CHAPTER ELEVEN
Next morning, I potter about in my room, listening out to make sure Zak’s not in the kitchen before I zoom through to make another cuppa.
There’s no sign of him. He must be shut up in his room, trying to write.
Eventually, I start thinking that perhaps might be avoiding me. Because let’s face it, I was a bit of an emotional wreck that night when he virtually had to scrape me off the floor before he went to his school reunion. He was really kind to me when I needed it. But I bet he wishes he could have the whole flat to himself, instead of having to cope with a strange woman’s moods!
This thought makes me feel quite mournful, and perversely, I then start wishing he would come through and offer to make me another bacon sandwich.
But he remains in his room.
Looking at the closed door makes me feel down. It’s a relief when one o’clock rolls around and I have to leave to collect Mum.
As I walk out to the car via the café, Sylvia calls from the back room, ‘I baked three cakes last night. Chocolate, date and walnut, and lemon drizzle. Will that be okay for your mum?’
‘Mum likes them all. She’s a bit of a cake-a-holic, like me! See you later.’ I’m so touched that Sylvia has gone out of her way for Mum’s visit. It’s a good omen.
My plan is to bring Mum back and make the most of the milder April weather by taking her for a walk around the village, just her and me. I’m really hoping she might recognise a landmark or two. Then we’ll head back to the café for tea and cake with Sylvia. Zak has offered to take over behind the counter for an hour or two.
When I arrive at Mum’s and ask her if she’s ready for our little trip out to Harrison’s in Sunnybrook, she just looks confused. ‘I can’t go out now. I have to watch that programme,’ she says firmly. ‘It might be on now.’
‘Do you mean Bargain Hunt?’
Her eyes light up. ‘Yes.’ She goes to the remote and switches the TV on. There’s an advert on about a chew for pets and Mum smiles. ‘That looks like Benjy,’ she says.
I laugh delightedly. ‘You’re right, Mum. He looks exactly like Benjy. Well remembered!’ We had a Border Terrier called Benjy when I was little.
It always amazes me that although Mum’s forgotten she watched her favourite programme only half an hour ago, she can still recall things from many years ago.
‘Come on. Let’s get your coat.’
She doesn’t look very happy about it, but I manage to get her organised and into the car.
We drive along in companionable silence for a while.
Then suddenly, she shouts, ‘Stop!’ and grabs the steering wheel.
I swing round and she’s staring at me with a look of sheer panic on her face. ‘You need to stop.’ She looks so genuinely horrified; a surge of fear rushes through me.
‘What’s wrong?’ I glance hastily in the rear view mirror and pull into a bus stop, my mind racing with possibilities. Does she need the loo? Has she forgotten her handbag? Or is it something worse? ‘What is it, Mum?’
She stares at me, her eyes like saucers. ‘We didn’t feed Benjy.’
My heart clenches.
I’m stunned into silence, not knowing how to respond.
This is unfamiliar territory. What do I say? That Benjy died twenty years ago? But would she believe me? She seems so convinced her beloved dog is still with us. I must have been about ten when he died and I remember Mum being utterly devastated. It would upset her all over again to be told the truth.
I hold her hand and take a breath. ‘Benjy’s safe, Mum. You don’t need to worry about him.’
She relaxes slightly. ‘Will he be okay?’
‘He will. And we won’t be away very long, will we? We’ll be back home before you know it.’
I give her a quick hug and she seems happy with my reply, settling back to watch the scenery as I start up the engine again.
I drive along in a daze, a cold feeling inside.
I’ve been trying to make light of her diagnosis, telling myself that everyone’s memory tends to fade as they get older. I can be pretty scatty myself sometimes. Even I forget the right word from time to time.
But I can’t hide from the truth any longer. Mum has a disease and she’s only going to get worse. She will need me more than ever.
Is this how it will be for her from now on? A gradual descent into a nightmare fog where she can no longer distinguish between reality and her own scary imaginings?
I’m going to lose her, bit by bit.
This terrifying realisation makes me want to pull into the side of the road and give in to the tears I’m frantically trying to keep at bay. But I have to stay strong; be my normal jolly self. I can’t let Mum see how upset I am.
I’m tempted to turn the car around and head back to Mum’s, so I don’t have to put on an act with Sylvia and Zak, pretending I’m in the mood for a tea party when the opposite is true.
But I have to face them some time, so it might as well be now. There’s no point hiding from it. Like it or not, this is what’s happening to Mum, and there’s nothing I can do about it, except try to carry on as normally as possible and be there for her every step of the way.
As we draw up outside The Little Duck Pond Café, Mum peers at the building and frowns. ‘I haven’t been to this place before.’
‘No, the cafe was an ordinary house when you used to live here in the village,’ I tell her softly.
She looks at me and frowns. ‘I’ve never lived here.’
‘You did. A long time ago. We’ll go for a walk and see if you recognise the village. But first, I want to show you my flat. I think you’ll like it. It’s got a view of the duck pond.’
‘There’s ducks over there.’ She points.
‘There are indeed. That’s the duck pond.’
‘Well, I know that,’ she scoffs. ‘I’m not daft, you know.’ She gets out of the car and, leaving the door wide open, sets off towards the café.
‘Well, that’s me told!’ I murmur, smiling to myself. Every day with Mum now seems to be an emotional rollercoaster! Hopping out, I run round and close her door then follow her into the café. She’s already sitting at a table, and as join her, she’s saying to Sylvia, ‘I’d like two cups of tea, please. And a slice of cake for this lady.’
