2018
SATURDAY. TWENTY PAST FOUR, MY kitchen clock tells me. I don’t know where the time goes. I sleep in late these days, have a little nap in the afternoon. Sometimes I wake in the evening to find I’m in my chair in the living room. A whole hour gone. I never used to sleep so much. I didn’t have the time. Even after I was retired, I was always busy driving off somewhere; the shops, the garden centre, my keep-fit class, the cinema. And of course, I was looking after Amy then. I’d pick her up from school and she’d spend a few hours with me, have her tea. It meant Suzanne could go to work. I think that’s partly why they moved back to Ludthorpe when Amy was three; they knew I’d love to see more of my only granddaughter, that I’d be happy to help.
It’s the third Saturday in November according to my calendar – I’ve got a picture of Peru. It’s almost a whole week since we went to see George. I’ve written in today’s square: Ask Amy about Rupert. I want to know where Rupert is now. I want to look him in the eye and decide for myself if I think he had anything to do with Lucy’s disappearance. I think of his note: I’ll do whatever it takes.
I’ll go into town to see Amy. She’ll be finishing her shift soon. I can’t sit around here all day turning it over in my mind.
I slip on my coat and shoes and then I’m out in the late-autumn afternoon. The pavements glisten from earlier rain. I turn down Willow Avenue, avoiding Sycamore Street as I always do. I use the new zebra crossing and walk along the path by the green, passing the war memorial. The plane tree leaves have fallen now, creating a carpet of brown and yellow.
Then it happens; the fogginess descends.
One minute I know where I am and where I’m going. Now, I don’t know anything. I stop and take a few deep breaths. I need to keep breathing, keep moving. It always returns to me – where I am, what I’m doing, I just need to be patient, wait for the fog to clear. The panic rises in my throat and my neck feels hot and prickly. The more I fight it, the more the panic takes over.
Lucy.
The name pops into my mind.
I mustn’t let Lucy down. But where is she?
And where am I?
Nothing looks familiar. A busy street. Cars passing. People with shopping bags. A woman talking into a mobile telephone. A poodle on a pink lead. No one is looking at me. No one seems to know me. I look for some sign, something to let me know where I am. My pulse is racing; the blankness is terrifying.
I find myself outside a coffee shop. It looks warm, inviting. There are cakes in the window on an old-fashioned tiered stand, fairy lights, some kind of fake snow that looks like confetti. I can feel it in my mouth, the papery taste, before I spit it out. Only when I look down I’m no longer wearing my blue voile dress, and I can’t hear wedding bells, only music coming from inside the shop. The sign in the window says The Tea Tree.
I flop into an available chair at a table for two, glad to be away from the busy street. I can hear the clinking of teacups, the whirring of a coffee machine, chatter. The café is playing a song by The Beach Boys. I can’t remember the name of the song but the melody and some of the words are familiar. It is something comforting to hang onto.
A young girl behind the counter spots me. She’s wearing an apron and a pair of those black basketball shoes young people like to wear. Her dark hair is up in a bun; a tiny silver stud in her nose catches the light as she moves. She’s heading over, pulling a notepad out of her apron. She pauses when she realises how heavily I’m breathing.
‘Um, excuse me, are you okay? Do you need some help?’
I glance around. No one is looking at me. There doesn’t appear to be anyone here I know, anyone I’m supposed to be meeting. ‘I’ve lost my way,’ I tell her. My voice sounds small and shaky and I cringe at the sound of it, sliding down into my chair, my neck and ears hot. I don’t want to be a burden to anyone, and I don’t know how to explain about the fog, that if I just sit here for a minute it’s bound to lift.
The girl tilts her head, still holding on to her notepad and pen. ‘Where were you trying to get to?’ she asks kindly.
I feel so stupid. Come on, I tell my brain. Give me something. Something other than The Beach Boys. ‘I’m looking for Lucy.’
The girl glances around. ‘There’s no one here called Lucy. No one who works here, anyway . . .’ She stops and stares at me. ‘Wait. You’re Amy’s nan, aren’t you? I came over once after school. You made us toast.’
