Page 40 of Forever, Maybe
Chapter thirty-one
Word of the argument must have spread through the party, because a steady stream of guests trickled through the kitchen and into the living room to bid Nell goodbye, offering thanks with varying degrees of sincerity for a “fantastic afternoon.”
Trish wasn’t one of them.
Ah well. That bridge might be well and truly burned. Nell couldn’t bring herself to care.
Outside, the sky shifted—blue melting into streaks of orangey-pink as the day exhaled its last light. Bobby volunteered to make teas. Cate had dozed off on the sofa, curled beneath the cashmere throw Nell had draped over her earlier.
Minutes later, her father returned, two steaming mugs in hand.
She took hers gratefully, his steady, familiar smile not quite masking the weariness etched deep into his face.
Everyone has to tip-toe around delicate little Nell… Artie’s words echoed in her mind. She could already picture him and Lorraine if they heard about tonight’s debacle—Artie’s lip curling in disdain, Lorraine’s cutting remarks: Typical. Your mum has an episode, but it’s all about bloody Nell.
Her father sank into the armchair next to the sofa. In the dim light, he looked older, frailer, as if the last few months had stolen three more years from him. His eyes, once so lively, seemed to sink further into the loose skin around them.
“It’s… dementia, isn’t it?” she asked, tipping her head towards the sleeping Cate, whose face had magically sloughed off wrinkles in repose.
Bobby shook his head instinctively, but then he paused, exhaling deeply as his shoulders sagged. He nodded, and the weight of it seemed to shrink him even further.
“Your mum can’t cook anymore,” he said quietly. “She leaves the gas rings on, or she forgets what she’s planned to make for dinner.”
Nell’s heart squeezed. Cate the collector of cookbooks she read in bed like novels, the creator of soups and stews that sang with flavour, the orchestrator of fabulous feasts.
Unlike most mothers of the time, she’d met teenage Nell’s declaration of vegetarianism with enthusiasm—thrilled, in fact, to have an excuse to buy even more cookbooks and experiment with recipes she’d never tried before.
“And…” Bobby hesitated, rubbing his forehead. “She can’t drive. A few weeks ago, she took the car out by herself and didn’t come back for hours. She got lost. In Norwich, Nell. Norwich. The city she’s lived in her whole life.”
Nell gripped the mug tightly, willing herself not to cry. Delicate little Nell had to be stronger—for her mother, but most of all for her father. He glanced up at her, his expression softening, and she braced herself for what she knew was coming next.
“Did you fall out with Daniel earlier?”
With her husband safely out of earshot, she nodded, her voice unsteady as she laid it all out—the supermarket pitch, the cancelled birthday trip, just the latest in a long, wearying line of disappointments.
Her father listened silently, ever the epitome of fairness.
When she finished, he set his mug down, hands clasping together as he leaned forward.
“I don’t know everything about you and him, love, but I do remember the first time we met Daniel.
Me and your mum came up to Glasgow. You met us at the train station, just like you did on Thursday. ”
October 1994. She could still picture it clearly. Daniel had been crackling with nerves, endearingly so—asking her, quite seriously, if he ought to wear a suit to meet her mum. Said he could borrow one from Uncle Shane.
Danny had always seen Nell as a few rungs above him, imagining her with some vague, aristocratic pedigree, when in reality she was just standard lower-middle-class stock.
She hadn’t laughed at his question. “No, you don’t need a suit. Just be on time.”
And he had been—arriving at Central Station the exact same moment as she did, holding an extravagant bouquet for her mum, one hand visibly shaking.
Where, exactly, her mother was supposed to put a massive bunch of flowers—given she and Bobby were staying in a cheap hotel on Argyll Street—hadn’t occurred to him. Nell didn’t bring it up.
“There was such a glow about you,” Bobby continued.
“And me and your mum… we were so relieved. We said to ourselves, Oh, she’s happy.
Our little Nell is happy. And Daniel…” He hesitated, searching her face.
“We could see he was a hard-working man, and we thought that was a good thing. He seemed decent then. Is decent now, Nell.”
His words hung in the air, both comforting and piercing. Nell looked down at her tea, a sense of clarity settling over her. It was time to take responsibility.
“Dad,” she began, her voice steady, “why don’t I drive you both back to Norwich tomorrow? We can book Mum in for an appointment with the doctor as soon as possible. I’ve got third-party insurance, so we can share the driving, though I’m happy to do most of it.”
“Are you sure, love? What about your work? And Daniel?”
By Daniel, he meant: Will the two of you have time to patch things up before you go? But beneath the questions, she heard the unspoken relief—relief that someone was taking the decisions out of his hands.
Nell had been doing her research ever since Artie called the other weekend.
She’d Googled dementia and treatments, bracing herself for what she might find.
While there was no cure, and the disease would inevitably worsen over time, the news wasn’t all bleak.
If they could enrol Cate in one of the drug trials for promising new treatments, there was at least a glimmer of hope for slowing things down.
And then there were other practicalities. That unwashed smell she’d noticed clinging to her mother when she’d tried on Stephanie’s dress. It could be time to think about sorting out carers to handle her personal care.
“I’ll stick my Mac in the boot,” she told Bobby, her tone decisive. “That way I can work wherever. I’ll stay for a few weeks. At least until we’ve sorted a few things out. Tell you what, I’ll go and find you some sandwiches and have a word with Danny.”
She stood up, and her father gave her hand a gentle pat before rising himself, shifting to settle in beside Cate. She switched on the TV for him, smiling as his eyes lit up when the 75-inch screen flared to life—proof of most men’s timeless appreciation for bigger is better.
He took the remote she handed him, navigating it with the quiet focus of someone on a mission. A few button presses later, he landed on a cable channel running endless repeats of Only Fools and Horses.
Danny was in the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher. The countertops sparkled, save for a small stack of dirty plates and glasses he hadn’t yet tackled.
She closed the kitchen door behind her just as he loaded the last of the crockery.
“Thanks for taking care of Mum.”
Sometimes, her husband was impossible to read. His slightly hunched shoulders spoke of a man carrying the weight of the world, but when he turned to face her, his expression wasn’t sad or weary—it was just… neutral.
“Look,” Danny began, his tone measured. “The supermarket pitch. I know it’s shitty timing. But if we land a slot, it’ll mean more nine-to-five days, more weekends and—”
She shook her head, cutting him off—not out of anger, but resignation.
He was a good man, at heart. Kind. He’d only wanted her to feel good about herself.
What was the point in recriminating him for it?
What she needed now wasn’t answers or apologies, it was time.
Time to think long and hard about what the next decades of her life were going to look like.
“I’m going to get up early tomorrow and drive Mum and Dad back home,” she said. “Stay down there for a while to help out.”
That means you’ll have plenty of time to cancel the London trip and focus on the supermarket pitch. The words sat on the tip of her tongue, but she bit them back. No sense in making a bad day even worse.
Danny held out a hand, his expression resigned. “Fine. If you give me the keys, I’ll fill your car wi’ petrol and check the tyres.”
Later, as Nell packed her suitcase, Bobby’s words from the day before drifted back, unbidden and unsettling. Love, I wasn’t going to say anything, but we ran into the Hardys a few days ago.
Since then, the mention of the Hardys had lodged itself in her subconscious, gnawing at the edges of her thoughts.
Was she wrong? Did they deserve to know the truth, after all?
If her father was right, and they were both elderly and unwell, time might be running out. What if they died without ever knowing?
But even as the idea took shape, doubts swirled. It was a mighty big if, after all. What if she tracked them down while she was in Norfolk and told them what really happened in 1989? What then?
Try as she might, her imagination refused to supply her with an answer.