Edna sipped her coffee. “It might sound a little old-fashioned to you younger folk, but I find quilting helps me to relax. I’ve just bought some lovely offcuts of fabric from a shop in the village.”
“Making a quilt?” Curtis smirked at her. “For real?Do you have any Lego bricks we can play with, too?”
Ginny shot him a warning glance. She wasn’t sure how stitching pieces of fabric together could cure heartache, but she was willing to give it a try. “It sounds less strenuous than hiking,” she said.
“Creativity is intelligence having fun,” Heather added.
“Yeah?” Curtis raised an eyebrow. “I can think of better ways.”
“Well, maybe you should put something forward, too,” Ginny said firmly.
“Toosh,” Curtis replied, which she assumed was short for “touché.”
Later that afternoon, when Ginny returned to her hotel room, heartache forms completed by Eric and Heather appeared under her door. Edna had also filled out details for her quilting activity, to take place the following afternoon. Ginny was pleased to see her three guests’ scores had dropped after the country walk. Again, she had no idea about how Curtis was feeling.
She showered and rubbed body lotion into her tight calf muscles. She’d left her phone behind during the walk and checked it to see if she’d received any new messages.
Her heart almost stopped when she saw Adrian had sent a winking face back to her.
Ginny gave a blast of surprised laughter and performed a twirl. Her husband had shown interest in her again and, even if he didn’t know her true identity, the sensation was truly delicious.
15
Feather
Heather
In the bedroom opposite Ginny’s, Heather eased her way out of her downward dog yoga pose. It helped to stretch out her legs and back after the hike. She hoped that it was good at easing guilt, too. The emotion felt like thick soup slopping around in her stomach.
She was trying to relax in Italy, attempting to be positive and cheerful, for others as well as herself. She’d once read that you could trick your brain into feeling happy by smiling, even if you didn’t feel that way. She kept trying to give it a go, without much success.
It was difficult to be upbeat when her mum, Renee, was back home in England, in a place she didn’t want to be or even recognize. Heather felt like she was letting her down by being here. She was also missing the school bell ringing throughout the day, giving her proper structure, and even the children calling out, “Miss, can I please use the toilet?” and “I’ve broken my ruler, Miss Hall.”
Heather had known she wanted to teach primary school children from an early age. It was an honor to be part of young people’s lives, to help them learn, grow and nurture their minds. No one ever forgot a good teacher.
She loved how kids thought Plasticine was the most exciting substance on earth, and how lemon sponge served at lunchtime brought on squeals of delight. School Christmas fairs, with a visit from one of the dads dressed as Santa, were beyond magical.
Her mum had retired from teaching several years ago, though the profession remained in her blood. Heather couldn’t keep Renee away from her school’s sports days, summer fairs and pantomimes.
The two women had always been close, so when Heather’s long-term relationship ended a few years ago, she was happy to move back home with her mum. They both enjoyed watching old movies on Sunday afternoon together, making chocolate brownies and sewing costumes for shepherds and wise men. Heather got to enjoy lots of home comforts again and Renee loved having some company.
Things had been great, until Heather noticed her mum beginning to act oddly. Renee started to ask her what year it was and for reminders of her friends’ names. She put a plastic kettle on the gas hob so it melted, and Heather found her standing in the middle of the kitchen a couple of times, unsure where she was.
At first, Heather tried to laugh it off. “You’d forget your head if it was loose,” she’d said. Her mum had laughed, too, failing to conceal the confused look in her eyes.
One day, Renee knocked over a candle in her bedroom and set her duvet on fire. She’d sat on her bed regardless and Heather had to pull her out of the room and throw water on the flames. She’d bundled the burnt bed linen together and threw it into the garden. Renee had stared at it and then at her daughter. “What are you doing? Where’s Heather?” she’d asked. “She won’t be happy with your behavior.”
The blood had chilled in Heather’s veins. “Mum. It’sme. There’s been a fire...”
Renee tutted and her eyes hardened. “Don’t be silly. Heather’s a little girl and I’m going to tell her about you.”
Heather had stood frozen to the spot, unsure what to say or do. The sharp-minded, vivacious woman who’d raised her single-handedly, who’d taught hundreds of children, was turning into a different person. Glimpses of Renee were still there, like when you spy someone’s head bobbing up and down in a crowd but can’t manage to push through to reach them.
She took her mum to see a doctor who arranged for a series of tests. When the results came through, he explained to Heather that the brain is made up of nerve cells that communicate with each other to send messages.
“Dementia damages the nerve cells so that messages can’t be sent to and from the brain properly. It means the body doesn’t function as usual,” he said. “There are over two hundred types of dementia and some can be combined. In your mum’s case the disease may progress quite rapidly, so I’ll prescribe medication to help slow down some of the symptoms. I’ll also give you information about supporting someone with the disease.”
Heather had listened in a daze, wincing each time he said the wordsdementiaanddisease. Surely, he wasn’t talking about her mum. Renee was fine, perhaps a little confused, and couldn’t that be due to dehydration, low blood sugar or a nutrient deficiency? She was only seventy-two and there must besomecure to bring her back to normal.