‘Did I?’
The girl nods.
‘I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a muddle. I’m not quite sure how to get home.’
She tucks her notepad back into her apron. ‘Perhaps I should go and fetch Amy for you? She’s only down the road. We got the jobs at the same time. I’m glad I’m here and not at Exquisite. I’m not one for fashion, really. I prefer coffee. Anyway . . .’ The girl waves her hand in the direction of the street. ‘Maybe I should tell her you’re here? If you’re not feeling well?’
The sound of the coffee machine, the chatter and the clinking teacups, The Beach Boys, are all too loud. Colours swirl in front of my eyes, making me feel unsteady.
‘I think I should get her,’ the girl says, peering down at me. ‘Just wait here for a sec. I’ll ask Seb to make you a cuppa. I’m Ella, by the way.’
She rushes over to the counter where a tall boy with dark floppy hair is busy arranging a mug and a slice of cake on a tray. She whispers something in his ear. He glances at me then nods and I look away, embarrassed.
The girl leaves the tea shop without even putting a coat on. I stare out of the window. I don’t remember it ever happening as bad as this before. I just need a moment, I tell myself. Everything will be fine in just a moment. I have to wait it out, like a visit to the dentist.
A cup of tea arrives in front of me. The boy has placed one of those little wrapped biscuits on the side of the saucer.
‘On the house,’ he says, smiling.
I put as much milk in as I can without it spilling over, my hand shaking. Out of the tea room window I watch a young woman in a brown jacket pushing a buggy. Then the door opens and a girl with wavy hair steps in. She’s wearing a flowery dress with a long cardigan and chunky boots; she’s got lots of rings on her fingers.
She rushes towards me.
‘Lucy?’
The girl stops, blinking rapidly. I can see I’ve surprised her. ‘No,’ she says softly, pulling up a chair. She sits down and takes hold of both my hands. ‘Nan, it’s Amy.’
For a moment, I don’t know her. Then I do. Of course I do.
My eyes fill with tears, my chin trembles. ‘Oh, Amy,’ I say. ‘I didn’t know you.’
‘It’s okay, Nan,’ Amy says, smiling at me, trying not to show her disappointment, her sadness. ‘It was just for a moment. You know now, don’t you?’ She bites her lip.
I nod, rummaging in my bag for a tissue. I find one and dab at my eyes.
‘I got in a muddle and I ended up here.’
‘How about we get you home?’ Amy puts a hand on my arm.
‘Isn’t there somewhere you should be? I don’t want to be a burden . . .’
Amy shakes her head. ‘Don’t be silly. It’s fine. My shift’s nearly over. And Sheila – she’s very understanding. She’s got a dad with— Well, she’s got a dad who gets in a muddle sometimes.’
I stand, gathering up my bag, and Amy helps me with my coat.
‘Can we walk through the park?’ I ask as she holds the door for me. Amy will leave when we get home. I don’t want her to go. I want her to stay with me a little while longer.
‘Sure. I wouldn’t mind the fresh air. I’ve been running backwards and forwards from the fitting room to the shop floor all day. Or else I’ve been stuck in the cupboard – Sheila calls it the stockroom – hanging the new knitwear.’ Amy chuckles then gives me her arm. I take it gratefully: it feels steady, reassuring. We walk slowly along the road and enter the park.
‘Can we cross the bridge?’ I ask.
‘Of course.’
We stand on the bridge and I peer over the edge. The water is clear but I can’t see any fish.
‘We used to play Poohsticks on this bridge, Nan. Do you remember?’
I do. I can see Amy running from one side to the other in her little pink coat. We used to give her the best sticks.
‘I went for tests, didn’t I?’ I ask. ‘Tests about my brain.’
Amy grips the side of the bridge. ‘Yes,’ she says quietly. ‘Did you forget?’
I look down again at the trickling water. The air is filled with the scent of wet leaves and woodsmoke. ‘How long has it been?’ I ask her. ‘Since I went for the tests?’
She glances uncertainly at me. ‘About six months. But you’ll have to ask Dad if you want the exact date.’