She points at me and I grin. ‘This lady? Who am I, Mum?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Well, if I’m Mum, you must be Eleanor,’ she says, with a hint of triumph.
Sylvia grins at me. ‘I didn’t know Eleanor was your real name.’
Before I can say a word, Mum chips in. ‘Eleanor May Farmer. She was born in May but she’s not a farmer.’
Sylvia and I giggle. Mum looks puzzled for a minute then she smiles, too, looking proud to have made a joke.
A mix of emotions whirls though me. An hour earlier, she was convinced Benjy was still alive. Yet just then, she reeled off my entire name without hesitation! I’ve read so much about the disease since Mum was diagnosed, and I’ve learned that it’s not simply a downward slope. There are going to be highs and lows – experiencing devastation one moment when she seems lost to the downward spiral of the illness, then next moment feeling over the moon when she recalls something out of the blue.
I make the introductions. ‘This is Rose. Mum, this is Sylvia. She’s letting me stay in her lovely flat.’
Sylvia holds out her hand. ‘I’d delighted to meet you, Rose. Ellie has told me so much about you.’
‘Oh.’ Mum looks worried so Sylvia adds hurriedly, ‘All delightful stuff, of course.’
Mum smiles and gives Sylvia’s hand a belated shake. Then she leans across and murmurs, ‘She was a proper rascal when she was little.’
‘Was she now?’ Sylvia looks at me and laughs, while I feign total innocence. ‘Do you know, Rose, I can quite believe it. Now, what kind of cake can I get you two ladies?’
‘Your mother is a delight,’ Sylvia says when I go to the counter to help with our order.
I smile gratefully. ‘She remembered my full name!’
There are footsteps on the stairs and Zak appears. He takes in the situation and smiles across at Mum. ‘Well, hello. You must be Rose. I hope they’re looking after you all right?’ He wanders over to her table and Mum’s eyes light up.
‘Who are you?’ she asks, gazing up at him as if he’s the Eighth Wonder of the World. She looks at me and demands, ‘Who is this?’
‘I’m Zak.’ He sits down at the table and Mum beams at him. ‘Here, let me get you a napkin.’ He scrapes back his chair. ‘Can’t have you spoiling your lovely dress with cake crumbs.’
Mum smiles angelically and receives the proffered napkin without taking her eyes off his face.
‘That girl over there is my daughter,’ she says suddenly. ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’
‘Mu-um!’ I protest in embarrassment and Zak turns to smile at me.
‘You’re right. She is beautiful.’ His eyes linger on me for a few seconds longer, an unreadable expression on his face.
I gulp, not quite knowing where to look, heat flooding into my cheeks. Does he really mean that? No, of course he doesn’t! He’s just saying it to please Mum.
‘She obviously takes after you, Rose,’ Zak adds with a wink, and despite my resolve to give him a wide berth, I have a conflicting urge to rush over and kiss him for charming Mum and making her smile like that.
I was worried she might feel awkward with strangers and want to go home to watch Bargain Hunt. But so far, touch wood, things are going well . . .
While I make the tea, Sylvia sits down with her and starts talking about the old days in the village. She whips out a dusty old photo album from a nearby shelf and they pore over it together, Sylvia pointing out people and places.
Surreptitiously, I watch Mum’s reactions. She’s nodding a lot and I’m not sure how much she understands, but she’s smiling and seems thoroughly engaged.
‘And that was the Playhouse Theatre,’ Sylvia is pointing out. I take over the tea tray and glance down at the grand old building in the black and white photo.
Sylvia turns to me. ‘It was knocked down long ago, of course. But I remember when Carousel was on for a week, performed by the local amateur dramatics group, and I went every single night!’
‘Carousel has nice music,’ says Mum.
Sylvia smiles. ‘You’re right there. Do you know the musical, Rose?’
Mum looks suddenly worried and I hold my breath. I’ve learned not to ask her direct questions like this because she tends to get confused and upset if she doesn’t know the answer.
Then Sylvia starts humming her all-time favourite song, ‘When I marry Mr Snow’ – and to my huge surprise, Mum’s face lights up and a second later, she joins in, swaying a little in time to the tune.
‘That’s the one!’ laughs Sylvia delightedly, in between choruses.
The tea and cake go down well as Sylvia and Mum revive all the old musical classics. It amazes me how many of the words Mum seems to remember, and it’s the happiest and most relaxed I’ve felt with her in a while.
After tea, when I suggest a walk around the village, Mum insists on Sylvia coming with us. In the end, I offer to look after the café while the two of them head outside, arm in arm into the April sunshine, singing songs from Oklahoma!
Zak joins me at the window and we watch them meandering down to the duck pond. At one point they stop and do little side kicks in unison, like cancan girls.
‘Your Mum’s quite a character. It must be really hard for you, this.’
‘It is tough. But she won’t go down without a fight, if I know my mum!’
There’s a little pause and I’m painfully aware of his nearness. My nose catches a faint citrus scent that might be shower gel mixed with his own male scent and my head swims. He raises his arm to wave at Mum and Sylvia at the exact same time as me and we collide awkwardly and laugh.
‘She’s one lucky lady to have you to care for her,’ he murmurs, and for a second, I feel his warm hand on my back.
Time seems to stand still as I turn towards him, gazing up into his beautiful, dark-lashed brown eyes.