The seasons came and went, one after the other in regular succession, and Marigold watched them all from the armchair by the big sash window that looked out onto the lawn of Seaview House. Although they were labelled with the words summer, autumn, winter and spring, none of them was ever the same. The reds and yellows of autumn were sometimes a deeper crimson and a brighter gold. Sometimes it snowed, but most often it didn’t. Occasionally frost drew pictures on the window panes and it was fun to try and work out what they were. Marigold found fairies, goblins and leprechauns in the ice, but they’d melt away in the sunshine and then, just as she lamented their departing, the birds would draw her attention, flapping about the feeders in the garden, because no matter what season it was, there were always birds. Marigold loved birds. Their lighthearted song touched her somewhere deep and timeless, in the place where all the love she had received in her life was stored, even though she couldn’t remember those who had given it.
Little by little Marigold’s memories faded away, like wisps of smoke from a dying fire. But she didn’t notice their passing. She gave them up without a fight. There was no struggle, no anxiety, no pain, just a gentle relinquishing of pictures that were no longer vital to her sense of self. As her father had told her, the car was gradually deteriorating and the engine was flagging, but Marigold was still in the driving seat and she was as perfect and whole as she always had been, as she always would be. She took pleasure in the moment. There was lots to enjoy there. She watched the sea, the undulating waves, the light dancing on the water, the foam about the rocks and the seabirds flocking to feast on the shoals of fish just beneath the surface. If one remained in the moment one was never bored or unhappy. What’s wrong with now? she asked herself; nothing was ever wrong with now.
Sometimes Marigold sat and thought, other times she just sat. Occasionally, she would emerge out of the mist and the engine would unexpectedly fire up and the car would cough and splutter and Marigold would come back to life with a little of the enthusiasm that had characterized her former existence. But those days were rare.
It was Christmas Day. Two cars pulled up outside Seaview House and six adults stepped out into the snow with various small children. There was a wreath on the front door and, when they entered the hall, a large Christmas tree decorated with silver tinsel and snowflakes was in the place of the round table that was usually positioned in front of the fireplace which was never lit. The building smelt of cinnamon and baked apples.
Dennis led the way through the hall, armed with a basket of gifts and a bunch of pale pink roses. Behind him Nan followed, holding Suze’s young daughter, Trudie, by the hand. After them came Daisy, carrying her ten-month-old son Owen, and Suze, who was pregnant again. Behind them Batty carried their fifteen-month-old boy and the nappy bag. Taran brought a box of mince pies from his mother, which Sylvia had made.
They entered the sitting room and saw Marigold at once. She was settled into her usual armchair by the window, gazing out onto the white garden. She looked neat and tidy in a skirt and cardigan. The collar of her floral shirt had been ironed with care. Her hair had recently been washed. She wore a little make-up, not too much, just enough to look her best. On the table beside her was the puzzle they had given her. She couldn’t put the pieces together these days, but the nurses said she liked to look at the pictures and read the inscriptions on the back. She was often seen smiling at them, they said, with a tender look on her face.
The party made their way across the room. It was very quiet. The television was on and a group of white-haired ladies were sitting on the sofa, watching a carol service. On the coffee table in front of them, among the magazines, was a recently published book by Suze Fane, entitled Loving with Dementia. It had been a bestseller.
As the family approached, Marigold turned away from the window.
She swept her eyes over the approaching group, not realizing at first that they had come for her. Her expression was curious, the face of a passive observer. Of someone who wasn’t expecting to be part of the action but was quite content to watch it happen around her. Then Dennis smiled at her and she looked a little startled. ‘Hello, love,’ he said gently. He knew better than to bend down and kiss her. That’s what he used to do but things were different now. He took one of the chairs and sat down. ‘Happy Christmas, Goldie. We’ve brought you some presents.’ He hadn’t brought her a puzzle. She didn’t remember their tradition anymore.
When Marigold saw Nan, her face lit up and she smiled with recognition. She remembered her mother. ‘Hello, Marigold,’ Nan said and took the chair beside her. Suze’s daughter climbed onto her great-grandmother’s knee and watched Marigold warily. Batty and Taran pulled up some more chairs and the four of them sat down. There was a lot of bustle as Batty put the nappy bag on the carpet and Taran found a table for the mince pies. Daisy sat close to her mother, her baby in her arms, while Suze sat beside Nan. A moment later Trudie put out her arms and Suze gathered her onto her knee. The little girl continued to watch Marigold with suspicion.
‘Well, isn’t this nice,’ said Dennis, heartily patting his knees, trying to act as if everything was normal. ‘Isn’t the snow lovely. Like Narnia,’ he added.
‘You like snow, don’t you, Marigold?’ said Nan. ‘You’ve always liked snow.’
Marigold turned her eyes to the snow and remained there a while, enjoying the way the sunlight caught the crystals and made them glitter.
‘I love Christmas,’ said Suze. ‘I’ve always loved presents.’
Marigold turned her attention back to the group. She smiled at Daisy, the gracious smile of a stranger. ‘How very kind of you,’ she said.
‘And I’ve brought mince pies from my mother,’ said Taran.
Marigold didn’t know who he was, let alone his mother, but she didn’t want to let on. ‘That’s very sweet of her. Thank you.’ Again the gracious smile of someone wanting to be polite, of someone not wanting to say the wrong thing.
‘How about we make some tea,’ suggested Daisy, hoping to diffuse the tension that was slowly building around them.
Marigold’s face grew animated suddenly. ‘That’s a good idea. Let’s have a nice cup of tea,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing nicer than a cup of tea when it’s cold outside.’
Daisy stood up and handed the baby to Taran. ‘I’ll pop to the kitchen and boil the kettle.’
Suze stood up too. ‘I’ll help you,’ she declared. ‘We’re a big party and I imagine we all want one.’
Marigold looked at the two pretty girls, then at the men. What a handsome group, she thought. Then she turned to Nan. ‘Whatever happened to that lovely man, Dennis? Did he ever marry?’ she asked. ‘He was handsome, wasn’t he?’
Daisy and Suze froze. They looked at their father in panic. Dennis stared at Marigold. She did not notice the pain she had inflicted.
Nan opened her mouth to say something. Daisy felt an urgent need to pre-empt her, but couldn’t find the words. Then Nan patted her daughter’s hand and nodded, realizing at last what was required of her. ‘He was indeed very handsome,’ she said softly. ‘He married a lovely girl. A beautiful, kind and unselfish girl. The two of them have been very happy. In fact, I’d say, they’ve been happier than anyone else I’ve ever met.’
‘How nice,’ said Marigold.
And Dennis realized then that the book entitled Dennis had finally fallen off the shelf. He wondered what the point was in coming here, week after week, year after year. What was the point of it all? He looked at the pale pink roses on the carpet at his feet and wondered why he bothered. They had long ceased to bring her back to him. He lifted his gaze to her guileless face, to the sweet smile that hovered uncertainly upon it, and something snagged inside his heart.
And then he knew. He knew with a certainty that rose in him like a powerful wave, an indestructible wave of unconditional love, and he understood. It didn’t matter that she didn’t know who he was, because he knew who she was. She was his Goldie, his beloved, beautiful, irreplaceable Goldie, and she always would be.