Anthony and stuck all the leaflets for baby milk, nappy vouchers and breast pads in the recycling bin. Her old name made her feel stronger, more equipped to face life again.
And now she was standing in front of the house she grew up in, where her mum and dad had changed her own nappy thousands of times. A feeling of warmth flooded over her. She smiled and rang the doorbell. Through the daisy-patterned glass in the front door she could see her father’s coat hung in the hallway. There was a pile of post on the doormat. Strange that he hadn’t picked it up yet.
She rang the bell again and gave the knocker a rap. Nothing.
Looking up, she saw that all the windows were shut. She walked through the passageway at the side of the house to the back garden, but there was no sign of him.
She narrowed her eyes against the glare of the sun. Perhaps, if she found him, she could persuade him to go to the garden centre. It was a lovely day.
She’d finished work an hour early. It was the school sports day and really she should be there, putting plasters on knees or helping to serve orange squash. But as she had watched the kids stumbling along in the egg and spoon race, she felt a deep need to be with her dad. With Dan in Australia and Mum gone, he was her only close family left. She feigned a migraine and had driven away from the laughter and applause as the relay races started.
She stood on her tiptoes, cupped her hand around her eyes and peered in the back window. Frederica the fern looked a bit sorry for herself. Her leaves curled a little at the sides. Her dad had developed an obsession with that plant.
Then a terrible thought hit her. He could be dead. He might have fallen down the stairs or died in bed like Mum had. He might be sprawled on the bathroom floor unable to move. Oh God. Panic began to bubble in her stomach. She moved to the front of the house again.
‘Can I help you?’ a man shouted from the garden opposite. It was Dad’s neighbour who wore a bandana. Lucy had seen him before. As he leaned on his lawnmower, he seemed to be carrying a small brown upturned bowl.
‘I’ve called around to see my dad. I can’t get a reply. I’m worried that he’s fallen or something. It’s Terry, isn’t it?’ Lucy looked both ways and then crossed the road.
‘That’s me. No need to worry. Your dad went out this morning with his suitcase.’
Lucy ran her hand through her hair. ‘A suitcase? Are you sure?’
‘Huh-uh. I think he was going to that lady’s house. The one with the raspberry-coloured hair.’
‘Bernadette?’ On one occasion Lucy called to see her father and found this lady sitting at the kitchen table in Mum’s place. She had made fresh sausage rolls. Lucy didn’t cook. She stuck things in the microwave or under the grill.
‘I don’t know her name. They got into a car. A young man was driving. He had hair over one eye. I wondered if he could see the road properly.’
‘Did my dad say where he was going?’
Terry shook his head. ‘No. Are you his daughter? You have the same eyes.’
‘We do?’
‘Huh-uh. He didn’t say where he was off to. Your dad doesn’t speak much, does he?’
‘Not really.’ Lucy narrowed her eyes. The small brown bowl in Terry’s hands moved. A head slid out and two eyes stared at her. ‘Erm, are you carrying a tortoise?’
Terry nodded. ‘It escapes from next door. It likes my lawn, though I don’t know why. I like to keep it neatly trimmed. Not much food for this little guy. Each time he tries to escape I pick him up and give him back. He belongs to the two kids with red hair and bare feet. Do you know them?’
Lucy said she did not.
‘Shall I tell your dad you were looking for him, if I see him?’
Lucy said that would be helpful and that she would phone him too. She wondered why her dad would have a suitcase and where he could possibly be going. It was difficult enough to persuade him to go to the village to buy milk. ‘Maybe you should just let the tortoise wander around for a while. It might quench his first for adventure. Then he might be happy to stay in his pen, or whatever his home is.’
‘I never thought about that.’ Terry turned the tortoise to face him. ‘What do you think about that idea then, buddy?’
‘Thanks for your help,’ Lucy shouted out absentmindedly over her shoulder as she crossed back over the road.
She made her way around to the back again and sat down on the edge of a large plant pot. She stabbed her dad’s number on her mobile. It rang around twenty times as it usually did as he tried to remember where he had put it, or which button to press. Finally, he answered.
‘Hello. This is Arthur Pepper speaking.’
‘Dad. It’s Lucy,’ she said, relieved to hear his voice.
‘Oh, hello, love.’
‘I’m at your house, but you’re not in.’
‘I didn’t know you were coming.’
‘I … just kind of wanted to see you. Your neighbour, the one who loves his lawn, said he’d seen you with a suitcase.’
‘He’s right. I’ve decided to visit Graystock Manor. It’s the place where the tigers live, in Bath.’
‘I’ve heard of it. But, Dad …’
‘Bernadette and her son Nathan were headed that way and asked me to join them.’
‘And you wanted to go …?’
‘Well. Nathan is looking at universities. I’m, er … well, I thought it would be a change.’
Lucy closed her eyes. Her father wouldn’t even have a cup of tea with her if it wasn’t scheduled and now he had taken off with his flame-haired neighbour. He had been holed up in the house for a year. She sensed there was something not quite right about this sudden trip, that her father was keeping something from her. ‘It’s a long way to go on a whim.’
‘It’s got me out of the house.’
Lucy had worried that her father might be vulnerable living on his own. The newspapers were awash with stories about gullible pensioners. Now she didn’t know what to think. Why had he agreed to go with Bernadette all the way to Bath when she couldn’t get him to go to the garden centre for a potter around the bedding plants? She tried to control anxiety from coming through in her voice. ‘When are you coming home?’
‘I don’t know what time I’ll be back. I’m at a bed and breakfast now, and then off to Graystock tomorrow. Anyway, I have to go now, darling. I’ll give you a call when I get home, shall I?’
‘Dad … Dad.’ The line went dead. Lucy stared at her mobile.
She was about to ring him back, but then she started to think about his other strange habits; his strict routines. Whenever she saw him he wore that dreadful mustard tank top. He hadn’t phoned her for weeks. He talked to his plant.
She’d never thought of her parents as old until Mum died. But she did now. If her dad could no longer cope on his own, she would have to start looking into home help or even old people’s homes. She wondered how quickly his mind would go.
Her mouth went dry as she imagined helping him upstairs, feeding him, taking him to the toilet. Instead of a baby to look after, she would have her father.
She stood up and her knees wobbled as she walked toward the garden gate. On top of everything else that had gone wrong in her life, she now had to deal with her father succumbing to dementia.
