Chapter 5
5
POPPY
On Saturday morning, I’d almost finished drying my hair after my shower when I spotted a voicemail notification on my phone. I recognised the number and my heart pounded as I dialled into the message.
‘Morning, Poppy, it’s Marnie Lloyd. Nothing to worry about. Your dad’s absolutely fine but we had an incident last night. When you visit this morning, can we have a quick chat before you see him so I can tell you about it? No need to rush here. I promise it’s nothing urgent. See you later.’
The manager of The Larks had a low, gentle, soothing voice which always made me feel calm and reassured. And she always spoke the truth so if she said I didn’t need to rush in, she meant it, although I dreaded to think what the incident might have been. It could be connected to what Marnie referred to as midnight meanderings – Dad leaving his room in the early hours and wandering along the corridors. Initially he’d said he was looking for Mum but, more recently, it was his parents he was searching for. It broke my heart thinking of Dad being confused and upset when he couldn’t find the people he loved, and each instance filled me with dread because the time- shifting further back into his memories meant the Alzheimer’s was taking a stronger hold on his brain. Time-shifting. It sounded like an almost magical term conjuring up images of time-travelling heroes who’d find the serial killers before they struck. Sadly, real-life time-shifting was far from magical. It was heartbreaking.
I resumed drying my hair, a familiar knot of anxiety building in my stomach, my mind running through other possibilities. I had a stack of quick admin tasks I’d planned to do before heading out, but I wouldn’t be able to fully concentrate on them until I knew what Marnie needed to talk to me about. I switched off the hairdryer, my hair still damp, pulled on a hoodie, grabbed my handbag and ran downstairs.
As I opened the front door, a figure lurched towards me and I leapt back with a squeal.
‘Damon!’ I clapped my hand to my pounding heart. ‘What are you doing here?’
His hand was raised, as though poised to ring the bell, and he lowered it to his side. He was wearing his usual work uniform of a navy boiler suit, fleecy jacket, boots and a khaki beanie hat over his dark hair. He was so close that I could smell the stale sweat on his clothes and coffee on his breath.
‘I’m booking in the first cuts of the year and I wanted to?—’
‘I can’t today. I’m on my way out.’ I already had my coat in my hands and shoved my arms into the sleeves to emphasise that.
‘I’ll come back later, then.’
I stepped outside but Damon, who had never been great at recognising personal space, stayed where he was on the doorstep.
‘Do you mind…?’ I asked, indicating with a nod of the head that I needed him to move. Most people would have stepped down from the doorstep to give me plenty of room, but not Damon. He shuffled a few inches, and I held my breath as I brushed past him in my attempt to close and lock the door.
‘I don’t know when I’ll be back,’ I said, managing to sidestep him.
‘This afternoon?’ he persisted, following me towards my car parked on the drive.
‘I’ve got a visitor.’ It was the truth. He didn’t need to know that my visitor was Benji the Yorkshire terrier again. ‘I’ve got to go. Sorry.’
Even though it was the perfect opportunity to tell him that I didn’t want him to return – especially since Troy Taylor who did several of the gardens in the village had confirmed that he could add me to his client list – I knew it wouldn’t be a quick conversation. Damon wasn’t going to accept a no and I really didn’t have the time or energy to get into a debate about it.
‘Are you going to see your dad? Is everything okay?’
I appreciated the concerned expression and the sympathy in Damon’s voice, but I didn’t want to get him involved. Not after last time.
‘I won’t know until I get there, but I need to go now.’ I glanced towards his van parked across the bottom of the drive, blocking my exit. ‘Can you move your van please?’
‘Of course! Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No, thank you. I just need you to move your van. I’m in a rush.’
‘Okay. But if you need anything, give me a call.’
I nodded and got into my car but Damon showed no sign of leaving. I turned on the ignition before I put my seatbelt on in the hope that the car starting would speed him into action but he was standing halfway down the drive, watching me. I revved the engine as I pulled on my seatbelt. Surely that had to finally get him moving. No. I revved it again and released the handbrake, letting the car cruise forward a couple of feet. When he still didn’t move, I wound down the window.
‘Damon!’ I called sharply. ‘Stop messing about.’
