‘Do you know, it’s incredible!’ he said, straightening up in a single, smooth action. ‘They are absolutely fine! There’s no sign of swelling at all!’
‘And when did this happen?’
‘Almost overnight! I hesitate to use the term “miraculous”, but…’ He grinned and did a little dance. Seeing the old chap capering, Dennie had to stifle a giggle. ‘Well, I’ll let you get on,’ he said. ‘I’ve left this far too long. It’s like a jungle here.’
‘Well, don’t you overdo it, now.’
‘Never do.’
And she went on her way. As far as having to play nicely with others went, that was it until mid-morning, when Lizzie appeared. Her arrival was heralded by Viggo’s head shooting up like a meerkat’s and him hurtling off to throw himself, barking joyously, at a figure who had appeared at the allotment gates. She came over, laughing as she fended off the huge dog that was capering around her, trying to lick her face.
‘Viggo! For God’s sake will you just—’
‘Viggo!’ Dennie snapped. ‘Get a grip!’ He subsided and Lizzie ambled the rest of the way, wiping her face with the cuffs of her jumper.
‘Hi, Mum. I went by the house first but there was nobody in so I guessed you’d be here.’
‘Lizzie, my darling, what on earth are you doing here?’ Her daughter had progressed from waiting tables to co-owning and running her own café-bakery in Bristol with her partner Niamh; it took a lot of time and energy and left little of either for visiting her mother, especially from such a distance. Christopher still lived a lot closer in Burton, but the prodigal son was too busy with his own life, and Amy was working for a disaster-relief NGO somewhere in India. ‘Don’t tell me you were just passing and thought you’d drop in.’
‘Nice to see you too.’ She gave Dennie a hug and a peck on the cheek. She smelled like bread and cigarettes. ‘Mum, can we talk?’
‘Are you in trouble? Do you need money? Is it the shop? Oh, it’s not Niamh, is it?’
‘No, Mum, I’m not in trouble but I will be if I don’t get a cup of tea soon. Can we go home first?’
‘Of course.’
She packed her things and Lizzie drove them home in the battered little yellow Micra that she’d parked outside the allotments. Lizzie looked well. She’d let her hair grow out a bit and there was some colour in her cheeks. It was while Dennie was sitting in the passenger seat that she noticed the overnight bag on the back seat, but didn’t say anything until they were in the kitchen on either side of the breakfast bar with two steaming mugs in front of them.
‘Well, this is a nice surprise,’ she said, ‘though I do wish you’d called first. Are you planning to stay over? I’ll make your bed up.’
‘Mum, I did call, but you’re never here to pick up and you never check your messages.’
That was fair. She glanced at the phone on the counter by the microwave. A small red LED was flashing. Bugger. ‘Well, I’m a very busy person, you know,’ she said in her best Edina Monsoon voice. ‘Social life is absolutely hectic these days, sweetie darling.’
It should have raised a laugh, but Lizzie just smiled. ‘Yes, I’d like to stay for a few days, if that’s okay.’
‘What about the shop?’
‘Oh, Niamh has all of that under control.’
‘So, what is it you wanted to talk about?’
Lizzie fidgeted with the ring on her right hand, the one with the garnets that Dennie’s own mother had given to her youngest granddaughter as a keepsake before she died in ’91. ‘Mum, I don’t want you to get upset, okay? But I had a phone call from the lady that runs the allotments—’
‘Angie.’
‘Yes—’
‘I knew it. I bloody knew it. That interfering cow. And she doesn’t run the allotments, she—’
‘Mum. Please. She said that she’s worried about you.’
‘Fine bloody way of showing it—’
‘She said that you’ve been having… episodes. That people have seen you just stop and stare into space for ages.’
‘Daydreaming. Wool-gathering. It’s not a symptom of anything, you know. It doesn’t mean I’m going gaga.’
‘Nobody’s saying that you’re going gaga,’ said Lizzie, but as far as Dennie was concerned that was exactly what it sounded like. ‘This Angie woman said that you had a big blazing row with the people on the plot next to yours a couple of weeks ago. That you’ve been hearing and seeing strange things there. That you’ve been sleeping in your shed, for heaven’s sake.’
‘Angie’s given you a nice comprehensive report, hasn’t she? Had she told you what my diet’s like? The frequency of my bowel movements?’
‘Mum!’ Lizzie twisted harder at the ring. She was obviously uncomfortable having to say all of this and Dennie suddenly felt foolish and cruel for picking on her when it wasn’t Lizzie she should be angry with. ‘You can’t sleep in your shed, Mum. It’s not safe. It’s cold, there are sharp things…’
Dennie laughed. ‘You sound like somebody’s mother!’
‘Funny, I wonder where I get that from.’
‘Darling, I am sixty-five years old. I am not…’ And it was gone again. The word. Erased from her memory – no, not erased, become a slippery fishword, squirming away from her the closer she came to grasping it. ‘I’m not…’
‘Not what, Mum?’ Lizzie was frowning at her in concern. She put down her mug and laid both hands across her mother’s, which Dennie only just now realised were twisting on themselves, her fingers making little pinching motions as she tried to catch the term that wouldn’t come. She pulled herself together and took her hands away.
‘Listen,’ she said, ‘there are women older than me that climb Mount Everest and run marathons. For heaven’s sake, the Queen’s nearly a hundred and she runs the whole country!’
Lizzie frowned. ‘I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works. Also,’ she pointed out, ‘the Queen doesn’t sleep in a potting shed.’
‘Not as far as we know.’
Lizzie peered at her as if she really had
