Claire heard her mother speaking but couldn’t take it in. Her words blended into one big truth that she didn’t want to hear – that her parents weren’t the immortal beings she’d always believed them to be.
Her father was already ill, deteriorating, and that had been shock enough earlier in the year. But accepting that they would grow older still and one day both need taking care of was unthinkable. Why had she never considered this before? Why had she thought that her mother, whippet-like and capable, elegant and stoic, would remain fixed inside an unchanging body, as if Claire herself would catch up and die first?
‘Pat, where are you going, love?’ Shona called out.
‘To the bloody toilet, if that’s all right with you.’ He banged the hallway door behind him.
‘He’s had a bad week,’ Shona confided in a low voice. They both knew there was nothing wrong with Patrick’s hearing. ‘It’s so very worrying. If we sell, then I can focus more on caring for Dad. Please try to understand, darling. It’s not easy for me.’
At that moment, Claire felt both desperately sorry for her mother and like she wanted to lash out, scream at her for even contemplating selling the farm. She closed her eyes. Apart from the obvious – that someone would always be here, just in case – she couldn’t begin to imagine not visiting her parents here. They were her closest neighbours, literally at the end of the long, shared drive, and she couldn’t imagine her father ever getting used to living anywhere else. The farm had always been the family’s home.
‘He’s been doing… odd things,’ Shona said quietly. ‘It’s very upsetting.’
‘What kind of odd things?’ Claire wasn’t sure she could stand to hear. Over the last eighteen months they’d all noticed changes in Patrick, and between them had discussed what it might be – stress, age, plain forgetfulness. In the end, they’d coaxed him to the doctor and a diagnosis wasn’t far behind.
‘He’s been in Lenni’s room a lot. Talking to her as if she’s really there.’
Claire hung her head and sighed. The clear-minded man of her youth, the capable father who’d taken control when Lenni disappeared, searching tirelessly, organising and never giving up, seemed a million miles away from the man now being eaten up by this wretched disease. She hated how he sometimes believed she had never disappeared, that his youngest daughter might walk into the room at any moment.
‘And yesterday he told me he saw her skipping down the street,’ Shona continued.
‘What was he doing out alone?’
‘Love, keeping your father indoors would be the end for him. You know how stubborn he is. He might have Alzheimer’s, but I refuse to let the disease have him. We do things our way.’
Claire folded the dress and placed it on her knee. She didn’t like hearing any of this. Until recently, she hadn’t wanted to accept her father as anything but the man she remembered when she was five. A kind-hearted, gentle giant, yet stoked with a reserve of seriousness if need be, Patrick was always up for a make-believe adventure with her and her friends out on the farm or ready to tell a good story. Hard-working, yet soft as butter in the sun, Patrick adored his family.
And Claire had taken delight in sharing him with her friends when growing up. He’d become a kind of surrogate father to them all, forming a special bond with her close-knit group. Her friends would be envious of the indomitable man as he gave them piggybacks up and down the beach, played cricket with them on the sand – how they wished their fathers were like him – yet occasionally they’d scamper home a touch frightened when he’d overreacted about inconsequential things. Sand in the porch, the fire not laid right, running through the house – any trigger that worked him into a mini rage, which would usually burn itself out after carting some bales or an afternoon’s fishing.
‘And what if she comes back?’ Patrick’s voice boomed. He was braced in the doorway, as if holding up the house.
‘Pat, she’s not coming back. You know that.’ Shona’s voice was as soft as she could make it. ‘Come and sit down.’
Only Mum would ever dare say that, Claire thought. She began to fidget with the dress again but stopped herself from ruining it.
‘Claire, I’d like someone from your office to come out and give us an opinion,’ Shona said. ‘I don’t suppose it’s fair to ask you to value the place personally, but we’d like to give your agency the business. You have such a good reputation round here.’
Claire had been working at Greene & Galloway for nearly a decade. Chris Greene and Jeff Galloway were away from the office more and more now they were approaching retirement. She virtually ran the place single-handedly.
‘Take more time to decide, Mum,’ Claire said, glancing at her father. ‘It’s Dad’s decision too.’ She watched her mother’s eyes crystallise and harden. Claire put a hand on her arm. ‘Thanks for doing this.’ She held up the dress. ‘I’ll bring the kids down to see you at the weekend.’
She kissed both of her parents and went out to her car. The sea breeze smelt like a salty soup bubbling on the stove. The tide would be out, she guessed, remembering how, as a child, she would scamper over the rocks and sandy patches between the crystal-clear pools, marvelling at the intricate gifts left behind. If the tide was out, the sea-smell was in, her father used to say, excited as a kid himself at the prospect of an afternoon beachcombing with his daughter and her friends.
Her friends. How would they feel when she told them that Patrick had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s? So far, they’d kept the news amongst close family, and besides, she didn’t get to see any of them as often as she’d have liked. And how would they react to the house sale? Patrick and the farm had been as much a part of their childhoods as it had hers. It was all heartbreaking.
Claire drove back down the long driveway, past the Old Stables where she lived, spotting that Callum wasn’t home yet, and on into the village. It was time to fetch Amy from the childminder.
‘Oh, Dad,’ she said to herself as she parked the car on the quiet lane, her head tilted back against the seat. She couldn’t bear to see her father deteriorate in such a short period of time and, since his diagnosis, she’d been desperate to do something helpful for him. Until now, she had no idea what that could be.
Behind all the worry and concern, Claire felt the first glimmer of a plan hatching. She smiled to herself as she locked the car. She’d read up on how this sort of thing could help, and she reckoned it would do him the world of good. Her mind was made up.
Chapter Three
Callum knew Marcus must already be home as he unlocked the front door to the Old Stables. He felt the resonant thud-thud of the bass beat in the floor, the walls, even the air, before he actually heard his son’s music.
The breakfast remains were still on the kitchen table – exactly how Claire had left it as she’d dashed out for the school run and then on to work, except now the cat had dragged a piece of toast onto the floor and licked off the butter. The ginger tom wound between Callum’s feet as he poured a glass of water.
‘Anyone else home?’ he called out, swigging and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Claire?’
Nothing. He supposed she would be fetching Amy.
He went back to the hall and picked up the newspaper from the mat, settling down in his favourite armchair to have half-an-hour’s read before the evening chaos began. But for some reason, he couldn’t concentrate.