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She sits up straighter. ‘Oh yes, they think it was,’ she says, sounding stronger. ‘A migraine with auras,’ she adds firmly. She smiles at me now. ‘I thought it was a stroke too …’
She lifts up her tea and takes a small sip. ‘I didn’t want to say it on the phone’.
My heart is thumping as she tells me.
She’d been in the garden, trying to pull out the dandelions from among her sprouting forget-me-nots, when she’d started to feel a bit sick. So she’d come indoors to get some water and then her vision had started to go hazy and she was seeing wavy lines. Recognising this as classic migraine, after having them for years, and feeling her head start to ache, she’d called Mo to put her off coming round for supper. But when she tried to speak to Mo, her words came out backwards.
Mo called an ambulance and came straight round. They both now thought my mother was having a stroke, and the paramedics clearly agreed as she was whisked off to A&E – ‘such nice young people, couldn’t have been kinder’ – where she had various tests and a CT scan, which showed that in fact she hadn’t had a stroke, and they concluded, according to my mother, that it probably was just a migraine after all.
By now she could talk normally again and they told her migraines could affect speech and that if she hadn’t tried to make the phone call she might never have known. The relief made my mother feel better immediately and she went home, took painkillers and had a better night’s sleep than she usually did, feeling fine by the next day, although the hospital wanted her to have a second, different, sort of scan, just to make sure, so she had gone for that when she got back from Poole, and seen a neurologist.
‘And?’ I prompt as she is silent again. ‘What did he say?’
The room is getting darker and my mother rises from her chair and walks slowly across the carpet and turns on the standard lamp she’s had all my life. Then she sits down again and I see the distress in her eyes. ‘I had wondered,’ she says. ‘But it was still a terrible shock.’
‘What?’ I ask softly, my mind racing through the possibilities. A stroke the first scan had missed? Cancer? A brain tumour? ‘Tell me.’
‘Oh Tess,’ my mother says, with tears in her eyes. ‘I’ve got some sort of dementia.’
Chapter 3 (#u97f4e9c5-778f-59a3-be7a-3b07732c001a)
‘My uncle had Alzheimer’s.’ Jinni opened a cupboard with one hand and reached into the tall fridge with the other. ‘It’s an absolute bastard.’
I sat at the enormous table in her vast stone kitchen, looking in awe at the battered range, deep butler’s sink and numerous drawers, as she deftly uncorked a bottle and put a generous white wine in front of me. I swallowed.
‘It’s not necessarily that – the damage is frontal-temporal only but I’ve been Googling and it doesn’t sound good. I don’t know how quickly …’ I stopped. ‘We’re waiting for an appointment with the consultant.’
Jinni looked back at me. ‘And she’s okay at home on her own?’
‘Her friend Mo is going in and out. And her partner, Gerald. Not that we’re allowed to call him that!’
I didn’t add that Mo had said she thought the days of my mother being left alone were numbered. I was still getting my head around it. Mo, sworn to silence until my mother had told me herself, had been on the phone for over an hour.
She’d been worried about my mother’s forgetfulness, peculiar statements and occasional lack of coherent speech for some time. But Gerald had appeared unbothered (‘typical man! They don’t notice anything unless it’s in a mini skirt’) and my mother had dismissed her concerns, while insisting I was due to visit any day, so Mo had hoped I’d turn up soon and pick up on it myself.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I’d said guiltily.
‘Nothing to be sorry for, Pet,’ Mo interrupted me. ‘Wouldn’t have made a ha’pence worth of difference.’
It seemed nothing would. I was hanging onto the word ‘slow’ I’d found on the internet. A slow, degenerative neurological condition. Perhaps it would take a long time and my mother would stay at this stage, where she lost her train of thought and stood staring. Maybe all the other horrors I couldn’t bear to imagine, listed under symptoms and outlook, happened to other people’s mothers and not mine.
I hadn’t told the kids yet. I told myself it was best to wait till we’d had the full prognosis, but really I couldn’t bear to say the words out loud.
I wouldn’t have told Jinni if she hadn’t looked at me so directly and said I seemed upset.
‘She looks normal,’ I said. ‘She sounds the same, but there’s this …’ I stopped, struggling to put my finger on it. ‘Lack of interest …’
I’d shown her photos of the house, suggested dates for her to come and stay. Usually she’d have been on her diary like a tramp on a kipper.
Now she nodded with distance in her eyes.
‘She’s afraid too,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what will happen. Alice is already talking about carers but Mum says she just wants to keep everything normal for as long as she can …’
I’d read about people with mothers who’d simply gone a bit doo-lally and couldn’t be trusted with a gas supply, but who were happy enough in their own little world. I’d tried to picture my mother like this and failed.
Then I’d found horror stories of aggression and incontinence and smashed furniture, and switched off the computer, unable to bear the tales of rage and tears and family breakdown.
