‘No, I didn’t, Amy. You go right ahead and play with them.’ Shona also loomed over the child until she realised what they were doing to her. ‘I’m sorry, darling, you’d better do as Mummy says.’ Shona backed off, clattering cups onto a tray. She cut up the cake and suggested they sit outside as the sun was still on the terrace. ‘Why not take Russ for a run around the lawn, Amy? He looks as if he could do with the exercise.’
‘He’s not very good at running any more. Daddy says he’s on his last legs and it’ll be a blessing when he’s gone.’ Amy pulled the reluctant dog by its collar.
‘It wasn’t quite like that,’ Claire assured her mother, as they sat at the flaking wrought iron table. ‘The vet’s bills have been pretty high recently and Callum—’
‘You don’t need to explain,’ Shona said, pouring the tea. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you with the toys. But I have to sort things out ready for the move.’
Claire bowed her head. ‘I know. It’s just that I don’t want you to move. I know looking after this place as well as Dad is a lot of work, but I could help out more. I could go part-time. What about a holiday to mull things over? Take Dad on a cruise?’
‘Your father would hate a cruise.’ Shona sipped her tea and watched as Amy tried to run with Russ. The dog lay down, panting.
‘He was never big on holidays, was he?’ Claire said. ‘“No one speaks bloody English and they all eat horse meat,”’ she said in a deep, growling voice, mimicking her father. ‘“There are perfectly good beaches on our doorstep and all for free!”’
They laughed, knowing that Patrick was probably right. But even if they’d wanted a holiday, the bed and breakfast had always tied them to the farm during the summer. Looking back, Shona wondered how she coped with it all.
Claire took a deep breath. ‘Mum, I’ve done something I hope I don’t live to regret.’
Shona frowned. The sun was behind her daughter, so she squinted, raising her hand to her forehead. ‘Go on.’
‘I wanted to do something nice for Dad… so I wondered, I thought perhaps—’
‘What, darling?’
‘I’m organising a reunion.’ Claire hesitated. ‘I thought if I invited all the old group – Maggie, Nick, Jason, perhaps Uncle Angus and Aunt Jenny too – it would be really good for him. Like old times. And with partners and children too, there’d be so many of us to help that you wouldn’t have to do a thing.’
Shona listened to her daughter tripping over her words, trying to make it sound appealing.
‘I’d take care of everything. You wouldn’t have to lift a finger. It would be stimulating for Dad, really help with his memory. I worry about him so much and…’ Claire was rambling. ‘I’ve already made some phone calls, actually.’
Shona’s face gradually broke a smile. ‘I think it’s an excellent idea, darling. I would love nothing more.’ Then the smile fell away. ‘But what about Jason?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ve said he can stay with me rather than here at the farm. I was hoping it might help repair things.’
Shona raised her eyebrows.
‘I’ve called Maggie and Nick too, but nothing’s completely firmed up yet. I should have run it past you first, I know, but…’ she trailed off.
‘But you knew you didn’t have to, right?’ Shona took her daughter’s hand.
It was all going to be OK, Shona reassured herself as mother and daughter sat in the late afternoon sun. The light filtered through the twisting clematis onto the lawn, dancing like fleeting memories. She recalled Patrick buying the quivering purple-flowered plant, choosing the perfect spot for it. It had quickly flourished, spiralling up and along the pergola to form a thick canopy and flowering every summer with velvet blooms the size of saucers.
‘I’m sure Dad will think it’s a splendid idea,’ Shona said. In truth, she wasn’t sure. His reaction would depend on his mood and that hadn’t been predicable for a while. It wasn’t just his mind that was changing with the knotty, foreign weed that was invading his brain, but rather that his whole personality was shifting to accommodate the assault.
They spent the rest of the afternoon chatting about plans, which week in the summer would work best, what they would all do, and who would have which room. Shona decided not to say anything when Amy ducked back inside the kitchen and sneaked out the rag doll, riding it around on Russ’s back as if it was finally having the time of its life.
Chapter Eight
Not So Long Ago
I’m awake but it’s dark. The same tarry black as my empty sleep.
What do you dream about with when all your memories have gone?
The electricity is off again.
‘Can you fix it?’ I asked last time it happened, but I was told I should be more understanding, more grateful.
I feel my way to the tap, twisting it so it spews a trickle of water into my glass. Last week it came out brown and gritty, so I got bottled water again, though not enough. ‘To tide you over,’ I was told, which reminded me of something, somewhere. Fresh and free.
I try to make a note of every day that passes and wind my watch, but sometimes I forget. I could be out of kilter with the rest of the world by days or even months or years. I lost a whole season once. But I’m set straight with a smile, or I get a flower to show me it’s summer, and one time I was taken out to see the snow. I’m thirty-three years old and today is the twelfth of February 2017.
Or maybe it’s August and I’m only thirteen.
I sit in the chair, waiting. When the power has been off before, the food in the fridge went bad. I’ve paid the price of slimy ham and lumpy milk once too often. Hospitals aren’t for people like me, I’m told.
Later, I wake with a jolt. I must have dozed off. There’s a horrid smell. Everything stinks in here anyway, but this is worse. The walls stink. The floor stinks. The furniture stinks and I stink. It’s a soup of mould and sweet yeast and sad, exhaled breath. But this time there’s something else in the mix – a dog, wet and salty from the sea. Just your mind playing tricks and best forgotten, I’m told, when I complain that people keep visiting, talking to me.
Suddenly, the light comes back on. I screw up my eyes, opening them gradually as the glare from the bulb burns through my lids. There’s an image scorched onto my eyes, which doesn’t go away even when I blink – me on a long stretch of beach with a cobalt-blue sky and a bright umbrella straining in the breeze. Frothy green waves rush up the sand and there’s a man walking his dog. It runs up and licks me. This memory tastes as delicious as ice cream, but when the wind whips up I’m all alone again, screaming, begging not to die.
Then I run at the wall. There’s hardly any space in here, yet I manage a good speed, hurling myself against it. Usually, I just get a bruise, but sometimes I go nice and dizzy. Once, I prised off a couple of the wooden panels to see what was underneath, but all I found was yellow padded stuff that made me sneeze. It helps pass the time.
I put on a film. I’ve got loads. I’ve seen them all a thousand times and know all the words off by heart. It’s summertime in this movie, which is why I like it. I imagine my room to be hot and bright, the sun beating down. My head throbs and so I pretend I’m wearing a hat. I slip on some sunglasses while my skin scorches, peeling and bubbling from the heat. Then, much later, a pair of gentle hands rubs cool cream on my shoulders.
‘You’ve caught the sun, little one,’ she says. I giggle up at her, crinkling my nose, imagining myself running about with my hands cupped, ready to catch the sun as it falls from the sky. Her voice is sweet, and she smells of roses. I don’t know who she is.
Suddenly, a pain grips my side. No food for three days now. Then, as if my thoughts have sent out an emergency signal, the familiar clattering and clanking sound heralds what I hope will be a glorious feast. I get down on all fours and crouch behind the chair, sucking on my fingers, chewing and eating the peeling skin, waiting. When the door opens, a rush of cool, fresh air sweeps in.
‘Hello,’ I whisper. My voice is croaky.
The door locks again and the chair is shoved aside.
‘What are you doing down there?’ The face looms like a big pale moon – doughy and troughed. I can smell the outside.