the car was gradually deteriorating and the engine was flagging, but Marigold was still in the driving seat and she was as perfect and whole as she always had been, as she always would be. She took pleasure in the moment. There was lots to enjoy there. She watched the sea, the undulating waves, the light dancing on the water, the foam about the rocks and the seabirds flocking to feast on the shoals of fish just beneath the surface. If one remained in the moment one was never bored or unhappy. What’s wrong with now? she asked herself; nothing was ever wrong with now.
Sometimes Marigold sat and thought, other times she just sat. Occasionally, she would emerge out of the mist and the engine would unexpectedly fire up and the car would cough and splutter and Marigold would come back to life with a little of the enthusiasm that had characterized her former existence. But those days were rare.
It was Christmas Day. Two cars pulled up outside Seaview House and six adults stepped out into the snow with various small children. There was a wreath on the front door and, when they entered the hall, a large Christmas tree decorated with silver tinsel and snowflakes was in the place of the round table that was usually positioned in front of the fireplace which was never lit. The building smelt of cinnamon and baked apples.
Dennis led the way through the hall, armed with a basket of gifts and a bunch of pale pink roses. Behind him Nan followed, holding Suze’s young daughter, Trudie, by the hand. After them came Daisy, carrying her ten-month-old son Owen, and Suze, who was pregnant again. Behind them Batty carried their fifteen-month-old boy and the nappy bag. Taran brought a box of mince pies from his mother, which Sylvia had made.
They entered the sitting room and saw Marigold at once. She was settled into her usual armchair by the window, gazing out onto the white garden. She looked neat and tidy in a skirt and cardigan. The collar of her floral shirt had been ironed with care. Her hair had recently been washed. She wore a little make-up, not too much, just enough to look her best. On the table beside her was the puzzle they had given her. She couldn’t put the pieces together these days, but the nurses said she liked to look at the pictures and read the inscriptions on the back. She was often seen smiling at them, they said, with a tender look on her face.
The party made their way across the room. It was very quiet. The television was on and a group of white-haired ladies were sitting on the sofa, watching a carol service. On the coffee table in front of them, among the magazines, was a recently published book by Suze Fane, entitled Loving with Dementia. It had been a bestseller.
As the family approached, Marigold turned away from the window.
She swept her eyes over the approaching group, not realizing at first that they had come for her. Her expression was curious, the face of a passive observer. Of someone who wasn’t expecting to be part of the action but was quite content to watch it happen around her. Then Dennis smiled at her and she looked a little startled. ‘Hello, love,’ he said gently. He knew better than to bend down and kiss her. That’s what he used to do but things were different now. He took one of the chairs and sat down. ‘Happy Christmas, Goldie. We’ve brought you some presents.’ He hadn’t brought her a puzzle. She didn’t remember their tradition anymore.
When Marigold saw Nan, her face lit up and she smiled with recognition. She remembered her mother. ‘Hello, Marigold,’ Nan said and took the chair beside her. Suze’s daughter climbed onto her great-grandmother’s knee and watched Marigold warily. Batty and Taran pulled up some more chairs and the four of them sat down. There was a lot of bustle as Batty put the nappy bag on the carpet and Taran found a table for the mince pies. Daisy sat close to her mother, her baby in her arms, while Suze sat beside Nan. A moment later Trudie put out her arms and Suze gathered her onto her knee. The little girl continued to watch Marigold with suspicion.
‘Well, isn’t this nice,’ said Dennis, heartily patting his knees, trying to act as if everything was normal. ‘Isn’t the snow lovely. Like Narnia,’ he added.