she has blue-framed glasses that suit her. It’s not a surprise that she has a patchwork handbag.
‘I’m Tess. A friend of Keisha’s. Can I get you a drink? I’m making us a coffee. We thought we could have lunch after a chat.’
‘I’d love a hot chocolate,’ Nancy says, and it makes both Tess and I smile.
I know all I’m doing is staring and I’m thankful that Tess is providing some direction. Somehow I manage to guide Nancy to a seat and take my own, continuing to stare as I go.
‘You must be Clive’s daughter then. I’ve always wondered what happened with his life. I’m glad he went on to find someone.’ There’s a pleasant tone to Nancy’s voice as she wishes the man from her past happiness.
I shake my head. I don’t want any confusion. It’s confounding enough as it as. ‘I’m not Clive’s daughter. I’m not even a granddaughter. Clive doesn’t have any children.’
‘Oh. I always rather hoped he would.’
I should clarify further, but I’m desperate to know about Nancy. ‘Can you tell us a bit more about you? How did you know Clive?’
‘It was a long time ago. It’s fairly complicated.’
Tess arrives with the tray of drinks, each of them with a couple of Biscoff biscuits in the saucers. The added sugar is definitely welcome.
‘We’ve got time to listen,’ I say, hoping to encourage her confidence. She doesn’t need to know that really I have to get back to work.
‘Can I ask who you are? How you’ve come to know that I was part of Clive’s life?’ she asks.
I realise that’s also fairly complicated to explain.
‘I met Clive because he was put forward for my PhD study. It’s following the progress of patients who’ve been diagnosed with broken heart syndrome. My study is looking at the benefits of beetroot juice in someone’s recovery. It’s high in nitric oxide and, anyway…’ I realise I’m in danger of boring the poor lady. ‘Broken heart syndrome, otherwise known as takotsubo cardiomyopathy, is a rare heart condition that normally occurs as the result of a shock or trauma. It causes a temporary weakening of the heart. In Clive’s case, it happened because he believed that his wife, Nancy, had passed away.’ I decide to spare her the full details of what his hallucination includes. She turns grey enough without being told he thinks she has been murdered.
‘Nancy?’ she repeats, as if it isn’t her name that I’ve said.
‘Yes, Nancy. He thought just prior to being unwell that he was married to a lady called Nancy. When it was looked into, it turned out Clive didn’t have a wife. He’s been told it was all because he was delirious and we thought the same until we looked into the history of his house. That was when we found out that a Nancy had lived with him. We believe that’s you.’
Judging by her reaction it has to be. She has taken a napkin from the table ready to use as a tissue.
‘Did he really say Nancy? I didn’t think he’d ever remember me.’
‘What do you mean?’
Nancy takes a moment to compose herself, removing her glasses so she can dab her eyes.
‘Clive and I were never married. We were engaged, but the wedding never went ahead because of what happened. He was only twenty-four. We’d been courting for several years when he had a head injury. It changed everything.’
‘If you don’t mind me asking, what happened?’ Even though there are pieces slowly slotting into place, I still don’t understand the whole puzzle.
‘Nobody really knows what happened to Clive at the time. He was working at the post office temporarily as a clerk after leaving the army. In the afternoon, on his break, he headed to the bank for some personal banking. The assumption is that a gang of some kind thought he had a substantial amount on him and mugged him. He’d been depositing a small amount towards our wedding, nothing from the post office. He managed to wander home after the attack, but his injuries were significant. There was obviously more than one person involved. He shouldn’t have been able to walk anywhere. They hit his head at some point and for a long while they weren’t sure if he was going to make it.’
‘Did they ever find out what happened?’
‘No. Clive’s memory was completely wiped. He had no recollection of the recent years before. And certainly no memories of what happened.’
‘And no recollection of you,’ I say, as if I’m lifting the lid