Page 104 of The Bookshop By the Loch

“Mum? What is it?”

She gnawed her bottom lip. “Today hasn’t been such a great day, Lexie. You dad was confused again.”

My chest fluttered with concern. “How bad?”

She was about to explain, when my dad materialised behind her from the kitchen.

“Hi, Mum.” He grinned at me. “What’s for dinner?”

“Dad,” I faltered. “It’s me. Lexie.”

His brows grew stormy. “I hope you haven’t made steak and kidney pie again.”

Mum’s face was desperate.

Resentment stole over his features. “Stop playing games with me, Mum. It’s not funny!” My father examined me, looking lost for a few moments, before his confusion cleared. “Hello, sweetheart. How was the bookshop today?”

Relief swamped me. “Er… yes… good, thanks, Dad.”

He planted a kiss on my cheek. “You’re doing great. I’m so very proud of you.” He winked at Mum and made his way to the bathroom at the end of the hall.

I waited until the bathroom door let out its familiar click.

“These episodes,” struggled Mum in a hushed voice. “They’re happening more and more.” She swiped a frustrated hand down her face. “I feel so helpless. I don’t know what to do.” She jerked her head towards the sitting room opposite, where my grandpa was dozing in his armchair, the TV blasting out the weather forecast. “I knew it would be like this, but when you know the sort of man he was and what this dementia is doing to him.” My Mum fought to remain stoical. “Your grandfather keeps telling me I’m doing everything I can and yet…” Her voice broke off.

“Mum, you are. Grandpa’s right. The fact that you’re even caring for him after everything… well, let’s not go over all that again.”

I scooped up one of her hands and gave it a squeeze. “I hope you’ve contacted the authorities to get some extra help. We knew it wouldn’t be easy. And whatever you need from me, you know you only have to ask.”

She clung onto my hand. “They’re carrying out an assessment of this place and your dad next week and are going to provide details of respite care for when …” She couldn’t finish the sentence. “I read about sundowning and didn’t take too much notice at first.”

“Sundowning?”

“It’s a term the medical profession uses about changes in behaviour that occur in dementia patients come the evening, usually around dusk. They can feel they’re in the wrong place or that they should be elsewhere and their confusion gets worse.”

I rubbed her arm. “And what have you been advised to do if and when that happens?”

“Talk calmly to him, hold his hand, make a cup of tea.” Her voice failed.

“You’re the most amazing woman, Mum. I mean it. But you mustn’t think this is all on you. I want you to promise you’ll ask for help any time. I don’t have a confirmed moving-in date yet for the flat, so maybe that’s a good thing.”

She appraised me out of loving eyes “Thank you, darling. Your dad is right, you know. You turned out not too bad at all.”

The rest of the week saw more healthy book sales and more commissions for Tobias from affluent holidaymakers, who, by Friday, were returning to Bracken Way to escape from the city pressures in their various luxurious lodges and holiday cottages.

I had launched a Book Ends Summer Reading Challenge, with a list of exciting new titles which should entice the children and their parents in.

I was also busy arranging the transfer of my furniture and other belongings from my old flat in Glasgow, as the sale was almost signed off, to my new flat here in Bracken Way.

It was fortunate the current owner of my new place had now emigrated to New Zealand and was keen not to have the property sitting empty. I was therefore very lucky and grateful that he’d been so understanding about Dad and had given the go-ahead for me to move in, albeit with a limited supply of furnishings.

Mum and I had managed to make it look a little more homely in the last couple of days, with some cheap rugs, flowers, scented candles, a sofa bed and pictures for the walls. At least that would keep me going until the removal company I’d recruited were able to deliver my things from Glasgow.

Tobias finished jotting down the address of one of the Scandinavian-style holiday homes perched up on the loch hillside. “Another portrait request,” he said, with a delighted grin that made my stomach turn to mush. I tried to ignore it.

“What is it this time?”

“A doting husband wants me to paint his wife for their thirtieth wedding anniversary.” Tobias’s black lashes twitched as he studied the details he had noted. “They sound like a Scottish version of David and Victoria Beckham, but hey, it’s income.”