By early afternoon, she was feeling more human. She had slept for a couple of hours, then forced herself to get up and shower. She certainly wasn’t firing on all cylinders, but the world had stopped spinning and her stomach had settled. She sipped at a cup of sweet tea and nibbled a biscuit, and could feel the sugar working its magic.
Daniel wouldn’t be back from the zoo trip until early evening, so she had several hours to herself. She ought to do something constructive, like wash windows or shampoo carpets – something to atone for her bad behaviour. But all she wanted to do was see her mother: she couldn’t get the image of Flora’s screaming face out of her head. Even though she had been calmer and quieter by the time Nathan persuaded her to lie on the bed, Eve was still horrified at the reaction she’d caused.
She got in the car and drove – very slowly, she was probably still over the limit – to Three Elms. As she walked into the foyer, she heard singing and realised the children from St Barnabas must be in again.
The woman behind the desk saw her pause, and smiled. ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘They’re having an extra rehearsal this afternoon because the kiddies can’t come in next week, they’ve got their nativity play. I love listening to them!’
Standing in the door to the lounge, Eve saw the teacher at the far end of the room, his arms swinging up and down as he conducted the singing. The children were sitting cross-legged on the carpet in front of him, and the residents were behind them on armchairs and sofas that had been dragged into a semicircle.
‘Four French hens, three calling birds…!’
There was an extraordinary range of voices, from croaky tenors to shrill sopranos, but everyone in the room was singing – even the care workers standing at the back.
‘Two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree!’
‘Fantastic!’ called the teacher. ‘Give yourselves a round of applause.’
As everyone clapped and a bubble of chatter spread around the room, Eve saw Flora sitting by the window. She was perched on a sofa, smiling broadly and leaning forward to speak to one of the children, a little girl with a mass of auburn curls. They were talking about something, the girl stretching her arms wide and throwing her head back, as if singing to the stars. Flora laughed and clapped her hands together in delight, then drew the child towards her in a hug.
Eve slipped in at the back of the room.
‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’ whispered the care worker standing beside her. ‘I love seeing them all so happy.’
There were two more carols. Away in a Manger went relatively well, but no one could remember the words for the last verse of We Three Kings and the children were starting to fidget on the carpet, some yawning, others chatting.
‘Right, I think that’s enough for today,’ called the teacher. ‘Well done everyone, this is going to be fantastic. Children, say goodbye and line up by the door.’
Eve made her way over to where Flora was sitting, and smiled at the auburn-haired girl, who was taking a long time to say goodbye.
‘…And because I’m a shepherd, I’m going to wear a cloak and have a stick with a hook on the end,’ she was telling Flora. ‘My friend Lauren is going to be an angel and she’s got a halo that her mummy made from tinsel.’
‘That sounds perfect,’ said Flora, glancing sideways and seeing Eve. ‘Oh hello, darling. This is Olivia. She and I are singing together in the concert. Olivia, this is my daughter, Eve.’
‘Hello,’ said Eve. ‘That’s a lovely name.’
‘Thank you,’ said the girl. ‘Yours is lovely too. It’s like Christmas Eve, which is my favourite day of the year.’ She turned and waved at Flora. ‘See you soon!’ she said and ran to join the other children by the door.
‘What a sweetheart,’ said Eve.
‘She always sits near me when they come in,’ said Flora, beaming. ‘We have an understanding, Olivia and I. Isn’t she delightful? She was very shy at first, would hardly say a word to me. But now we chat away like old friends.’
With the children gone, a clanking and rattling heralded the arrival of the afternoon tea trolley, and Eve helped the care workers push the furniture back into its usual place, around the edges of the room.
‘How are you feeling today, Mum?’ she asked, sitting down next to Flora.
‘I’m fine, thank you, dear.’
‘I’m so sorry about yesterday. I really didn’t mean to upset you. Were you all right after I left?’
Flora was looking at her in surprise. ‘Yes, of course. I was fine. Why do you ask?’
‘Well, you were upset when I showed you those letters. It was so stupid of me, and I feel awful about it. I should have talked to you first, rather than just bringing them in here. Please forgive me.’
