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‘Well, we’ve used that charity on many occasions and never received a complaint. I very much doubt you have anything to worry about.’
She hesitates again before she paints on a smile. ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ she says. ‘I just get very protective over Mum, as I’m sure you understand. Anyway, I’ve taken up enough of your time already. Have a lovely day.’
Connie doesn’t wait for me to bid her farewell before she hurries out of the post office without buying or sending anything. I wish I could say that I was able to put her mind at ease. But I suspect I might not have succeeded.
CHAPTER 9
CONNIE
The night is drawing in with ribbons of purple and orange. This is normally my favourite part of the day, sitting out here in her garden, alone, staring into the quiet horizon. But this evening, I’m too preoccupied to enjoy it. Paul is playing on my mind.
I take a puff from my vaping pen but the nicotine is slow to reach my brain. Then I inhale too deeply with the next drag and cough when it hits the back of my throat. Neither this nor the wine by my side is doing its job and helping me to relax. I suppose I should return to my own home soon. But I’m reluctant to leave her on her own.
I’m suspicious by nature, I know that. Paul has been a presence for a month now and I’ve seen two sides of him. And it makes me think he has a hidden agenda. It could only be money. ‘You can’t trust anyone these days,’ he said when he told me he’d moved her bank cards from her purse and into her bureau. Was it friendly advice or a warning of what he could do if he wanted to? Her vulnerability is precisely the reason why, when I moved to the village,I helped her to make a will to protect both of our interests. Over my dead body will I allow anyone to interfere with that.
Since he said that, I’ve been regularly checking her banking apps on my phone but there have been no unaccounted-for withdrawals. Just in case, I hid the cards elsewhere in the house, between the pages of the novelThe Talented Mr Ripleythat sits on a shelf among a hundred other books. I haven’t seen her read any of them and I assume it’s another pleasure that dementia has robbed her of.
Even if I’m wrong not to trust Paul, something has definitely shifted between us. We’ve barely spoken in the last week. Each time I’ve tried to make conversation, I’ve been shut down with monosyllabic responses and complete disinterest in anything I’ve had to say. So I’ve stopped bothering. I don’t know how you can ghost someone when they’re standing right in front of you, but he’s doing it pretty well.
It’s only as I replay our conversations that I’m wondering if there was a motive behind the time he spent with me and how much of it was given over to discussing her. He steered the conversation the whole night and I was only too happy to spill my guts to a good-looking guy who’d asked me out. And only now does that level of interest in us concern me. As do the tools he’s storing in her garage, which are multiplying each day like mechanical locusts.
Reverend Eddie must have sensed something about Paul was on my mind because he dropped by the bungalow last night. He’d been in touch with Help for Homes despite me telling him he needn’t bother. Apparently they assured him Paul was a trusted, valuable volunteer. The last two mornings I’ve again woken up early with a jolt, utterly convinced there’s someone in my room, watching me. Then I’ve realised it’s a Paul-shaped cloud hovering over me.
The grandfather clock in her lounge chimes nine times. She’s been upstairs asleep for about an hour now. I don’t know whatI’m scared might happen if I go home. It’s not as if Paul is going to swoop in like a vampire the moment darkness falls, to carry her away. But there’s something making me feel protective of her right now. Tonight, I made her supper, helped her up the stairs, bathed her, got her ready for bed and sat in the armchair next to her until she drifted off. And what was the last thing she said to me? It wasn’t ‘goodnight’ or ‘thank you’. It was ‘What time is Paul coming tomorrow?’
I know I’m petty for allowing this to upset me. But I’m the one who has given my life to taking care of her. I’ve spent hours researching what her diagnosis means for both victim and carer. I’ve joined online dementia family support groups to get a better understanding of what she’s going through. I suffer her confusion and I put up with her tantrums and outbursts. And what do I have to show for it? Faint scratch marks on my face while Paul rides in like a knight in a shining Ford transit van, and it’s his backside the sun shines out of.
I watch as she changes every day around him. She sheds the skin of dementia and replaces it with the vibrancy of a long-departed youth. She’s begun choosing her own clothes instead of relying on me to pick out her wardrobe; she has started styling her hair again and I hate to admit it, but she is better presented than me. I also can’t deny that she is a little more focused in her conversations when he is here. The television isn’t playing all day long, and instead, she spends more time sitting outside in the garden under the shade of a parasol wearing her oversized tortoise-framed sunglasses, like the ghost of Jackie O.
Perhaps she’s behaving like this because Paul gives her purpose; there’s clearly something about him that’s rejuvenating brain cells yet to be decimated by her disease. And maybe I do the opposite. Maybe I dampen her spirit and remind her of the inevitable. I could have that effect on everyone and it’s why I’m heading towards my fiftiesand still single. He brings her happiness so I can’t get rid of him, and I don’t want to leave them alone because I don’t trust him.
Perhaps a better person would be encouraging her and Paul’s May-December friendship, and not allow trivial jealousies to breed resentment.
Clearly, I’m not a better person.
I shake my head. I need to think about something else, so I try and refocus on the sunset. I’ve always assumed that when the inevitable finally comes, I will sell this place and find somewhere of my own choosing. But now I’m considering staying here. I could do a lot worse than spend my summer nights with this view. I even begin to visualise the changes I’d make outside. Right here, for example. This would be my patio area, with grey flagstones under my feet. And above me, I would train vines and colourful clematises to climb up the posts and across the beams of a newly constructed pergola.
But I can tell you this for nothing, I won’t be asking Paul to lay or build any of it. The sooner he runs out of work here and pisses off to someone else’s house, the better.
CHAPTER 10
CONNIE
There’s been an unspoken rivalry between Paul and me of late as to who can reach her house the first. If I arrive earlier than him on a Monday, he will be there before me the next day. If I reach hers at an even more ungodly hour on Wednesday, he will be waiting for me there on Thursday. If it continues like this, we’ll be camping overnight in tents on her lawn to cut our journey times.
Today, however, I’m late. I couldn’t get away from a chatty Walter, which set me back taking his dog for a walk. He was trying to tell me something about his bitcoin and cryptocurrency investment that I didn’t understand. For a man of his age, he’s very clued up about technology. Oscar only gets one lap of the playing field today as I need to get to her house quickly. And instead of dropping him home early, I take him with me. He can play in her garden for a while and wear himself out.
When I arrive, as I both feared and expected, Paul’s van is parked on her drive. He has won today’s round. I open the latch on the gate to the back garden and find her sitting at the table at theend of the garden under her parasol. She turns her head and glares at me, puzzled, before registering who I am.
‘Oh, hello Connie,’ she says and waves. She’s wearing a silver bangle on her wrist that I haven’t seen before, and a matching necklace.
‘You’re up early,’ I reply.
‘Bill helped me.’
‘You mean Paul.’
‘Oh yes, Paul.’
