the things he loved about her the most. Her ability to see the best in everything. He wondered where she’d find a silver lining to this. He took another swig. Because, with all the will in the world, he couldn’t find one anywhere.
The following morning Marigold had forgotten all about her midnight wander. She awoke with enthusiasm and went straight to the window. ‘Another beautiful day, Dennis,’ she said. ‘What shall we do?’
‘We’ll go and explore. I think there’s a ruined castle near here.’
‘I love ruins,’ she said.
‘So do I.’
Dennis put the drama of the night behind him and concentrated on making the day special, for both of them. They didn’t go away much and he wondered whether they’d ever go away again. He was determined to make this holiday one he would never forget.
Taran called Daisy almost every day. He claimed he was calling to find out how his mother was, or for small pieces of information that could only be found in his father’s study, but Daisy recognized very quickly that those were merely excuses. The truth was, he wanted to talk to her. Mostly about nothing, but increasingly about his father. Slowly those occasions became more frequent and the conversations about his loss grew longer. He began to open up and Daisy was flattered. She realized that she had misjudged him. He was just a typical product of his class and education. The emotions were there, he just didn’t know how to express them.
She guessed he didn’t talk to his on–off girlfriend about his father. Otherwise he wouldn’t need to talk to her.
‘That boy calls you a lot, doesn’t he,’ said Nan, who was watching the television in the sitting room, while Daisy sketched by the window. It was too hot to sit outside and Nan enjoyed watching quiz shows. She liked to get the answers right before the contestants did.
‘Taran? He’s calling because I’m helping him sort out his father’s estate as well as looking after his mother.’
‘I would have thought Lady Sherwood had an army of helpers. A house of that size requires a lot of maintenance.’
‘She just has Sylvia.’
‘Ah, Sylvia, a paragon of discretion.’
‘She’s not very discreet, is she?’ Daisy agreed.
‘Sir Owen has left the entire estate to Taran. He was hoping to live seven years so that he wouldn’t have to pay tax on it. But sadly, the Commodore’s moles scuppered his plans. Poor Taran will probably have to sell the place. The inheritance tax on it will be horrendous.’
Daisy put down her charcoal. ‘Did Sylvia tell you that?’
‘No, she told Eileen, who told me.’
‘The village grapevine is very efficient.’
Nan chuckled. ‘You have no idea.’
‘Did she tell you anything else?’
‘He’s going to sell it to developers. Apparently, he’s already got interest there. It wouldn’t be hard to get planning permission because the council are desperate for more houses. The logical place to build them would be right outside our back gate.’
Daisy bit her lip. ‘We can’t tell Mum and Dad. Not until it happens.’
‘Well, they’d have to move house, of course.’
‘Nan!’
‘We couldn’t stay here with all that noise going on! It would drive me mad. I’m old and frail and need peace and quiet.’
‘And Mum can’t move. I’ve been doing my research and people with dementia have to stay in the same house where everything is familiar. The worst thing for them is to be moved to an unfamiliar place.’
‘Your mother doesn’t have dementia,’ said Nan, tweezer-lipped.
‘Why are you so sure?’
Nan folded her arms and lifted her chin. ‘Doctors get things wrong all the time and that scan was not decisive. Dementia is hard to diagnose. As for the clinical psychologist, well, I wouldn’t trust her opinion if my life depended on it.’
‘Caroline Lewis is an expert in her field,’ Daisy argued.
‘What is a clinical psychologist anyway?’
‘To be honest, Nan, I don’t think a diagnosis is really going to make a difference. There’s nothing they can do for her anyway.’
‘She’s pushing seventy, Daisy. It’s natural to become forgetful.’
Daisy didn’t want to argue about this again. Nan was determined not to accept that her daughter was declining.
‘Everyone has to label everything these days. The slightest deviation from the norm and there’s a label for it, a diagnosis, a therapy – and a therapist. It’s all come from America. And everyone has something. Dyslexia, autism, Asperger’s, Alzheimer’s, dementia – people are just people and not everyone is the same. Marigold is just doddery, as simple as that. In my day it was called “getting old”.