James had made a decision. Pretty soon, he would have to return to Liverpool to pick up his own life again. However, during the past few weeks it had become clear that Kenny needed some kind of help around the house – someone to keep an eye on him in between James’s visits, and report back if anything untoward was going on. The challenge now was to persuade his dad to accept any kind of assistance at all.
James had already contacted social services to see if a carer could be provided. Well, of course they couldn’t. Even if Kenny had been diagnosed, it wasn’t as simple as a kindly person turning up and taking care of everything. He had also filled in those GP registration forms and returned to the doctor’s in Heathfield, where his buddy, the hostile receptionist, informed him that he still couldn’t register if he already had a GP in Liverpool (as if he was a two-timing rat, but with doctors). It was all he could do not to rip out his hair in frustration and shout, ‘Why are you being so obstructive? I am only trying to help my dad!’ But of course, she was just doing her job, and at least she hinted that a GP’s home visit might be possible, if his father were to consent to it.
‘How should I put that to him?’ James wanted to ask. ‘“Dad, would you be okay with the doctor coming to your house and performing various mind tests on you?”’ He had looked up the standard tests online and could imagine his father’s response when quizzed about who the Prime Minister was, or asked to draw a cube. He feared for any medical professional who expected any kind of compliance on that score. Meanwhile, since Christmas, James had been dashing back on the odd quick visit to Liverpool, to see Spike and squeeze in a bit of work whenever he could. But it was far from ideal and certainly wasn’t sustainable.
Then a breakthrough happened, and Kenny finally agreed to James advertising for what they were loosely terming a ‘home help’. It felt like a small miracle. James had outlined his plan to try an old-school-style advert – more like a plea for help, if truth be known – in the general store’s window in the village, and Kenny was reasonably okay about this, ‘as long as it’s no more than a couple of hours a day. I s’pose the place has been getting a bit out of hand,’ he conceded. ‘But I don’t want someone constantly flitting about and bothering me. I’m not an invalid, okay?’
As his father had also demanded to check the ad’s wording, James was approaching it with extreme care. On a small white card, he wrote: Daily home help/companion required for a local man in his 70s.
Was that enough detail, he wondered? Deliberately, he had shied away from using the word ‘carer’, aware that it might suggest duties of a personal nature when really, he just needed someone to keep an eye on his dad, and to contact him immediately if he had been repeat-purchasing perishable food items or exhibiting any other worrying behaviours.
Of course, what he really meant was: Spy wanted for confused and often ill-tempered old man. But obviously, that would have attracted zero applicants, and Kenny would have vetoed it anyway. Around 2 hours per day, James added, but can be flexible for the right person. In other words: please, for crying out loud, somebody help.
The ad was duly placed in the shop window, and a handful of respondents got in touch. However, James had underestimated his father’s notoriety in the area. In a village like Burley Bridge, everyone seemed to know everyone, albeit vaguely – and once Kenny’s identity had been confirmed, the interested parties suddenly became rather less keen.
‘You’re Kenny Halsall’s son?’ remarked one woman with a deep, gravelly voice. ‘Moved away a long time ago, didn’t you?’
‘Erm, yes, but I’m back and forth a lot these days.’ He kept his tone bright to try and convey that this was an entirely convivial situation.
‘Um. Well, look – I was just curious about your ad, but I don’t think it’s the job for me.’
‘Oh, yes, I know your dad,’ another, extremely well-spoken woman remarked. ‘We used to buy our Christmas trees from him. Still living up there by the woods, is he? Wow. Well, um, thanks for clarifying. I might get back in touch.’ James soon realised that this meant, ‘You will never hear from me again.’
A couple of weeks came and went, and James suggested to his father that they should increase the proposed hourly rate to a level that would make it irresistible. Although Kenny had agreed to pay for the help, James was more than willing to chip in, if that would clinch it. Hell, he’d do whatever it took, he reasoned to himself. However, his father’s thriftiness was legendary, and he was adamant that the rate they were offering was fair. James should have known. Kenny hadn’t reacted well when he had inadvertently dumped a returnable lemonade bottle into the recycling bin instead of taking it back to the shop and reclaiming his father’s 10p. James hadn’t even realised that returning bottles was a thing people did anymore. He’d assumed it had gone the way of children reading The Beano, playing with catapults and stealing berries from Kitty Cartwright’s garden.
Those were the days, he mused occasionally when he happened to glimpse the gable end of her cottage from the main road (as it was tucked away down a lane, he had no reason to actually pass it). When James looked back, his childhood had been mainly happy, despite what had happened to his family.
He thought of it often, now he was back in the village so frequently, and could hardly believe he had once been so carefree.
On a bitingly cold February afternoon, he found himself sitting across a table in the village pub discussing his father’s situation with an impressively confident Danish woman who happened to have been working for the family who now lived in Rosemary Cottage.
‘I started helping out with the children,’ Rikke said, ‘when the dad was working away during the week. They were running it as a B&B.’
‘Oh, yes,’ James said. ‘I noticed the sign by the garden wall.’
Rikke nodded. ‘Only …’ She winced. ‘The dad was killed in a road accident just before Christmas. Maybe you heard about that?’
‘No.’ James shook his head and frowned. ‘No, I didn’t. I’ve been pretty much wrapped up with Dad, really. But, God – that’s terrible.’