He raised his hand, presumably in apology, and slowly sauntered down the drive, taking what felt like an eternity to pull his van back so I could exit the drive. I could feel his eyes on me but I didn’t glance his way or raise my hand in thanks. After all, what was there to thank him for? He’d turned up unannounced and couldn’t have made it much harder for me to leave, knowing that I was in a rush. What had got into him this morning? Any guilt I had about telling him I didn’t require his services anymore had gone. I wouldn’t take any pleasure in it but I would feel relieved about severing all ties.
Half an hour later, I pulled into the visitor car park at The Larks and hastened inside, my stomach still in knots. Marnie, a curvy brunette in her late forties, was talking to a woman in the foyer and nodded to acknowledge me. I waited nearby and caught enough of the conversation to glean that the woman was looking for a place for her mother. I recognised the shedload of guilt in her words and demeanour as I’d been the same and still felt that way eighteen months down the line, even though my logic-loving brain told me this was the best place for Dad. The woman took a brochure and, as she passed me, I gave her a weak smile and wished I could say something comforting, but were there really any suitable words of comfort for someone whose loved one had dementia?
‘Poppy!’ Marnie said, her smile as welcoming as ever as I joined her. ‘Let’s go through to my office, but do be assured that your lovely dad is safe and well.’
Safe? The staff here were amazing so I could easily believe that. Well? He’d never really be well again, but I knew it was just a turn of phrase and I did appreciate the attempt at reassurance.
Marnie’s office was just behind the reception desk. The large room had several places to sit and she directed me towards the round table and chairs at the opposite end to her desk.
‘I know you’ll be anxious to see your dad so I won’t keep you long, but I need to let you know that his midnight meanderings have escalated.’
‘As in they’re more frequent?’ I asked.
She grimaced. ‘As in he’s also been going into other residents’ rooms. Last night we were alerted to him trying to get into bed with one of our female residents.’
‘Oh, my gosh! Are they both all right?’
‘They were shaken but we were able to calm them and get them settled back to sleep.’
I ran my fingers into my hair and clasped my head between my hands, searching for something to say. The only words I could find were, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, goodness, there’s nothing to be sorry about. I’ve seen everything over the years and this isn’t the first time there’s been a spot of bed-hopping. It’s nothing sexual. With Alzheimer’s, it’s typically a combination of the person’s confusion, disrupted sleep patterns and restlessness and, as you’re aware, your dad is particularly restless at the moment.’
I raised my head, nodding. Dad’s restlessness had escalated as he’d progressed into later-stage dementia, always looking for someone or something. Even when he was sitting, his fingers would be restless, his eyes darting everywhere. For a man who’d always been so calm and restful, it was distressing to see.
‘I’m not telling you this because it’s a problem,’ Marnie continued. ‘As you’ll remember when you first looked around, my promise to you was for honesty and transparency, so this is simply me being those things.’
I gave her a weak smile. ‘Thank you. You’re sure everyone’s all right?’
‘Everyone’s just fine. I’d tell you if that wasn’t the case. Do you have any questions for me?’
‘What happens next? You won’t lock him in his room, will you?’ I couldn’t bear the thought of my dad being trapped like that.
‘Goodness, no! At night, we’ll keep an even closer eye on the corridor where your dad is, but try not to worry. It’s not the first time this has happened with our residents, and it certainly won’t be the last. Belongings go walkies all the time too.’
I remembered her warning Dad and me about that when we looked around, suggesting that Dad didn’t bring anything particularly valuable with him. Thefts were never intentional or malicious – just symptomatic of the confusion.
Moving to The Larks had been Dad’s idea. During my teens, a neighbour and close friend of my parents had been diagnosed with vascular dementia. Dad had seen firsthand the toll caring for him took on his wife, who passed away herself shortly after him. At the time, Dad vehemently declared that he never wanted to put Mum or me through that if he went the same way.
