the skin on the back of her hand and then jotted something down in his notes. ‘Okay, I’m going to need a sample. Do you think you could manage that?’ At ease with this softly spoken man, Brenda nodded and, with Lucy’s help, managed to produce the necessary sample. A urinary tract infection was diagnosed with a simple dipstick test.
The young doctor then asked Brenda a series of questions: what was the day? The month? The year? Who was the Prime Minister? Could she count backwards in twos? Her answers were vague and she was distracted and sleepy, worn out by the whole sample palaver.
After the consultation, and with Brenda’s eyelids drooping again, Lucy offered to see the doctor out.
‘When she’s on the mend, and with her permission, we can arrange for you to be listed as next of kin. She’s clearly fond of you.’
Lucy felt a lump rise up her chest and lodge in her throat.
‘I’m going to put a community admissions avoidance team in place,’ he continued. ‘She’s made it perfectly clear that she doesn’t wish to go to hospital and I respect that. They should be in touch within twenty-four hours and will help with her hygiene and so forth. They’ll make some general observations, check her blood pressure and pulse, and we can keep an eye on her condition. In the meantime, could you pick up this prescription for the antibiotics and keep up the fluids? You might like to try her with Dioralyte sachets. They are available from the pharmacy, and she should start to improve over the next day or so.’
‘And then she will be back to her old self?’ Lucy was hopeful but realistic.
‘The episode this morning was triggered by the infection, but the questions I was asking earlier were to help me assess her long- and short-term memory. I will refer her to a memory clinic when the infection has cleared up, but, taken alongside the things you mentioned earlier, I can’t rule out the early signs of dementia. We’ll see what happens a bit further down the line, but it may be a case of reviewing her long-term care. It’s a big, old house for her to manage, with lots of stairs, and no one immediately on hand if there is a problem. I know you are happy to help, but it’s those times when she’s home alone I’m worried about.’
Even though he was only voicing the thoughts that had been gathering in her head, Lucy momentarily closed her eyes. Dementia was a scary word, and one that never came with a happy ending.
‘But she doesn’t want to end her days anywhere other than this house. She’s talked about it many times and insists the only way we’ll get her out of here is in a wicker casket.’
‘I understand how fiercely independent she is, but, in all likelihood, there will come a point where she won’t be able to live alone any more, irrespective or not of a dementia diagnosis.’
Although Lucy understood it was Mother Nature’s way – people got old and simply wore out – this wasn’t how it was supposed to be for Brenda. After all, Mother Nature was her close personal friend; surely she could have pulled a few strings and let Brenda live to a hundred and three, still proudly clutching all her marbles, then have her slip away quietly one night in her sleep.
‘She’ll hate that. People in her house and being told what she can and can’t do. I will look after her for as long as I can before we have to involve outside agencies. I appreciate it won’t be easy, but she’s one of my dearest friends and I’ll find a way.’
‘She is very lucky to have a friend like you, Miss Baker,’ said Dr Hopgood. ‘Some people don’t even have family who care enough to do that.’
Both Adam and George contacted Lucy that afternoon: Adam to tell her she was to take as much time off as she needed and he would write it off as compassionate leave, and George to check on Brenda. Adam’s call took her by surprise. She had expected some sort of reprimand, and possibly an inappropriate joke, so was relieved when he offered neither. George’s call was brief and he was still calling her Lisa, but it was thoughtful of him to ring.
She popped home for her knitting and her current Regency romance and, fitting in a bit of housework for Brenda, spent a quiet afternoon watching over her friend. A neighbour called not long after the doctor had left, expecting to collect some lotion or other, but when Lucy explained Brenda was unwell, she offered to pick up both the prescription and a bit of shopping. Lucy had been troubled to discover Brenda’s fridge contained very little except for a lump of cheese and three pairs of soft-top socks.
By the evening, and after sleeping much of the day, Brenda made herself a pot of herbal tea, having refused the Dioralyte, insisting on warm water and honey with a pinch of salt instead. She asked for Jim several times and held some strange horse-related conversations with Lucy, clearly confusing her with the dead sister-in-law again. But after two doses of her antibiotics and lots of fluids, she seemed generally less muddled and agitated.
A strong waft of rosemary caught Lucy’s nostrils as Brenda swirled the loose tea in her bone-china cup. She’d picked up enough in the last two years to know that it was a memory enhancer. She knows, Lucy thought to herself, unable to approach such a delicate subject with her friend.
The sun had all but gone, gracefully retiring to the other side of the world, and the tassel-edged, gold standard lamp in the far corner was on, giving the room a soft glow. Brenda was quietly snoring in the armchair as Lucy drew the dated gold floral curtains and sat down. She felt at home here because it reminded her of her own untidy living room. Everywhere you looked something new caught your eye. It seemed much friendlier and more welcoming than the impersonal spaces of her childhood home, where the general clutter of life was kept to a respectable minimum. This was a room filled with scatter cushions, dried flower arrangements and animal statues, where strange symbols graced the spines of books, the pictures on the walls and the mystical ornaments. In contrast to her own mother, Lucy found the proliferation of objects calming, not stressful. What did it matter if there was a sprinkling of dust? Or no clear surface to put your cup of tea? She was surrounded by a sense of belonging, even if she didn’t quite understand what it was she belonged to. Tucking her legs underneath her, she settled into her favourite chair and let her book fall open where the embroidered bookmark nestled between the pages.
The Duke of Darkness eventually reached a satisfactory if predictable conclusion, although she wouldn’t have forgiven his scandalous affairs, regardless of his damaged childhood. Lucy looked at the cover one last time, those shadowed eyes and that resolute jaw, and tucked the book into her knitting bag. It briefly crossed her mind that George would make a passable Duke of Darkness. He certainly had the looks, but the Duke remained well mannered and courteous throughout, however annoyed he was by the behaviour of the heroine. So perhaps not.
After helping Brenda upstairs, Lucy made a temporary bed on the long, upholstered sofa, switched off the standard lamp and wondered if she’d ever be able to fall asleep with the myriad of clocks chatting to her from every corner of the house.
Five minutes later she was floating in a world of passionate dukes, black cats and grumpy neighbours.
The community admissions team arrived the next morning, but as Lucy was on hand, there wasn’t much they needed to do. Two bustling ladies with mumsy figures and cheerful smiles checked Brenda over and seemed generally happy she was back on track, even though she was still sleepy and having muddled moments. Not long after they’d left, Dr Hopgood telephoned to check for signs of improvement in Brenda’s condition. Lucy discussed with him her intention to become more of a carer for Brenda by calling in on her more regularly but in an