I shake my head. ‘I just wondered how long it had been. When did they say I should come back?’
‘I think they said a year,’ Amy says softly, pulling her cardigan more tightly around her.
‘I failed, didn’t I? I failed the tests.’
I recall a room with white walls, a woman in a grey blazer who looked at me with sympathy. It was a look I didn’t like, a look I wasn’t used to. She asked me questions and I didn’t get many of them correct. She sprang them on me, I didn’t have time to prepare, I hadn’t checked my calendar. Then there was a maths question. I’ve never been very good at maths, just like my mother. I tried to tell her about my mother messing up people’s change at the grocer’s but she wasn’t listening to me. She just nodded politely and said, ‘Let’s move on then, shall we, Edie?’ She reeled off a list of objects and I was supposed to repeat the list back to her. It was just like when Arthur and I used to watch The Generation Game on Saturday evenings. We’d try and remember more objects than the contestants did. Only at least on The Generation Game you could see them all whizzing by: the toasters, the footballs and the teddy bears. How is anyone supposed to remember a list of objects if you can’t even see them? The woman had a piece of fruit on her desk, perhaps for her lunch, and she asked me what it was. Such a silly question! Only when she asked, I couldn’t think. The word had wandered off. They do that sometimes. It’s as if there’s a door in my brain marked EXIT and they’ve all jumped through it, laughing at me over their shoulders as they go. ‘Orange?’ I tried.
‘It’s a peach,’ the woman said, giving me that awful sympathetic look again.
How ridiculous to have a peach for lunch – the juice will go everywhere. No wonder I couldn’t think what it was.
We leave the bridge and walk towards a bench. I tell Amy I want to sit for a minute; I’m not quite ready to go home. I look at her, wanting to know the answer to my question, wanting to know if I failed, but I can see she’s struggling. She twists one of the rings on her fingers.
‘They said you’re in the early stages of dementia, Nan. That’s all I know. They explained to Dad about the different stages, and how we need to keep an eye on you.’
Dementia. That was what the woman had said that day. Dementia is what’s stealing my time, my memories. It’s responsible for the fog, the static, the lost words. I’ve tried to fight it but I’m losing.
I touch the pendant at my neck, the tiny rose, pressing it between my fingertips. I don’t ask Amy any more. I don’t want to upset her. It’s enough that she’s here with me, that I know she’s here with me. The fog has lifted, as I knew it would. I’m just having a bad day, that’s all. There will be more bad days, but there will be good ones, too. I am fortunate to still have those. I will hold tightly onto each good day.
‘Is that why I’m seeing Lucy?’ I ask.
‘I think so,’ Amy says slowly. ‘Changes in perception. Hallucinations. It’s your brain misunderstanding the information being received from your senses.’
‘I thought I was seeing ghosts.’
Amy reaches into her bag. ‘Here, I’ve got something for you.’
She gives me the photograph George said we could have, the photograph of all of us with Miss Munby.
‘Thank you,’ I say, slipping it into my pocket. ‘I forgot all about it.’ Then I remember something else. ‘I was going to ask you about Rupert. It’s on my calendar. Are we going to visit him, like we did Constable Diprose, and George? Maybe he’ll be able to tell us something.’
Amy hesitates. ‘I did manage to find out about Rupert. It wasn’t too difficult because of his father owning the factory, although I had to do a bit of digging.’ She swallows. ‘I’m sorry, Nan. Rupert was called up for National Service in October 1951. He completed a few months of training then he was sent straight to Suez. He was killed by a sniper in January 1952.’
I stare down at my hands. ‘If he had anything to do with Lucy’s disappearance, we’ll never know, will we?’
‘I don’t think so, no.’
I feel a sudden sense of despair. It was all such a long time ago. Everyone has gone. Time is running out. I can no longer pretend this isn’t happening to me, that the fog isn’t spreading, curling itself into every corner of my mind. Right now, I can find clear patches, and sometimes, if I’m lucky, whole rooms of lucidity. But it won’t always be the case. Before long I’ll be fumbling about in the dark, unable to see my hand in front of my face. By then it will be too late to find Lucy.