say. ‘But I can’t call her Angela. It just doesn’t feel right somehow. And Partington is such a mouthful.’

  ‘Well you have to call her something,’ says Beth, wrinkling her nose in thought. ‘How about Mrs P? It gives you a touch of distance but it’s not quite as formal as the full thing.’

  I turn the name over a couple of times, feel how it sits in my mouth. It makes me smile.

  ‘What?’ Beth asks.

  ‘Mrs P,’ I say. ‘Like Mary Poppins. Right. I’ll get us some more coffee and then you can tell me your news.’

  I scoop up our empty cups and make my way across to the counter. When I get back, Beth has kicked off her shoes and is sitting with her legs curled beneath her. She’s studying her phone, her dark hair flopping down in front of her face.

  ‘Greg never answers my texts,’ she says as I sit down. ‘I sometimes wonder if he even reads them. I suppose they aren’t really important. It’s not life-or-death stuff. But when I message him and he doesn’t bother to reply it makes me feel so needy.’

  She seems to shrink a little into her seat, like someone has let a little bit of air out of her. It is my job to boost her back up.

  ‘He’s probably just busy with a patient or in surgery or something,’ I say as brightly as I can.

  I suspect Greg is playing games with her. He strikes me as the sort but it’s not going to help matters to tell Beth that. She rolls her eyes at me, the briefest flash of irritation as she tightens her lips.

  ‘I’m not entirely stupid. I do work in a hospital too,’ she half snaps, and I can tell that I’m going to have to tread more carefully where Greg is concerned. Of course, she can’t maintain her anger because she’s Beth and it’s vanished before I have chance to reverse out. She changes the subject and the atmosphere recovers.

  ‘So, what does Michael think of this nurse? Mrs P?’

  She emphasises the letter, making a popping sound with her lips.

  ‘Oh, you know Michael,’ I say. ‘He’s basically left me to get on with it. He agreed in principle but I get the impression that he thinks I’ve failed somehow.’

  Beth bristles, the emotion of a few moments ago now turned against my brother.

  ‘That’s rubbish and you know it. If he really thinks
that then he should come up here and try to deal with your dad himself. See how long he lasts. It’s all very well being judgemental way down there in London. I’d like to see how he’d cope with a week at the coalface.’

  I raise my coffee cup to my mouth and hold it there until the heat starts to burn my lip.

  ‘I suppose there’s always been that thing between him and your dad,’ Beth says, and I feel a shiver run all the way down my spine.

  That’s the trouble with childhood friends. They have long memories.

  We both sip our drinks, at ease with the gentle silence between us. Behind us the coffee machine hisses and the sound of chinking crockery mixes with the low murmur of conversation.

  ‘What are you up to at the weekend?’ I ask.

  Her face brightens again.

  ‘Greg’s taking me away,’ she says. Her dark eyes sparkle as she speaks and I fear this must be love, the real deal. ‘He won’t say where,’ she continues. ‘He just said to pack something gorgeous.’

  ‘And your passport?’ I ask.

  Her shoulders drop a little. ‘He didn’t say anything about my passport so I took that to mean that I wouldn’t be needing it. What do you think?’

  I have to agree. ‘There are still loads of fabulous places that he can take you,’ I add.

  ‘I know! I’ve been trying to think where it might be. It can’t be too far because he’s on call on Sunday but there’s that country house place at Bolton Abbey. The one with the spa, you know? Or maybe one of those boutique hotels in Harrogate?’ Beth bites her lip. ‘Can you keep a secret?’