Page 75 of Old Girls Behaving Badly

But Dorothy had needed me and it sounded from the advertisements in The Lady that others might too. I drank what was left of my coffee and then pressed record again.

‘My name is Gina Knight. I’m seventy-one years old and somewhat surprisingly find myself in the autumn of my life. I have always said that September is my favourite time of the year and here I am heading into the season of bonfires and cardigans, of fiery trees and homemade soup, of squirrels digging in the lawn and spiders moving into the bathroom.

‘I am here and I need to find a way to embrace this glorious time while it is still available to me. I need to prove that September is, indeed, my favourite month.

‘Recently I became a companion to an elderly woman and it turned out I was pretty good at it. It seems that I’m a problem solver⁠—’

‘Gina?’

I pressed stop on my recording as Dorothy’s voice carried up to me from the garden. Jumping up from my seat I called out for her to come up and met her at the top of the steps.

‘Can I gate-crash your boathouse for a bit?’ she asked, and I noticed she had a plate of biscuits in her hand.

‘Of course you can and it’s your boathouse, you know.’

‘Not at the minute it’s not. Honestly, Gina, I’m here as a neighbour. Actually, I’ve just got off the phone with my friend and there’s a bit of a problem. I thought I could talk it through with you if you’re free.’

‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ I said and invited her in.

I walked over to the sink and filled the kettle while Dorothy made herself comfortable on the sofa and put the plate of biscuits on the table. It was the first time she’d been in here as a guest since I moved in and I tried hard not to feel awkward about it. It would take time.

‘Tea?’ I asked her and she nodded. ‘What’s happening with your friend?’

‘I’ve known Gerald and Meredith for years. He was an architect and has many prestigious projects to his name. Sadly, now he has dementia and all that is lost.’

‘That is sad,’ I said pouring milk into our mugs. ‘It affects so many people now.’

‘It certainly affects Meredith as she has to look after him. She adores him, though, always has and she’s losing that lovely man of hers.’

I stopped stirring for a moment and wondered what it was like to adore your husband as Dorothy did Philip and Meredith does Gerald. I felt a pang of regret and then pulled the teabags from the mugs and dropped them into the food caddy in the cupboard under the sink.

‘She has help, usually, because they’ve just moved in with their daughter and son-in-law. Anyway, Meredith has broken her arm and is in plaster, which is an issue for her because she’s a novelist.’

‘So, she’s looking for someone to help her type?’ I asked.

‘Well, yes, but not only that, she’s going to struggle with Gerald until her arm is healed.’

‘You said they’d moved close to their daughter? Won’t she help them?’

‘They’re flying out to New Zealand in a couple of days. Their son has been in a terrible car accident and they need to be with him as he comes out of hospital. They had someone lined up to help Meredith and Gerald, but he’s let them down at the last minute and Meredith is very choosy.’

‘Well, that does sound like a bit of a pickle,’ I said, handing Dorothy her tea and sinking down onto the sofa next to her. I blew some of the steam from the top of mine and took a sip, then watched as Dorothy’s eyes slid to mine and rested there for a moment longer than was comfortable. ‘You’re thinking of me, aren’t you?’

‘The thought did cross my mind, yes.’

‘Well, I was looking at jobs, to be fair, especially as you’re going to be away for three weeks, but I haven’t found anything imminent.’

‘This is pretty imminent.’

‘I don’t know much about dementia, to be honest.’

‘You don’t really need to. They just need someone to help them get used to being in a new town, do a bit of typing for Meredith, be a companion. We both know you’re excellent at that.’

‘Right,’ I said slowly, feeling as if I was already on my way to the job. Dorothy could be very persuasive.

I watched Dorothy’s face for a moment. She seemed more animated than I’d expect. After all, she was talking about one friend with dementia and the other with a broken arm.

‘What’s the real story?’ I asked her, and watched as she picked her words carefully.