‘Lately, I’ve just been visiting and keeping in touch.’ She paused and sipped her tomato juice. ‘I do a few shifts a week in Della’s bookshop,’ she added. ‘Do you know Della?’
‘Um, yes, a little …’ James only knew of her, really, but he didn’t want to seem totally oblivious to village life. He was aware that she was one of the three Cartwright kids – Kitty’s children – but she was older than him, and their paths hadn’t really crossed.
‘And I teach swimming at the pool in Heathfield,’ Rikke went on, ‘and do the occasional wedding too.’ She beamed a bright, white smile. ‘I play the harp,’ she added. ‘Do you know Lorna and Rory Macklin – she works at the hair salon, and he helps Len at the garage …’
‘Er, I think so,’ he fibbed.
‘Well, I played at their wedding.’
‘This is all very impressive,’ James said, wondering how on earth this young woman had become so entrenched in village life when these days, he felt quite out of touch with the place. Naturally, people recognised him from time to time, and said hello when he was out and about in the village. However, the place had changed dramatically and there were lots of new faces too.
‘I suppose none of that’s terribly relevant,’ Rikke went on, ‘to the kind of job you’re looking to fill. But I’m hard-working, I drive and I’m good with people.’
‘I’m sure you are,’ James said.
‘If you need references, I could ask Della at the shop. It might not be the right time to talk to Lucy at Rosemary Cottage but—’
‘I’m sure it’s not,’ James said quickly. In fact, Rikke seemed so infinitely capable that he really wanted to say, ‘The job’s yours,’ without further questioning. However, sensing that he should at least find out a little more about her, he went to fetch more drinks from the bar – he was sticking to Coke – and then pressed on.
‘Are you sure you have time to take on another regular job?’ he asked. ‘I’m looking for a visit every weekday, and on occasional weekends too, if I can’t manage to get over and see Dad.’
‘I prefer my life to be busy,’ she said, ‘and I like a lot of variety rather than being tied to one thing.’
‘D’you live locally?’ he asked.
‘Couple of miles outside the village. I was married,’ she added, which astounded him – although why shouldn’t she have been? He already knew she was twenty-nine, although with her fresh, pink-cheeked complexion, she looked even younger. ‘It didn’t work out,’ she continued, ‘but I liked it so much here I decided to stay. It’s so friendly, so warm.’
‘It is, yes,’ he said. ‘So, um, how about meeting my dad and seeing how you get along?’
‘I’d love to,’ she said.
Happily, she was still as keen after he had admitted that his father could be ‘challenging’, and had told her about the sandwich hoard. It seemed that nothing fazed her as he drove them up to his father’s house.
He marvelled at how Rikke greeted him in such a cheery manner that Kenny couldn’t help but be charmed by her. He was astounded at how friendly she was to his dad’s cats, even though they had never struck James as particularly amenable to humans or even to each other. Yet there she sat in his father’s overstuffed living room, happily chit-chatting with Kenny, with Horace plonked on her lap like a hairy ginger cushion, and seemingly not minding when James’s father asked, ‘So is it true your Danish sandwiches never have tops on? Isn’t that a bit of a rip-off?’
James felt his back teeth jamming together. ‘It’s not compulsory,’ she said with a smile, ‘but, you know, they are more about the filling than the bread. I could make some for you, if you’d like to try them?’
‘Is it all cold pickled fish?’ Kenny asked, eyes narrowed suspiciously, although James could tell he was enjoying himself now.
‘Again, it’s not compulsory, Mr Halsall,’ Rikke replied.
‘Oh, call me Kenny—’
Rikke smiled warmly. ‘Yes, herring is pretty popular. That and rye bread.’
‘Actually, I do enjoy a herring,’ Kenny conceded, and so the conversation turned to favoured Danish fare. Soon Rikke was promising to bring Kenny some of her own salt-cured salmon, and by the time they said goodbye, it had been agreed that she would start the following week when James returned to Liverpool.
As he drove her home, she chatted happily about the children at Rosemary Cottage. ‘They’re such a joy,’ she said, ‘even after everything they’ve been through. It’s incredible how much children can cope with – but then, their mum’s amazing too.’
‘It must’ve been dreadful for all of them,’ James murmured, wondering why on earth he’d been feeling as if the weight of the world had been pressing down on his shoulders when others had it so much worse. Yes, he still had to somehow persuade his father to see his GP or a specialist, and deal with his denial – or even wrath – if he was diagnosed with something like dementia. And God knows what else they would face, further down the line. But for now, at least, his dad would be looked after.
James glanced at Rikke as the narrow lane snaked down towards the village. ‘So, are you absolutely sure about taking this on?’ he asked. ‘Working for my father, I mean?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she replied. ‘He’s a lovely man.’
James couldn’t help chuckling at that. ‘I’m glad you two got along. He can be, you know, a little tricky.’
‘It’ll be fine – honestly,’ she said firmly, ‘and, like you said, you’re only a text or a phone call away.’
He nodded, realising that he was no longer annoyed that his brother had swished off to some Alpine resort with a mysterious woman. Perhaps it was for the best, in that it had highlighted how urgent the situation here had become. Anyway, Rikke Svendsen would be a match for his father, he was sure of it. Kenny had actually seemed keen to impress her, and James had barely been able to keep a straight face as the two of them had rattled on about the delights of the Danish smorgasbord. His father was terribly set in his dietary ways, and James knew for a fact that he detested pickled fish.