‘None of that sounds too major, Mum,’ I say tentatively. ‘I think it’s normal to be a little absent-minded at your age.’
‘Will you talk to him? He listens to you.’ We hear the shuffle of Dad’s footsteps in the hall, and Mum quickly changes the subject. ‘The gardener thinks we should put a fence up, says it will be easier to maintain, but you know my feelings on fences. What would the neighbours think? It would lower the tone of the village. No, no, we’ll have to replant the whole hedge at vast expense. We’ll be dead and gone before anyone sees the benefit, but at least we won’t be letting the side down.’
‘Are you still talking about hedges?’ Dad asks. ‘Honestly, you’d think it was a person who’d died, the wailing and the gnashing of teeth this beech hedge has caused.’
‘When you live in an area of outstanding natural beauty, you have an obligation to maintain certain standards,’ says Mum. ‘Our garden can be seen from the road. Remember when Tilda Stewart-Smith started experimenting with garden gnomes? It was a most delicate situation for the village committee. Poor Tilda, so sensitive, so lacking in taste and judgement.’
‘I don’t see the issue with a fence,’ Dad says. ‘I found a cheap one online. I could erect it myself.’
‘Said the actress to the bishop,’ I say, leaning into Dad with an expectant grin, but he only looks at me blankly. He can’t have forgotten, surely?
‘Dad? Our silly joke, remember?’
‘Ah right, very good.’ Dad smiles back at me, but his eyes look blank. Mum tilts her head at me, as though to say ‘See what I mean’， and now I know I really can’t burden her with my situation too.
As I take them both through to the living room, I’m half expecting them to comment on the house, on the décor, how stylish it is, what an upgrade on Kennington Lane, but of course they don’t.
‘Now, darling, are we still planning on doing an . . . event?’ Mum pauses, her face suddenly sombre. ‘For Chloe, next month.’ Who’s Chloe? I don’t know, so I give a non-committal nod. ‘Because we’re keen to help mark the occasion, however difficult it may be.’ Mum pauses, reaching out a hand to touch my knee.
‘Who’s Chloe?’ Dad says, and I want to kiss him for asking the questions I can’t. I look to Mum to answer, then I see that she’s tearing up. Mum never cries.
‘I’m so sorry, Lucy. He’s awfully muddled.’
‘I am not muddled,’ Dad says, scowling at her.
‘Look, I know no one likes to talk about these things, but I think it’s better to have things out in the open. If you can’t recall basic information – that’s going to have a knock-on effect on all of us,’ Mum says, just as Sam walks down the stairs with an armful of laundry.
‘You told them?’ Sam says in surprise, and before I can respond, Mum is sitting bolt upright, head darting from left to right like a meerkat on high alert.
‘Told us what?’
‘About Lucy’s memory,’ Sam says.
‘Lucy’s memory? I was talking about Bert. What’s wrong with Lucy?’
‘Oh,’ says Sam, sheepishly, giving me an apologetic look.
‘Lucy?’ Mum asks, splaying her fingers and pressing them to her lips.
‘We didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily—’ I say, but Mum interrupts me.
‘I knew it, I knew you were ill! Your skin is so sallow, your cheeks are all puffy. You’re on steroids, aren’t you? Is it cancer? Tell me it isn’t cancer.’
‘I’m not ill,’ I say, holding up a palm to stop her from talking. ‘I’ve just had some trouble remembering recent events. Temporary amnesia, the doctor says—’
‘Amnesia? This is your side, Bert,’ Mum says sharply to Dad. ‘We’ll have to cancel our trip. We’ll have to stay and help. Sam can’t be expected to cope with all this alone. Just look at the state of the kitchen!’
Sam bites his lip, but I can see the agitation in his hands as he slowly clenches and unclenches his fists. ‘We’re managing, honestly, Margot.’
Mum is pacing now, wringing her hands like a character in a Jane Austen novel who’s just learnt the regiment is about to leave town.
‘There must be something we can do to help?’ she asks.
Sam looks at me, a glint in his eyes as he says, ‘There might be something.’
Chapter 18
‘Date night. You’re a genius,’ I say as we slide onto two bar stools in a dimly lit pub called Polly’s on Farnham High Street.
‘Your mother’s biggest fear, after illness, is marital discord. She’s a firm advocate of date nights to stave off a relationship’s decline.’
‘She is?’ This is news to me.
Sam had a shower and changed into a clean shirt before we came out. The hair at the nape of his neck is still slightly damp and I resist an inexplicable urge to reach up and sweep it away from his collar.
‘Your mum and dad went to couple’s therapy a few years ago,’ Sam says. ‘Now they do date night twice a month and we get regular updates on the family cloud app.’
‘My parents went to a couple’s therapist? I can’t compute them spending money on something like that.’
‘They won vouchers in a raffle,’ Sam explains, while scanning the bar menu with his watch. ‘Do you want a French martini? That’s what you usually have here.’
I don’t even know what a French martini is, but I nod, deferring to my future self’s taste in alcoholic beverages. As Sam orders, I look around the bar, reassured by how familiar this pub seems. Pints are still pints, pub carpets are still inexplicably hideous, and drunk old men are still there, still trying to chat up the disinterested barmaid.
‘Bars haven’t changed much, have they?’ I say.
‘What were you expecting, robot bartenders?’
‘Yes,’ I say, laughing, ‘I want robots and anti-hangover drinks.’
‘Oh, we have anti-hangover drinks,’ Sam says.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. They’re called soft drinks.’
‘Oh, ha ha,’ I say, elbowing him gently while the barmaid passes our drinks over the bar. ‘That’s a real dad joke.’
Sam lifts his pint to my cocktail glass. ‘My speciality. Cheers.’
There’s something about Sam’s posture, his body language, that tells me he’s comfortable in his own skin. I wonder if he has always been this way, or if this stillness is something people grow into.
‘I’m sorry I’ve been so out of it this week.’
‘There’s been a lot for you to get your head around. I’m just glad you’re feeling better now. Oh, before I forget, Amy’s got this rash, so you need to put cream on after every nappy change, it’s the blue tube on the changing table. Felix has got an away game at school on Monday, so he needs—’
‘Do you mind if we don’t talk about the children tonight?’ I ask, gently resting my hand on his arm. ‘I want to get to know you, Sam. I hardly know anything about you . . .’
‘Right.’ Sam lifts his eyebrows, tilting his head to one side. ‘Well, this might be one of the strangest conversations I’ve ever had, but okay. What do you want to know?’