Flora shook her head, smiling up at a girl who was handing her a cup and saucer. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Eve. I’m absolutely fine. I don’t know why I need to forgive you. Excuse me…! Have you got any bourbons today?’
‘Do you really not remember?’ Eve was amazed. She knew many small things slipped Flora’s mind, but what happened yesterday afternoon had been so traumatic. How could she already have forgotten about it?
Flora shrugged. ‘I don’t think so, darling. There was a lot going on yesterday. They do keep us busy in here, you know.’
‘It was letters you’d written,’ persisted Eve. She should probably stop; she didn’t want a repeat of yesterday. But maybe if she could just spark off a memory somewhere in Flora’s head, other things might come back to her? ‘You wrote them to Alan, do you remember him?’
‘Of course I do!’ Flora said with a sniff. ‘Your father. Why would I not remember him? Don’t be so silly, Eve. He would have loved that little singing session we had with the children just now. He had a marvellous voice, you know, he could always hold a tune. You used to sing with him when you were still tiny, before you started walking – he’d bounce you on his knee and you’d sing all sorts of things together.’
Eve held out the photo frame. ‘Here. I took this by mistake, yesterday. It’s the one you have on your bedside table.’
Flora peered at it. ‘Oh, I don’t want that old thing anymore,’ she said, tutting. ‘You keep it.’
‘Ah, there you are!’ Barbara appeared and collapsed onto the sofa, the cushions shaking so much that the cup and saucer rattled in Flora’s hands. ‘I haven’t missed the trolley, have I?’
‘No, dear,’ said Flora. ‘You’re just in time. They’ve got bourbons today.’
Eve studied her mother’s face, looking for a glimmer, some flicker of memory at the mention of Alan’s name. But there was nothing. Flora was smiling, relaxed and calm; her mood today a complete contrast with the hysteria of yesterday. Was this all a show? Maybe Flora knew exactly what Eve was asking and was deliberately choosing to feign ignorance? Overnight she would have had time to calm down and gather her thoughts together – decide how she was going to deal with her daughter’s impertinence.
No, that couldn’t be the case: if Flora hadn’t been able to control her reaction yesterday, she wouldn’t be able to do so today. Without even being aware she was doing it, she had simply managed to file away their disturbing exchange in some distant part of her brain, where it could stay hidden and not upset her any further. If there was anything positive to be said for dementia, it was this ability to forget distress.
‘I like a bourbon,’ said Barbara. ‘You can pull the biscuits on the outside away from the chocolatey bit in the centre. I do the same with custard creams.’
Eve looked at the two women, sitting side by side. They made an odd couple: one short, skinny and pale, the other taller and dumpy with ruddy cheeks and bright red lipstick slashed across her protruding teeth.
There had been no more mention of the trip to Alton Towers, which was a relief: Eve couldn’t imagine what would happen if they really did try to take themselves off to Staffordshire for the day. But you had to give it to them: that sparkle had been admirable.
She’d been furious with Flora when the two women made their bid for freedom through the front gates of Three Elms, but also surprisingly proud that, despite the confines of increasing dementia and physical infirmity, her mother was still a feisty old thing. Hopefully that flicker of gutsiness would never fade.
‘Are you not taking part in the carol concert, Barbara?’ asked Eve.
The woman looked at her aghast, as if Eve had suggested she put on a pair of trainers and do star jumps in the garden. ‘Good Lord, no. Why would I want to do that?’
‘Well, it seems like fun, in the run-up to Christmas?’
Barbara tutted and raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘I am absolutely not taking part in anything involving children. Can’t stand them. They are irritating, noisy and generally disruptive. I would rather stick knitting needles in my eyes than sing carols with a bunch of small children.’
Eve’s mouth dropped open: she didn’t know what to say. But, as Barbara turned to wave and get the attention of the woman who was serving up cups of tea, Flora leant towards Eve and whispered, loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear, ‘The truth is, darling, she’s got the most dreadful voice. Can’t sing for toffee. The rest of us are relieved she’s not taking part: when Barbara sings it’s like sitting next to a foghorn.’