of the few possessions she’d brought from home, from her cottage by the sea.
She’d just gone to the toilet in the corridor and left her favourite chair and blanket for a moment. She’d come back to find one of the nurses more or less playing tug of war over it with Beryl.
Ever since they’d properly diagnosed Beryl with Alzheimer’s she had become more and more belligerent. Was it the disease? Was it her? Was it her age? All Olive knew was that she was terrified she would turn into a grumpy old woman herself. Well, she was already, but that came with the territory at eighty-seven, or was it eighty-eight? Dear Lord. Beryl was probably scared – and very confused. Couldn’t blame her. But Olive did want her blanket back.
‘Beryl, why don’t you hang on to that blanket for today? Let’s just share it for a bit, shall we? It’s terribly soft, isn’t it?’ Beryl beamed at Olive, a huge childlike smile showing her missing teeth at the back, where the dentures just sort of stopped on the upper part of her mouth.
‘What a wonderful idea.’ Beryl sighed, leant back in her chair as Clare came over and patted Olive on the arm with a wink.
Not for the first time did Olive wonder at this descent from dignity. And how, as you aged, there was a steady decline into almost childlike behaviour. It was ironic really; the older you got, the more infantile you became. Arguing over a favourite chair, wanting a friend’s blanket, going into a mood over the ‘wrong’ pudding, and as for dribbling and loss of control over bodily functions… Olive shuddered. She wouldn’t go there. She knew the doctors wanted to retest her cognitive functions on Friday. ‘Cognitive’ – she played with the word in her mind. She just didn’t want to know the results.
At least she’d asked that lawyer chap to come and see her. Given him a few instructions. She felt happier now; he’d fix it. All her final wishes. Today had been a good day. She knew all the words she wanted to use. She had remembered – just – at the last minute that she hated tomatoes at lunch and now she was remembering to share.
She sat back down in her chair by the window and studied the coppery leaves gathering force in the corner of the garden. She watched them scurry together in a windy dance, twirl around, then get blown mercilessly into the corner by the greenhouse, to be left in little piles later; some to get blown onto the grass again, a few to fly away over the hedge and some to get trampled underfoot, for the life to be squeezed out of them so they’d be used for the next cycle of life.
23
Maddie
Three days later, a taxi pulled up outside the hostel. ‘C’mon Mum!’ Ed leant his head out the window. She hadn’t been able to bring her flight forward at all – it was going to cost money she didn’t have. Ed had jumped in and was chatting to the driver.
She was standing on the pavement with Johnny. He took her bags from her hand, brushing her skin as he did so. She smiled at him, and silently thanked the messy-haired surfer for igniting something deep within her. His boyish good looks, his passion and his determination had awakened something in her. She glimpsed the surf-mad teenager in him, thought about his stories at the bar – near misses with sharks (she never did know if they were true or not).
He’d been a good friend in Bali. Taught her to go for it, to enjoy herself again, that she could do it.
Cars belted past and diesel fumes filled her nose in the heat. Johnny’s hand was on her shoulder, squeezing it; she slid her sunglasses up on top of her head so she could look at him properly and squinted in the sun. ‘Hey, Mads, look after yourself.’
She studied the disheveled gentle giant towering over her. ‘I will.’
‘And there’s just one thing I want you do to for me.’ He squeezed her shoulder again as a smile played on his lips.
‘What?’
‘Go for it.’
She tilted her head to one side. ‘How do you mean?’
‘I think you know.’ And with that, he bent down, gave her a peck on the cheek and she inhaled his smell – damp sea and salt – for one last time. ‘He’s a lucky guy,’ Johnny whispered in her ear before he pulled away.