Page 42 of Forever, Maybe

Chapter thirty-three

Nell’s parents were perhaps the last people in the UK still clinging to the BT phone book, long after everyone else had migrated to Google.

She picked up the familiar yellow book, surprised by how much lighter it felt compared to her childhood and teenage years when every household had a landline, and the internet was still a distant dream.

She was upstairs in her childhood bedroom, in the same semi-detached house in Norwich where she’d grown up.

The room had undergone at least two redecorations since she’d left, but traces of her adolescent self lingered.

The old-fashioned dressing table she’d salvaged from a skip, sanded, painted white and varnished was still there, as were the framed sketches she’d done as a teenager—artistic attempts that now made her cringe with their raw naivety.

The corkboards that once cluttered the walls, covered in photos, invites, flyers and gig tickets, had vanished. “Thank you, God,” she muttered under her breath.

Downstairs, her dad moved about, his footsteps creaking across the old floorboards. Her mum had gone to bed an hour earlier, and Nell had seized the opportunity to retreat to her room, claiming exhaustion.

She’d been here a few weeks now, and it had been full on.

There was no longer any doubt about her mother’s condition—it was unmistakable when you were around her day in, day out.

The muddled words, the vacant stares, the growing confusion over even the simplest tasks—it was all there, laid bare.

So much of the time, she looked lost in her own home.

She traced her finger down the list of Hardys in the phone book. The list was shorter than it would have been years ago—so many people had ditched landlines or opted to go unlisted—but she was counting on the Hardy seniors, like her parents, to still cling to old habits.

There were twenty Hardys in total, not surprising given how common the surname was, and three had the initial R. She’d spent the last two days racking her brain, trying to recall Hardy senior’s first name. It had finally come to her over dinner with her parents a few hours ago.

Reginald. Reggie to his mates.

That left her with three possibilities. What now? Should she call them all, rule out the two who weren’t Reggies, and dive straight into the truth with the one who was?

No. She dismissed the idea immediately. This wasn’t the kind of news you dropped over the phone. It required tact, warmth—ideally a large glass of wine within reach. Face-to-face was the only way.

She glanced at the clock. Ten o’clock. Too late to call anyone. But the thought wouldn’t leave her. That same fire she’d felt at the party reignited, the sense that the Hardys shouldn’t go to their graves without knowing the truth.

Nell closed the phone book, her resolve hardening.

The first call went unanswered, but the answer machine message offered all the information she needed, delivered in an overly formal tone: “Robert and I are currently unable to take your call. Please leave a message, and we will return it as soon as we are available.”

No Reggie there.

Nell moved on to the second number. The phone rang twice before a querulous voice answered. “Hello?”

“Sorry to bother you so late,” Nell began, keeping her tone as polite as possible. “I’m looking for Reginald Hardy. Reggie?”

“Who wants him?” The voice, suddenly sharper, snapped back.

Caught off guard, Nell froze. Her pulse quickened. “Uh—”

She hung up.

Cowardly? Maybe. But it didn’t matter now. She had what she needed. That number in the phone book came with an address. Tomorrow, she’d go there. No phone call could substitute for a face-to-face conversation, no matter how daunting it felt.

Nell placed the receiver back in its cradle, her heart pounding. Tomorrow, then.

The Hardys’ address led Nell to a small, weatherworn cottage on the outskirts of Cromer.

Earlier that morning, she’d accompanied her mum to the GP, where a harried doctor—about Nell’s age, with an air of being stretched thin enough to snap any moment now—had assessed Cate.

It was clear the woman knew little, if anything, about her mum’s history.

Dementia, the doctor explained, was not a straightforward thing to diagnose. Blood and urine tests were booked to rule out conditions like depression, infections and vitamin deficiencies. If those came back clear, the next step would be a referral to the memory clinic at the nearest hospital.

Nell parked her parents’ car a few doors away from the Hardys’ house. She’d told Bobby she fancied a trip to Cromer to see the sea, maybe even do some sketching. Naturally, she made no mention of her plan to knock on the Hardys’ door.

A battered red Fiat Punto sat in the cottage’s driveway, its passenger side crumpled.

The sight of it made her throat tighten.

Reggie’s sleek black Audi TT flashed into her mind—how he’d spent every Sunday morning lovingly polishing it until it gleamed.

The memory felt like a cruel twist of fate, an unwanted reminder of how far their world had shifted.

Her hands trembled as she dropped the car keys into her handbag, inhaling deeply to steady herself. Out loud, she rehearsed the words she’d gone over at least a hundred times.

“Reggie, Pamela… do you remember me? Cate and Bobby’s daughter. Me and your Darren were close friends…”

But beyond that, the script crumbled. No matter how many ways she tried to frame it, the next part was impossible to rehearse. The words were jagged, sharp and heavy with consequence.