‘But I don’t know how long that will be …’ I said.
Jinni shook the plaster dust from her hair. ‘Come and see a fireplace.’
I followed her obediently up a wide staircase to a bare back bedroom overlooking her tangled garden. A large chunk of ceiling was missing.
‘Look!’ She waved an arm at a pretty iron grate surrounded by flowered tiles. ‘Victorian! Been boarded up.’ She kicked at the sheet of painted hardboard she’d hacked away from the chimney breast. ‘Philistines!’
She threw open one of the cupboards either side of the chimney breast. ‘It’s the third one I’ve uncovered. Don’t you just love all this storage?’
‘It’s going to be gorgeous,’ I said, looking around at the long windows and cornice work, grateful to be distracted.
‘Yeah,’ Jinni pulled a face. ‘If I don’t drop dead of exhaustion first. I’m knocking through here to make an en suite.’ She slapped a palm against the wall. ‘If you ever want a stress-buster, grab the sledge hammer.’
Back downstairs, my fingers curled around the leaflet in my pocket. The reason I’d plucked up the courage to bang on Jinni’s door.
‘Did you get one of these?’ I held out the flyer for a Wine and Wisdom evening for the local theatre group. Individuals welcome! ‘Do you fancy going?’
Jinni stiffened. ‘Eurgh. Those am-dram types get on my wick – all emoting and “getting in the zone” as if they’re Dench or Olivier – and if I see Ingrid once more this week, I might swing for her.’
She took a large mouthful of wine. ‘She’s the bane of my bloody life. Still objecting to my change-of-use application on all sorts of insane grounds and she’s been up and down the street trying to get everyone else to protest as well.’
‘She put a note through my door about it,’ I told Jinni uncomfortably. ‘Said she was worried about extra vehicles and you chopping down trees.’
Jinni scowled. ‘Don’t listen to that environmental crap,’ she said. ‘It’s sour grapes. Her creepy son tried to buy it before I managed to. I outbid him. That’s the real reason the old witch is so bitter and twisted.’
‘Oh!’ I waited while Jinni took another swig from her glass. ‘What was he going to do with it?’
‘Turn it into flats probably. Or demolish it – one of his mates owns the place behind me so I expect the plan was to flatten the lot and build a whole new cul-de-sac. Even more cars, even more of the dreaded DFLs tempted here. Not that they need much tempting now we’ve got the fast train. And a whacking great profit for him. Wanker.’
She poured some more into her glass and pushed the bottle towards me. ‘I wouldn’t mind if she was honest about it. But it’s so damn hypocritical. I’m making this place beautiful again, bringing out all the original features. I’ve been advised to take out one tree because it’s diseased and it might bloody fall on me. I’ve got huge plans for the garden. It’s going to be stunning. And if I had his money, yes, I’d keep the whole place just for me but I’m going to have to do B&B to afford the upkeep.’
She stopped and took a deep breath. ‘Sorry to rant on.’
‘He’s a builder, is he?’
‘David?’ she said, with a comical sneer. ‘He’s an architect. Got some flash practice in town. But fingers in all the local pies. Ingrid’s always storming the council offices talking about all the new commuters ruining the area and there not being enough affordable housing, while her precious boy is the first one to mop up any bargains and make a fast buck. They both make me sick.’
I looked at her, startled by the real venom in her voice. I made myself smile. ‘So that’s a no, then?’
Jinni grinned back.
‘Sorry hun – you’ll have to be brave and go on your own.’
‘Bravery’s not my strong point.’
The Wine and Wisdom Evening was in a function room at the back of a pub called the Six Pears. I walked the half mile there, looking in the old-fashioned shop fronts, as I crossed the cobbled market square onto the High Street, still finding it hard to believe this was now home.
The town had changed and spread over the years since I’d first come here to visit my friend Fran. There were rows of houses where once there were fields, more traffic and speed bumps and the lovely old ironmongers had closed down now. But Northstone always kept its charm. Even in the years when Fran was in Italy, we’d got into the habit of stopping off on the way back from the coast for coffees or ice-creams, to poke about among the antiques or simply find a loo, and I’d often imagined living here.
The fantasy had grown legs the moment I’d read about the new high-speed link to the city. House prices were rising sharply and already the bookshop had become an emporium of scented candles and high-end bath oils and our favourite pub, with the bar billiards table, a raw-food restaurant. When we got a buyer for Finchley, I moved fast. I loved the idea of a small community and a proper local, quiet streets and the river nearby. With London now under an hour away, it seemed meant to be. I’d thought about Ben getting to uni and me getting to the office, and having somewhere to park and a garden. But somehow I’d overlooked the day-to-day reality of making new friends and who I’d talk to …
The wind was cold and I could feel the make-up running from my streaming eyes as I reached the door, suddenly wishing I’d stayed at home with some biscuits and the box set of Downton Abbey.
