AllFreeNovel
Share Us
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
CONNIE
I open and close my fists, preparing myself like a boxer before a fight. For the two-minute walk from my bungalow to her house, I roll my shoulders back and forth to try and get rid of the tense feeling that creeps up on me daily. Because when I come to open that front door, I have no idea which version of her I’m going to find.
It could be the one who looks me up and down with caution before reluctantly allowing me over the threshold. Maybe it’s the one who can’t wait to see me and has been hovering at the window like a child waiting for a parent to return home from work. It could be the angry one who is furious with me for no apparent reason. Or it might be the melancholic version, her cloudy eyes tainted with a pinkish hue, salty tears cutting white lines into clumsily applied foundation. But whomever I’m confronted by, I’m here for her. I’ll adapt, I’ll handle it. I’m used to it. That’s what good daughters do.
I check my watch; it’s approaching 7.30 a.m. I’ve yet to see anyone else. Our village isn’t the busiest at the best of times but I’ve usually spotted at least the newspaper boy zigzagging about on his motorised scooter by now. Heat prickles my scalp as thesun makes its presence felt. The breakfast TV weatherman warned today’s temperature is going to break records for May. I’d rather shy away from it and hide in the shade. I can’t remember the last time my skin displayed anything approaching a tan. I’m bordering on translucent.
I turn a corner and her house comes into view. Every village has an estate like this, a 1950s build where no thought was given as to how its design might blend in with the existing properties. If you’re really local, you’ll still refer to it as ‘the new estate’, despite it having been there for seventy-odd years.
Everything about the property looks tired, I think, including its occupant. I’m sure that in its day, it wasn’t a bad-looking house, albeit characterless. Decades must have passed since the wooden garage doors last saw a lick of paint. The faded silver frames of the aluminium windows and the flaking white facias add to its knackered look. The overgrown garden offers an extra layer of neglect. I mow the front and back lawns fortnightly, but I have neither the time, the equipment nor the inclination to dig out weeds from the borders or cut back oversized bushes with swooping branches that overhang the path outside. Some of the neighbours have mentioned they struggle to get past the house without walking on the road. I guess I should take the hint and get someone in to do it.
The views from the back garden are enviable, though. Well, I imagine they will be once the huge hedge at the end is cut right back and we can appreciate the acres of fields behind us. Some local by-law forbids the council from allowing developers to cover it in identikit homes. Not that it makes much difference to me. In all likelihood, I’ll sell this place eventually, when ... well, you know. I’m sure it’ll be snapped up by a DIY enthusiast with time on their hands.
I make my way up the drive, but she’s not at the window and the curtains are still closed. I take the key out of my pocket, ring the bell to alert her I’m here and unlock the door.
‘Mum, it’s Connie,’ I shout, dropping my handbag to the floor.
There’s a sour smell in the air and I can’t quite put my finger on what it is. I find her sitting in her armchair in the lounge. The smell is stronger in here, and as soon as I see her, I spot the damp patch on the front of her trousers. She looks both confused and ashamed.
‘I’ve had an accident and I don’t know what to do,’ she apologises, and my heart breaks for her.
‘It’s okay,’ I say softly and pat her hand. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up, then we’ll find you a fresh pair of trousers.’
Her balance and coordination come and go like the tide, so I help her out of the chair and slip my arm around her waist. Some days she’s flitting about the house like she’s in the cast ofRiverdance; on others, she’s like a newborn foal taking its first steps. She’s lost weight over the last few months; her ribs feel like piano keys. I notice dampness on the raised cushions she sits on that help her get up and out of the armchair. I’ll put them on a fast cycle later. ‘It’s like raising theTitanictrying to get you up!’ I joke.
‘I quite fancied that Leonardo DiCaprio,’ she replies.
‘I think you’re a bit old for a toyboy.’
She suddenly looks anxious. ‘Do you think it’s the Covid?’ she asks. ‘Have I caught the Covid? Is that why I had my accident?’
‘No Mum, it was an accident.’
‘But how do you know? You’re not a doctor.’
‘Because Covid doesn’t make you pee yourself. Besides, you’re up to date with your jabs.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes, we went to the surgery in March. The nurse gave you another booster. Do you remember?’
Of course she doesn’t remember it. There are days when she can barely recall what she ate ten minutes ago.
‘But Covid killed Felipe, didn’t it?’
‘Who?’
‘Felipe González. The man who lives in the villa with the avocado trees. He’s married to Gwen.’
‘You’re Gwen.’
‘I know that,’ she huffs. ‘I’m not the only Gwen in the world.’
Fair point. ‘Did he live near your old house? I don’t think there’s a Felipe González in Avringstone?’