None of us had noticed the dementia creeping up on Dad because we’d been so focused on filling Mum’s time with holidays, trips and special moments before she was too ill to do little more than lie in a hospital bed with machines breathing for her, being fed through a tube. We’d put Dad’s moments of forgetfulness down to stress but, a couple of weeks after Mum’s funeral, Dad and I tore the house apart looking for his car keys. I found them inside the tub of butter in the fridge and called him through to the kitchen to show him. We laughed about it and then stared at each other, both recalling other incidents where objects had been found in unexpected places and the many occasions where he’d struggled to remember words or lost track of what he was saying. What if it wasn’t just stress and old age? What if there was something more sinister going on?
Dad had been so brave that day, getting straight onto the phone to make a doctor’s appointment, telling me everything would be okay even though we both knew it wouldn’t be. He had dementia. We didn’t need a formal diagnosis to confirm that. I’d tried to be strong too, telling him we’d tackle it together if the news was what we feared . But after we said goodnight at bedtime, I’d beaten my fists against my pillows, screaming silently with the injustice of it all. I’d just lost my wonderful mum and now this!
Shortly after we received the official diagnosis of Alzheimer’s disease, Dad strongly reiterated his desire not to be a burden by presenting me with three care home brochures. The Larks was his favourite and he’d already made an appointment for a tour. He wasn’t bothered what the rooms looked like – it’s just a place to sleep – but the garden had been important to him. We stood on the lawn, surrounded by trees and birdfeeders and I saw that same look of serenity on his face that he had whenever he was in the garden at Dove Cottage. An ornithologist since childhood, he thought that watching the birds and hearing their song might soothe his increasingly confused mind. This was to be the place when the time came.
I’d held off as long as I could but, in the autumn the year before last, Dad went missing. I’d only nipped out to post a letter and when I got back, the front door was wide open and he was gone. I’d never known fear like it. It was dark and cold and he could be anywhere.
It was several hours later when a neighbour out walking her dog found him quite distressed sitting on a tree stump down a deserted lane and led him home. He had wandered off before but not that far or for that long and I had to accept that he was no longer safe to be left on his own.
Dad liked it in The Larks. The staff were kind and attentive and he’d been right about those birds soothing him. We both knew it was the best place for him, but it didn’t make it any easier when I drove home without him that first night, when I opened the door to an empty house, when I walked past his bedroom and he wasn’t there. And none of those things had got any easier since then. I feared they never would.
Dad was sitting in a high-backed chair in the residents’ lounge watching the birds eating from the various feeders spread around the patio. He spent most of his time there or sitting in a chair in his bedroom looking out over the garden.
I watched him from a distance for a while. He looked every bit the immaculately groomed and well-dressed gentleman he’d always been – blazer worn over an open-collared shirt and chinos with his grey hair neatly cut – but I could also see that the blazer was too big and the shirt too loose. I knew that his trousers only stayed up with the help of a belt with extra holes punched into it. If I moved closer, I knew his eyes would be flicking back and forth – always searching – and there’d be lines of confusion etched across his forehead. His hands would be teasing the tassels and ribbons on the colourful fiddle cushion made by the kind members of a local charity.
‘You okay?’
I looked into the concerned eyes of a care assistant I didn’t recognise. They’d taken on a few new staff members recently.
‘Just feeling a bit sad today. I sometimes need to gather my strength before I go and say hello.’
She glanced across at Dad. ‘Is that your granddad by the window?’
‘My dad.’
Her eyes widened and her cheeks flushed. ‘I’m sorry. I just?—’
‘It’s fine. I’m used to it. I had friends at school whose grandparents were younger than my parents.’ I didn’t have the energy to tell her my story. Not today.
‘He’s a lovely man,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave you to your thoughts, but let me know if you need anything.’
‘Thank you.’
Dad had aged significantly since moving in. He looked his years now. Frail. Lost. Another reason for me to feel guilty. I had to keep reminding myself that he’d been blessed with a youthful appearance for most of his life and it was perhaps inevitable that it would catch up with him at some point, especially when he was only a day away from his ninetieth birthday.
Residents always got a cake on their birthday but a landmark birthday received extra-special attention. For Dad’s, the staff had arranged a visit from Cuddles & Paws, a local charity that brought in animals – mainly guinea pigs, rabbits, cats and dogs – for the residents to pet. I’d visited once when they’d been here and it was incredible to see how engaged everyone became, talking about pets they’d had or had wanted and looking relaxed as they stroked the animals. I’d been so touched when Marnie told me she’d booked their next visit for Dad but, thinking about his birthday now, panic stabbed me. What if his ninetieth birthday was his last? The urge to rush up to him and bury myself in a hug was so strong that it took my breath away. I wrapped my arms across my body, blinking back the tears and trying to push down the lump in my throat.
