Page 22
“The urge to perform never really leaves you,” Lucie replied, ignoring the fact that Rose thought she was speaking to her daughter.
It amused Lucie to know that Rose had worked her way up from chorus girl to a lead like Eliza Doolittle, a character who learned to speak and behave like a lady. To go from the West End into a grand house like Winterbourne Hall, Rose would’ve navigated a new identity just like Eliza, trading footlights for formality and applause for duty. She might not have played her, but it sounded like she might have experienced a similar life.
“What a shame.”
Rose gave a little shrug as they reached the door out to Holly Court. “I made my choice when I married your father. We were very happy together, even if that was the end of my career. Patricia said I had robbed the theatrical world of a true gem.”
“Patricia?”
“Patricia Routledge. She always asked me to accompany her during her performances, and she introduced me to your father. I wouldn’t have gotten as far without her. Between you, me, and the gatepost, it was thanks to her that I got the audition for My Fair Lady on Broadway. She said I had the voice for Eliza.”
She smiled, only for it to falter as her eyes grew glossy. Lucie felt frustrated on Rose’s behalf — to have got so close to your dream, only to lose it before it began.
Rose tapped at the side of her head with her forefinger. “See, I don’t forget everything. Sometimes I think my head is so full that I’ve got no room left for the new stuff.”
Lucie remembered her gran saying much the same when she forgot things. It always had the effect of dispersing any tension about the seriousness of her condition. Her awareness of what she was going through, at least at the beginning, helped make things easier. It was towards the end when she no longer recognised Lucie or her own son that made each day almost impossible to bear.
Rose looked at her suddenly, eyes narrowed, as Lucie held the door to the courtyard open. “You’re not Frances.”
“No,” she agreed. “I’m Lucie.”
“Have we met before?”
“Yes. Yesterday afternoon.”
Rose stood for a moment, her eyes flickering about. “You took me home.”
“Yes, that’s right. It’s over there.” Lucie pointed toward the cottage.
Rose nodded, and they carried on.
It had always struck Lucie as most cruel that people with dementia could clearly recall moments and details from long ago, even as the present became harder to grasp. The condition didn’t erase memory so much as rearrange it, allowing older moments to remain vivid for longer while newer ones slipped away.
As they reached Rose’s front door, Lucie wasn’t surprised to find it unlocked with the lights left on. As she gently ushered Rose into the hallway, the sound of the television in another room caught her attention. She used to leave it on for her gran and hoped she wouldn’t accidentally turn it off; it was always a struggle for her to get it back on.
She’d bought her gran an adapted, colour-coded remote with only a few buttons until the time came that she couldn’t use it at all. It was heartbreaking to see the simple task of changing a television channel become impossible for her gran’s once-great mind, just as sewing and baking had before it.
Lucie followed Rose’s slightly hunched frame through to where the sound was coming from. The sitting room was warm but cosy, with a small kitchen at one end. It must have been quite the contrast to living in the hall. She could see why Rose’s daughter had moved them to a small, ground-floor property away from the hectic world of the main building. Not that it had stopped Rose from returning there.
She guided Rose to what she assumed was her chair in front of the television. “Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll make you a cup of tea?”
“No, I can do it,” Rose said firmly, pulling away from Lucie and heading over to the kitchen area.
“Okay. Well, why don't you show me where you keep the mugs?” Lucie suggested, realising it was best to let her help a little.
Rose opened a couple of cabinet doors and then reached for a glass from one.
“Would you prefer water?” Lucie asked.
Rose examined the glass and then nodded, making Lucie wonder if she’d forgotten where the mugs were kept.
“I’ll get you some water, and then I can make you some tea if you’d like.”
She filled the glass from the tap and then handed it to Rose, who grasped it with two hands. Lucie kept her hands nearby as Rose guided it slowly to her mouth. Her gran had often dropped things as her fingers lost strength.
“Why are you dressed as an elf? Are you in a play?” Rose asked as she passed the glass back.
Lucie remembered Rose asking her that yesterday. Gran had been the same, repeating the same questions.