But, I reminded myself as I shoved my body across the threshold, I needed a social life.
Visions of painting the place red with Fran had faded fast – the last time I’d dropped in, it was all baby yoga, organic dishcloths and making sure her four children got their ten-a-day. Apart from Jinni, the only person I’d spoken to at any length since I got here was the chap in the corner shop and that was only a thrilling exchange about my newspaper delivery and why he was fresh out of washing-up liquid.
A woman with grey-blonde hair and some rather nice silver jewellery was sat at a table next to a cash box.
‘Wicked Wits?’ she enquired, consulting a list.
‘Sorry?’
She repeated it, mouthing the words carefully as if I were in need of learning support. ‘Are you on a TEAM?’
‘No, I’m on my own …’
She rustled the paper. ‘The Wits said they were waiting for one more.’ She beamed. ‘But if you’re a one-off I’ll give you to Brigitte …’
Brigitte, a dramatically made-up lady with highly defined eyebrows, was, as she immediately introduced herself, chair of the Northstone Players –for which the evening was raising much-needed funds – and currently rehearsing Madame Francine for their forthcoming production of A Frenchman in Disguise.
‘Do you know the play?’
I shook my head.
‘Ever done any acting?’ I shook my head again. She patted my arm. ‘We’re always looking for help with the scenery …’
She led me across a room filled with round tables adorned with paper, pens and bowls of peanuts, through small groups of people holding glasses, to the far corner. A broad-shouldered, grey-haired man in his late fifties sat with a younger, bearded chap and a blonde girl of about twenty.
‘One for you, Malcolm,’ Brigitte said. ‘This is Tess – she’s new to Northstone and could be your secret weapon.’
‘I don’t know about that …’ I squeaked, embarrassed.
Malcolm looked me up and down. ‘Neither do I,’ he said gruffly.
Malcolm was the editor of the local paper, the Northstone & District News, as well as other regional publications; the young girl, Emily, was one of his junior reporters and the man, Adrian, another of the town’s thesps, who, he told me, had written a play he was hoping they would perform for their autumn production.
‘We’ll call ourselves the Odds and Sods, shall we?’ said Malcolm.
When we’d got to the third round and I still hadn’t known the answer to anything except who’d played Deirdre in Coronation Street, I could feel myself sinking in my chair.
My only consolation came from the fact that Emily didn’t seem to know much either and Adrian had only contributed the names of three Olympic gold medallists and the symbols from the periodic table for lead, tin and pewter.
Malcolm, on the other hand, was grunting out answers like a one-man Wikipedia and was only seen to be flummoxed when a question came up about boy bands. ‘You must know that,’ he instructed Emily, who didn’t.
By half-time we were sitting in third place. ‘And we haven’t done current affairs yet,’ said Malcolm, satisfied. ‘What do you do? And why did you move here?’
I was halfway through regaling him with the highlights of my enthralling career as an office space planner, when I saw Ingrid bearing down on us with a beer mug full of money and two books of raffle tickets.
‘Hello again!’ she said briskly to me before putting the tankard in front of Malcolm. ‘How’s that paper of yours? Going to be any decent news in it for a change?’
‘You’ll have to fork out and find out,’ he countered. ‘For a change.’
‘I always do,’ said Ingrid. ‘Though why it doesn’t have a bit more online, I don’t know.’
‘Because then nobody would buy it,’ he said. ‘As it is they all stand there reading it in the shop.’
‘You want to cut out all the smut, then, and put in something worth paying for.’
‘The smut is why the few do pay for it.’
Ingrid gave him a withering smile. I got the feeling this was a well-worn exchange. ‘Are you going to buy some tickets?’
‘No,’ Malcolm said. ‘I’ve already paid to do the quiz.’
‘This is to raise more funds. Lovely prizes.’
‘They won’t be.’
‘Go on. Another couple of pounds won’t hurt you.’
‘I like quizzes. I don’t like raffles.’
Ingrid thrust the books towards me. ‘A pound a strip’, she said, surmising correctly that I wouldn’t dare refuse her too.
‘Settling in?’ she asked, while I fumbled for coins. ‘Despite the neighbours?’
I felt Malcolm’s eyes on me. There was a small silence. ‘Jinni’s been very kind to me,’ I said eventually, keeping my voice even and smiling at Ingrid.
Ingrid looked cynical. ‘I’m sure she has,’ she said shortly.
‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ she added to Malcolm. ‘But it’s off the record.’
‘Then don’t tell me,’ said Malcolm. ‘Come back when you’ve got something I can actually publish.’
Ingrid grimaced. ‘It’s about the council. If I have my way, I’ll blow the lid off the whole lot of them.’
Malcolm’s tone was dry: ‘I’m surprised they can sleep.’
‘Annoying woman,’ he said, when she’d moved off.