I missed hugging Dad so much, but it was one of the many things this cruel disease had taken away from us, like being unable to call him Dad because it confused and upset him. The first visit when he hadn’t recognised me at all would forever haunt me as the day I said goodbye to the man who wasn’t connected to me by blood but who’d been the best dad I could ever have wished for.
I drew in several deep breaths and once I felt more in control of my emotions, I made my way over to the chair adjacent to Dad’s.
‘Good morning, Stanley!’ I said, my voice bright. ‘Do you mind if I sit here?’
Dad looked up with a smile and a nod before returning his gaze to the birds, his fingers twiddling a piece of blue satin ribbon on his cushion. That lack of recognition kicked me in the guts every time.
‘Are you watching the birds?’ I asked. ‘My dad loved doing that.’
‘I know all their names. My dad taught me.’
The proud tone of his voice made me smile but, seconds later, tears pricked my eyes as he twisted round, searching the room, and added, ‘Not sure where he’s gone. He asked me to wait here.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be back soon. How about you tell me the names of the birds in the meantime?’
And so my dad told me the names of the birds, just like he’d done when I was a child, and I encouraged him to tell me stories about twitching trips and birds he’d rescued. I didn’t care that I’d heard them countless times before. All I wanted was to hear my dad’s voice and be in the moment with him, even if he was talking about things from decades ago as though they’d only just happened.
Dad’s voice became slower and his eyelids drooped heavily until he drifted off to sleep. I stayed for another ten minutes, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, battling with my own fatigue. What I wouldn’t do to be able to cuddle up to him and sleep too.
I yawned and rubbed my tired eyes. I needed some time away, but could I leave him? Having Sharon visit every day would be some comfort, but I hadn’t missed a single day in eighteen months. Would I be able to break that pattern? Did I even want to?
Rising from my chair, I placed a light kiss on his cheek.
‘See you tomorrow for your birthday, Dad,’ I whispered.
Walking across the car park a little later, I was trying to keep the tears at bay while I hunted in my bag for my car keys.
‘Everything okay with your dad?’
Startled, I squealed and dropped my keys on the ground.
‘Damon! What are you doing here?’
‘You looked upset earlier. I was worried about you.’
‘So you followed me?’ I snatched up my keys and stared at him defiantly, hating that he’d encroached on a private emotional moment.
‘I didn’t follow you. I knew you were coming here.’
‘But I didn’t ask you to come.’
‘You looked upset,’ he repeated as though that explained his presence.
‘I wasn’t upset. I was in a rush. I still am.’
‘You look upset now.’
‘What do you expect?’ I waved my hand in the direction of the care home. ‘My dad’s in there and he has no idea who I am. Of course I’m upset!’
Cursing myself for saying too much, I set off towards my car, but Damon grabbed my arm, his fingers pressing into my skin.
‘Let go!’ I cried, snatching my arm from his grasp and rubbing it. I’d have a bruise there later. ‘Why did you do that?’
‘I want to talk to you, but you keep walking away.’
‘Because I have a mountain of things to do in a short space of time and I want to crack on with them.’
‘Can I take you for a coffee?’
I shook my head. ‘Damon, please listen to me. I have a lot to do. I don’t have time to stop and chat, so I definitely don’t have time to go for a coffee. I’m sorry.’
‘You never seem to have time for me anymore.’ He stuck out his bottom lip like a petulant child. ‘You used to chat to me but now you spend all your time working, or here, or at the farm with those stupid bees.’
Incensed, I glared at him. ‘The bees aren’t stupid.’
‘Don’t you care anymore?’ he asked, ignoring my comment.
‘About what?’ Damon was trying my patience today. I had so much to do and he seemed to be everywhere, delaying me.
He looked bewildered. ‘Me, of course! I thought we had a connection.’
I widened my eyes in disbelief. Seriously? This again?
