silences. She hated the way Evelyn refused to talk about Phil’s dad, but occasionally threw out barbs like, ‘You don’t get your pigheadedness from me.’
‘She’s pretty hearty for nearly eighty,’ she said. ‘I’m sure it was just a temporary lapse of concentration.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about. I don’t want her hale and hearty but losing her marbles. Setting the house on fire, or leaving doors open for burglars to walk in.’ He gripped the steering wheel. ‘Becca found the remote control in the fridge. We made a joke about it, but Mum must have put it there. That’s a sign, isn’t it? Of dementia? Putting things in the wrong place.’
Anna shook her head automatically. It was impossible to reconcile Evelyn, hair set in a candyfloss helmet, imperious and red-clawed, still capable of delivering a cutting remark just for the fun of it, with the dementia sufferers she read to, groping for some purchase on their surroundings like babies struggling to walk.
And, a smaller voice in her head added, was Evelyn going to be her responsibility too? As well as Phil’s children?
‘It might not be.’ She reached out and caressed the back of his neck, where his hair, cut short for work, was growing out for the holidays. ‘I’m going up there this week to do a Reading Aloud session – I’ll have a word with Joyce. She sees this sort of thing all the time.’
‘Would you?’ He glanced over. His eyes were troubled, and she wanted to comfort the concern away.
‘Course.’
‘Thanks.’ Phil managed a smile. ‘Now, it’s just you and me for the next week. Just like old times, eh? Where do you want to go for lunch?’
‘Home,’ said Anna. ‘Back to bed. I’ll make you a sandwich later if you’ve worked up an appetite.’
‘No, seriously. Simon from work says the Bridge Inn’s been done up – he had a great steak there before Christmas. Fancy that?’
Anna’s stomach tightened. ‘It’s Boxing Day, Phil. It’ll be shut. Anyway, come on. We’ve got the house to ourselves! And you owe me a massage for all that cooking yesterday.’
‘I know. But that’s what afternoons are for, right? It’s so long since we had a meal out, just you and me.’ He wriggled his shoulders. ‘I want to go somewhere that doesn’t have swings outside, or a kids’ menu. Somewhere with a dangerous pond. Don’t you fancy that? Long lunch, the papers, no rush to get back for ballet?’
‘Well . . .’
Phil looked at her sideways. ‘It’s not often I get to take my gorgeous wife out for a date. Don’t deny me that small pleasure.’
Anna felt herself leaning towards his way of thinking. She couldn’t remember the last meal they’d had, just the two of them. Lunch à deux, intelligent conversation, some wine . . . it might jump-start the afternoon anyway.
‘OK,’ she said, sinking back into her seat. ‘But I’m having pudding. And we’re out of there by three.’
‘You’re on.’ Phil turned up the radio and started singing in a dad-like manner that Chloe would not have permitted, had she been there.
3
‘What if everything you drew and wished for came to life? Marianne Dreams brilliantly taps into every child’s (and adult’s) fear of waking up in their own dream.’
Anna McQueen
‘Merry Christmas!’ said Owen, from behind the biggest bunch of white roses Michelle had seen outside a trade convention display.
‘Are those from you?’ she panted, still winded from her run. ‘Because I’d rather . . . have had . . . a down payment on your . . . outstanding loans.’
‘Nice! And a Merry Christmas to you too, Owen,’ he said, pretending to look hurt.
Michelle responded by giving him a quick, sweaty hug, ruffling his dark curls with her free hand, then bent double to get the rest of her breath back while she tried to work out whether she should be pleased if he’d brought her roses when still he owed her three months’ rent for his last house.
Owen was
‘She’s pretty hearty for nearly eighty,’ she said. ‘I’m sure it was just a temporary lapse of concentration.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about. I don’t want her hale and hearty but losing her marbles. Setting the house on fire, or leaving doors open for burglars to walk in.’ He gripped the steering wheel. ‘Becca found the remote control in the fridge. We made a joke about it, but Mum must have put it there. That’s a sign, isn’t it? Of dementia? Putting things in the wrong place.’
Anna shook her head automatically. It was impossible to reconcile Evelyn, hair set in a candyfloss helmet, imperious and red-clawed, still capable of delivering a cutting remark just for the fun of it, with the dementia sufferers she read to, groping for some purchase on their surroundings like babies struggling to walk.
And, a smaller voice in her head added, was Evelyn going to be her responsibility too? As well as Phil’s children?
‘It might not be.’ She reached out and caressed the back of his neck, where his hair, cut short for work, was growing out for the holidays. ‘I’m going up there this week to do a Reading Aloud session – I’ll have a word with Joyce. She sees this sort of thing all the time.’
‘Would you?’ He glanced over. His eyes were troubled, and she wanted to comfort the concern away.
‘Course.’
‘Thanks.’ Phil managed a smile. ‘Now, it’s just you and me for the next week. Just like old times, eh? Where do you want to go for lunch?’
‘Home,’ said Anna. ‘Back to bed. I’ll make you a sandwich later if you’ve worked up an appetite.’
‘No, seriously. Simon from work says the Bridge Inn’s been done up – he had a great steak there before Christmas. Fancy that?’
Anna’s stomach tightened. ‘It’s Boxing Day, Phil. It’ll be shut. Anyway, come on. We’ve got the house to ourselves! And you owe me a massage for all that cooking yesterday.’
‘I know. But that’s what afternoons are for, right? It’s so long since we had a meal out, just you and me.’ He wriggled his shoulders. ‘I want to go somewhere that doesn’t have swings outside, or a kids’ menu. Somewhere with a dangerous pond. Don’t you fancy that? Long lunch, the papers, no rush to get back for ballet?’
‘Well . . .’
Phil looked at her sideways. ‘It’s not often I get to take my gorgeous wife out for a date. Don’t deny me that small pleasure.’
Anna felt herself leaning towards his way of thinking. She couldn’t remember the last meal they’d had, just the two of them. Lunch à deux, intelligent conversation, some wine . . . it might jump-start the afternoon anyway.
‘OK,’ she said, sinking back into her seat. ‘But I’m having pudding. And we’re out of there by three.’
‘You’re on.’ Phil turned up the radio and started singing in a dad-like manner that Chloe would not have permitted, had she been there.
3
‘What if everything you drew and wished for came to life? Marianne Dreams brilliantly taps into every child’s (and adult’s) fear of waking up in their own dream.’
Anna McQueen
‘Merry Christmas!’ said Owen, from behind the biggest bunch of white roses Michelle had seen outside a trade convention display.
‘Are those from you?’ she panted, still winded from her run. ‘Because I’d rather . . . have had . . . a down payment on your . . . outstanding loans.’
‘Nice! And a Merry Christmas to you too, Owen,’ he said, pretending to look hurt.
Michelle responded by giving him a quick, sweaty hug, ruffling his dark curls with her free hand, then bent double to get the rest of her breath back while she tried to work out whether she should be pleased if he’d brought her roses when still he owed her three months’ rent for his last house.
Owen was
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