“Let me at least get you a coat,” she said. “You must have forgotten yours in the rush for that drink. It’s freezing out, William.”
Confusion contorted his features as he looked down at himself, and the lucid part of him realized he’d gone out only half-dressed. “What’s happened to my shirt?” he muttered. “Someone’s gone and taken it.”
Juliet had read that people suffering from dementia could become paranoid and aggressive. Understandably so, but she didn’t know how to deal with that now. “Come on, William,” she said as gently as she could. “Let’s go find your shirt.” She reached for his arm and he shook it off, glaring at her.
“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice trembling. “Where am I?”
“I’m Juliet Bagshaw, a neighbor of yours,” Juliet answered steadily, although she felt weirdly emotional. “And you’re in my garden.”
William shook his head, his face crumpling with the bewilderment of a child. “But I was just trying to go to the pub.”
“I know you were. And you deserve a nice big tot of whiskey, after this.” Smiling, trying to reassure him, she reached for his arm again. This time he didn’t resist, and holding her breath, hoping he’d continue to cooperate, Juliet guided him towards her car. Thankfully her keys were in the pocket of her coat, and she helped William into the passenger seat before climbing into the driver’s side and starting the engine.
She reached over and did his seat belt for him, drawing it over his bare, sunken chest, and he stared at her with troubled eyes. “Peter won’t like this.”
“He might be worried about you,” Juliet allowed. “But he’ll be glad you’re safe.”
“I shouldn’t have gone out.” William plucked at the seat belt. “Peter told me not to go out. I shouldn’t have gone out.”
‘We’ll get you back home, William,” Juliet soothed, and started driving down the dirt track that led to Bega Farm. It wasn’t meant for a car like hers, and they bumped and juddered down the road while Juliet silently prayed the car wouldn’t get a flat tire.
Finally Bega Farm appeared, its lights twinkling in the vast darkness. As Juliet parked the car, she saw the front door had been left wide open, and the rain was blowing in.
With a quick smile for William, who had not spoken during the journey, Juliet got out of the car and hurried around to the passenger side. She sucked in a breath when she opened the door and saw that blood from a cut on his foot had soaked into the foot well. The cut was deeper than she’d thought.
William followed her gaze to his feet and then glanced back at her, panic starting in his eyes. Juliet reached out a hand and drew him up to standing.
“Let’s get you inside, shall we?”
Painstakingly, her arm around William, she guided him into the house. He was limping badly now and Juliet knew he would need his foot seen to. Inside the house was as much a mess as ever. Juliet led William past the kitchen with its forgotten dishes and dirty clothes to the sitting room, and helped him to the faded easy chair where he’d sat when Peter had given him a shave.
“Now then, let’s get you comfortable,” she said as cheerfully as she could. “I’ll just go find something for your feet.”
William didn’t answer; he seemed exhausted, his face gray and haggard. Juliet fetched a bowl of warm water and a towel, and after a second’s hesitation she ventured upstairs to find a clean shirt for William. The floorboards creaked as she walked down the upstairs hall, feeling guiltily that she was violating Peter’s privacy, but knowing she didn’t have much choice.
She peeked in several bedrooms that looked unused and forgotten, and then paused in the doorway of what was obviously Peter’s room. A big bed, unmade and rumpled. One of his Arran jumpers tossed on a chair. She saw a book and a pair of reading glasses left on a bedside table, and unable to keep herself from it, she tiptoed closer to have a look. It was an Agatha Christie, Inspector Poirot, which made her smile a little. She liked Poirot.
Quickly she backed out of the room. The next room she looked in was William’s, and she found a stack of neatly folded, ironed laundry on his bureau, which was surprising considering the general state of the house. She took a shirt from the top of the pile and hurried downstairs.
When she came back into the sitting room, she saw that William had fallen asleep, his head lolling against the back of the chair. He woke when Juliet started bathing his feet, dabbing at the cuts and scratches, but kept his head back against the chair and didn’t say anything.
At least one of the cuts looked quite deep, and with a quick smile for William, Juliet went in search of some antibiotic ointment. She found an old, cracked tube in the cupboard above the sink, and decided it was better than nothing.
Fifteen minutes later she had William’s feet bathed and bandaged and had managed to help him into the clean shirt. He was docile through it all, depressingly so, as if the will to engage in any way had leached out of him. Juliet tried to keep up a stream of cheerful chatter, but she was no Lucy and her conversation petered out after just a few minutes. William didn’t seem to mind.
“There you are,” she said when she’d settled him back into his chair. “Now for that tot of whiskey.”
But when she returned to the sitting room with the promised drink, William was asleep. Juliet left the whiskey on the table by his chair and went back into the kitchen. She gazed around at allthe mess for a moment, and then, since she didn’t have anything better to do, she started to tidy up.
She loaded the dishwasher with the dirty dishes and left the grease-covered pots and pans in the sink to soak. She scrubbed down all the surfaces and dug out an ancient bottle of enamel cleaner from underneath the sink and had just given the Aga a good scouring when the lights from Peter’s Rover shone through the window and she heard the sound of a car door slamming, and quick steps down the path.
Peter threw the door open, striding in, still dressed in waterproofs and mud-caked Wellies.
“I thought it was your car. Has something happened?”
She saw the panic etched in every line of his face and said quickly, “It’s okay. Nothing serious—”
“My dad,” Peter said, not a question, but Juliet nodded as if it had been one.