‘Our only connection is that we went to the same primary school. Nothing more.’
‘You can’t mean that. We went out.’
‘That wasn’t a date, Damon. You know it wasn’t.’
‘If you’d just let me take you out again, I could?—’
I’d lost my patience now. How many times were we going to have the same conversation?
‘Please stop!’ I said firmly. ‘We had one coffee, it was not a date and you know it so stop trying to turn it into something it wasn’t. Don’t come here again. It’s distressing enough without you turning up.’
‘I want to be here. You don’t have to go through this alone, Poppy.’
He took a couple of steps closer, his arms outstretched as though to hug me and I backed away, furious with him for overstepping.
‘I want to go through this alone and this isn’t about you. I don’t care if you want to be here. This is my dad and I don’t want you here. Do you understand?’
‘But who else have you got?’
He’d said it gently and there was obvious concern in his expression, but those words! He might as well have punched me in the stomach. Those six words had tapped into my biggest fear for the future.
‘I’ve got plenty of people,’ I said, my tone sharp. ‘Don’t you worry about me.’
I dashed over to my car and started the ignition. Thankfully the car parked in front of me had gone, giving me the gift of a drive-through space. As I drove towards the exit, I stole a glance in the rearview mirror but Damon had gone. Thank goodness for that! Perhaps I’d finally got through to him.
I couldn’t believe he was still banging on about our ‘date’. It hadn’t been a date at all. Last year, Dad had time-shifted more frequently and, when I arrived at The Larks one stormy October day, he’d shifted back to his days as a journalist and thought I was there to be interviewed for a job as a junior reporter. I wasn’t sure I could blag my way through an interview so I told him I had a job already as a beekeeper. He’d stared at me for a moment and I held my breath. Any moment now, he’d realise who I was. Or even if he didn’t know that, he’d remember that he’d been a beekeeper.
‘A beekeeper?’ He nodded and I was sure he was processing a memory, but my hopes slipped away. ‘I’ve never met a beekeeper before. Is it dangerous?’
I stayed an hour while he quizzed me for an article he’d decided to write about beekeeping. It was a pleasure talking to him about my passion, telling him how much it had meant to me to learn it all from my dad, but it was heartbreaking too because there wasn’t a single moment during our time together when he knew who I was. I’d known that day would come. I thought I’d prepared myself for it but nothing could truly prepare me for the moment I knew I’d lost my dad. The moment where his brain was so damaged by this horrific disease that the memories from the part of his life which we’d shared were gone. The moment where I effectively had no family left and was all alone in the world.
I was halfway home when I heard the first rumble of thunder and, by the time I made it back, a storm was raging outside but also within me and I desperately needed some release. Skidding to a halt on the drive, I slammed the door shut and sprinted along the pathway running down the side of the garage and into the back garden, seeking out memories of my green-fingered nature-loving dad chatting to the bees as he pruned the roses, laughing at the antics of the squirrels as they stole the nuts from the birdfeeders, beaming proudly at the beautiful garden he’d created.
The rain was so torrential that my hair was plastered to my face and my clothes were already clinging to me but I barely noticed as I stood on the grass and screamed. As the storm raged, I raged with it. With my fists clenched, I cursed and yelled and jumped up and down, stamping my feet, turning the lawn beneath me into a muddy mess. I hated this. I hated the injustice of it. I hated the cruelty to the dementia patients and everyone who cared about them. And I hated that my dad no longer knew who I was. And suddenly I had no voice left, no energy, no fire and I sank onto the grass, my tears lost in the rainwater on my face.
Damon found me and he helped me into the house, made me a hot drink while I dried off, and then he listened as I poured out everything I was thinking and feeling. It was cathartic to get it all out and I felt so much lighter. I asked if I could take him out for a coffee the following day to thank him for his kindness. We were only out for an hour and, as Damon wasn’t the greatest conversationalist, there were several awkward silences. As we left the café, he told me he’d had a great time and asked me when I was free for our second date. I immediately corrected him – not a date, just a one-off coffee to say thanks for yesterday. Over the next few weeks, he messaged me every few days asking me out but then it fizzled out and I assumed he’d got the message. Apparently not.