And with that, she burst into a really lovely version, pausing between lines to say to me, ‘Why don’t you make some tea?’
I could have hugged her as Dad narrowed his eyes in concentration and started to mouth the odd word, with some wheezy humming in between.
I went out to the kitchen, grief for who he was rising in my chest, filling me with sorrow for all the times I could have insisted on going to visit him, times when his brain knitted together much better than it did now, before every single memory had to be jump-started like a car with faulty spark plugs. I should have stood my ground when Massimo couldn’t drive me because he had ‘too many emails’, ‘a report for Monday’. Thank God I could drive now. I’d have to talk to Massimo about buying a little second-hand car so I could nip over and see Dad at least twice a week. Tears filled my eyes as I wondered how long it would be before he didn’t know me either.
Massimo followed me through. ‘How long has he been here?’
‘We picked him up first thing this morning. He’s going home in a couple of hours.’
I stopped myself from making excuses about why my dad was visiting his daughter and grandson. I wanted to wring my hands and bleat ‘Hope you don’t mind’. But maybe that was just normal consideration from a wife towards a husband. I was so conscious of not apologising for everything all the time, of not being ‘so bloody drippy’ as Maggie would put it, I was probably in danger of being rude myself.
Massimo wrinkled his nose. ‘He’s gone downhill quite fast since I last saw him. Very confused.’
‘I know.’
‘We should get him to see another neurological specialist, see if we can get some answers about how quickly his dementia is going to progress.’
Everything in me slumped. ‘I’m not sure I want to know.’ I put the kettle on.
Massimo came up behind me and kissed my neck. ‘We’ll get the best care we can for him, darling.’
‘There is one bit of good news though.’ I didn’t know why I had to take a deep breath before saying that.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘What?’
‘I’ve passed my driving test.’ I didn’t manage to deliver that with the vigour I’d hoped for, leaning towards apologetic rather than triumphant.
Massimo threw his arms around me. My face was buried in his shoulder with my neck at a slightly awkward angle. I waited for him to let go of me but he squeezed me even more tightly. A bubble of panic rose inside me, I wanted to shake him off, to wriggle free. Then he released me, his face bright with delight. ‘You really are full of surprises today, you little superstar.’
I had to stop imagining the worst all the time.
I filled him in on how Maggie had taught me in secret.
‘I thought you weren’t interested in learning to drive?’
Was there a note of petulance in his voice?
‘I wanted to see more of Dad without involving you in the logistics. Just thought it would be easier if I could get myself there without bothering you. It’s not exactly a fun day out.’
‘You only had to say, my darling. I thought you didn’t want to go very often because you found it so distressing.’
Honestly, Massimo and I had the communication skills of a mobile phone out of battery. I needed to stop guessing what Massimo thought and just ask him outright.
He took the tray and walked through to the sitting room. ‘We’ll have to find a little car for you. Nothing too small though. I want a bit of metal around you, keep you safe.’
I didn’t know why I’d worried about telling him.
As Massimo put the tray down, Dad stopped singing. He looked at me, then pointed at Massimo. ‘Who’s that?’
Very gently, I said, ‘My husband. Sandro’s dad.’
Dad said, ‘No. He’s not your husband.’
Massimo gave me a little wink and whispered, ‘I’ll settle for being your lover.’
But I was determined to help Dad have a clear picture of my nearest and dearest. I tried again, this time with the photo of Sandro’s christening.
‘He is my husband, Dad. Look there’s you, standing next to Anna, then Nico with his wife, Caitlin, who died. And then me with Massimo.’
As clear as anything, as though he’d been rehearsing the words his whole life, Dad pointed to Massimo and then to Caitlin and said, ‘No. He has sex with this woman.’
And then, the man who had moaned about the ‘shocking’ language before the watershed all his life, only ever managing a mild-mannered ‘For goodness’ sake!’ when he stubbed his toe, stood in our sitting room, in front of my husband and sister-in-law and did a crude movement of his hips.
44
MAGGIE
There was a shocked silence in the lounge. A split second when the embarrassment of poor genteel Robert standing there, bucking his hips for all his creaking joints were worth, obliterated his words. We would have been world champions at musical statues. I glanced at Lara first. Her face was all wrong. Not shocked or hurt or angry. Her eyebrows were up. Her arms folded. Her bottom lip covering her top one.
Grim satisfaction.
My mind felt like a giant road sweeper, sucking up all sorts of debris, without enough mechanical finesse to sift through the lolly sticks and crisp packets for anything of value.
Massimo was shaking his head. ‘Come on, Robert, I think you’re getting a bit muddled. This is my wife,’ he said, indicating Lara. He did a little laugh and caught my eye. ‘Unfortunately, she wouldn’t be very keen on me having sex with anyone else.’
Robert drew his shrunken frame up as far as it would go, a good five or six inches shorter than Massimo. He pointed back to the photo. ‘You. You. I see you.’ He tapped his own eye with his index finger.
Massimo sighed. ‘I think you’ve got it wrong, old man. You’re mistaking me for Nico, my brother.’
He turned to Lara. ‘We’d better let him know he needs some net curtains up at the bedroom window.’
Lara still didn’t say anything.
And just as I was fishing about for something to rescue the situation, to save Lara and Massimo from the hideousness of Robert’s wild imaginings, the doorbell rang. Whoever it was – Jehovah’s Witnesses, young offenders selling ironing board covers, the bloke selling ‘restaurant quality fish’ out of the back of his van – I was going to fall on them and keep them captive until they were tempted to dial 999 to escape.
Francesca came clattering out of the playroom with Sandro and threw the front door open. ‘It’s Dad!’
‘How did you get on?’ Nico was so busy looking at her medal and hearing about the swimming, he didn’t clock the funny-farm party in the lounge. As he walked through the hallway towards us, I was tempted to throw myself against his chest where bits of plant and compost were still clinging.