She could already picture their faces—confusion turning to hurt, then anger. But why didn’t you tell us? she imagined them demanding. Why didn’t you ask us what WE wanted…?

She had two hours to return the car. Bobby wanted to meet an old friend, and Nell, knowing how much he needed the break, couldn’t let him down. She’d have to drive him there. But first, she needed to force herself out of the car, walk past the bashed Fiat Punto, raise her hand and knock.

Rat-a-tat-tat.

She took deep, measured breaths, trying to quell the fluttering inside. A second car pulled up, and a woman stepped out, heading straight for the Hardys’ front door. Nell turned quickly, staring down the street, instinctively ducking when she recognised her.

Patsy Hardy—the eldest child. Yes, that was her name.

Short for Patricia. Patsy was ten years older than Nell, seven years older than her brother.

She must be nearing fifty-two or three now, though time had not been kind.

Her hair was iron-grey, her shoulders hunched inward, her movements stiff and weary.

Bobby had once remarked on how ancient the Hardys looked when he and Cate bumped into them in Ikea.

Family tragedy had a way of carving itself into a person’s appearance.

Patsy let herself into the house with a key. This was unexpected. Nell hadn’t prepared for meeting anyone except Reggie and Pamela. Maybe she should wait for Patsy to leave?

Thankfully, the visit was brief. Patsy reappeared moments later, locking the door behind her.

Nell opened the car door and swallowed hard, willing herself not to be sick.

Her legs were shaky as she made her way to the Hardys’ gate, where a plaque read: No cold callers .

What did that make her—warm, cold, or some catastrophic weather front barrelling in?

Just as her hand brushed the latch, Patsy’s voice rang out.

“Can I help you?”

Nell froze but quickly turned, forcing a smile. “Yes… I’m looking for Reggie and Pamela Hardy. I work for… the council.”

“Social work?” Patsy asked, narrowing her eyes.

Nell nodded. “That’s right.” It was a convenient umbrella term, especially for older people who might need help with care, mobility adaptations or filling out claim forms. Fingers crossed, Patsy wouldn’t press for details.

“They’re away,” Patsy said flatly. “Left this morning. Coach tour around Scotland. Back on the twenty-seventh.”

Nell’s heart sank, but she nodded politely.

Patsy squinted, her brow furrowing. “Do I know you? What did you say your name was?”

Nell’s breath caught. She’d come here today ready to tell Reggie and Pamela everything, but Patsy wasn’t the right person for this. Not yet.

“Sarah Murray,” she said, naming her sister-in-law. “I suppose I just have one of those faces.”

Patsy didn’t look convinced, but after a moment, she shrugged. “All right, then. Make sure to come back on the twenty-seventh.”

Nell nodded again, muttering vague assurances as Patsy climbed into her car and drove off.

The irony stung. The Hardys were off touring Scotland while Nell stood here in England, turning her plans upside down. Now, she’d have to come back on her birthday. What a way to mark the day.

Masochism guided her left instead of right at the end of the street, leading her to the pier. Though summer was still weeks away, the beach was dotted with life—dog walkers ambling along the sand, toddlers splashing in the retreating tide under the watchful eyes of parents and grandparents.

The pier itself, which had looked worn and weathered even when Nell was a child, now radiated that brand of melancholy unique to British seaside towns.

Their glory days belonged to the late Victorian era and the first half of the twentieth century, when trains delivered eager day-trippers and families crowded into B Frying Tonight, the fish-and-chip van, manned by a man so morbidly obese he barely fitted behind the counter; the dark-haired gypsy boy whose mother promised to tell your fortune while he hawked buckets, lines and mackerel bait to hopeful crab fishers.

And Darren. Darren buying her a bag of chips, drowning them in vinegar. Darren laughing hysterically as a fearless seagull swooped down and stole most of them. God, your face! Here, have some of mine. Or I could get you an ice cream, Nelly-welly?

Nelly-welly. The first time Stephanie had used that nickname, Nell had leapt out of her skin.

The sound of the sea pulled her back. She’d reached the end of the pier, where the Pavilion Theatre stood, stubbornly defiant against time and change.

A banner outside declared it was the last remaining “end of pier” entertainment venue in the UK, while a nearby billboard announced the one-night-only return of a faded 90s comedian.

His face leered from the poster, his large, pore-skinned nose thick with belligerence, daring passersby not to laugh at jokes about mothers-in-law and immigrants.

That crawling sensation returned—a low, miserable itch beneath her skin.

It always came when she visited this part of the world, a feeling of something unresolved and unwelcome.

She shouldn’t have come here. She should sort out her mother’s hospital appointments and leave before the Hardys returned from their Highland tour.

Her past, like the comedian scheduled for his one-night gig, was best left to decay quietly in the 1990s.

Finito. Over and done with.