The thoughts in my head roll off mytongue, “You are an ugly bitch, Mary. No man will ever have you now. Ugly and insane,great combination! Take your eyes off the floor, woman, and look at me when I’mtalking to you.” She does as she’s told. “Bet you can’t even wipe your own arseanymore, can you?! These poor bitches in here will soon be feeding you. What’sthe point of it all, just give up and put yourself and the rest of us out ofour misery. No matter, you shouldn’t be here too much longer. You’ve been herewhat, eight years? The average person with dementia lasts around 10 years sodon’t worry, sweetheart, you’re on your way! I could always give you a helpinghand along if you like, nothing is too much trouble.” I expect a reaction fromthe last statement and when I see none I start to wonder if she’s slipped awayagain into her inner world. OK Mary, we’ll coax you out, don’t you worry.
“So, I’ve been chatting with GeorgeTraynor.” Was there a flicker of recognition there? I press on … “A mostinteresting conversation, Mary. He plans to bring Thomas back to Skye.” I leaveit at that for the minute, my words starting to have the desired effect I’dhoped for. The mere mention of Thomas’ name and she shakes her fugue. Still nowords from her but she is paying attention. “Yes, he tells me they’re going totake a trip down memory lane. Now, if either of them show up here and they haveany questions for you, I need to make sure you keep that mouth of yours firmlyshut! Got it?! There is a good chance George could mention something aboutFebruary 1998. I need to know you are going to be a good girl and keep shtum!Shouldn’t be a problem. Looks as though the lights are on but no-one’s home.” Ichuckle inwardly.
The one thing I do know about dementia isthere is a good chance she can’t remember what she ate for breakfast thismorning but memories from even decades ago she will have stored. I bear witnessto this as the face goes back to its original contorted state resembling bothhorror and fury. Oh, Mary, I didn’t think you had it in you. She even tries toprise herself from her chair but with her muscles clearly having wasted awayfrom sitting for extended periods, she doesn’t make it far and a firm hand fromme pressed down onto her shoulder pushes her back down. Things escalate fromhere. She screams a high-pitched wail, “Help me; help me,” and pushes a redpanic button located on a box on the side of the table next to her.
Within seconds Cindy appears with amatronly, plump-looking woman by her side. I read the name tag ‘Beatrice’ –figures! “What’s going on here, Mary? Are you OK?” Mary is babbling and isvirtually undecipherable and it turns my stomach, the stupid bitch, she ismaking no sense. I want to tell Beatrice to hook her up to morphine and put herdown once and for all. That wouldn’t be the done thing, would it? So Iinterject with deflection, “I don’t know what’s wrong with her! She was fineone minute and, the next, she went crazy. Have you got her on the rightmedication? You’re clearly not doing your jobs properly!”
Beatriceresponds, “Mr Taylor please can you leave now and let us see to Mary.” Thiswasn’t a question; it was an instruction and I grudgingly left, which was ashame. It would’ve been just the ticket to see them restraining her and perhapsgiving her a shot of something to calm her down. No matter, I’ll just have toimagine that scene in my head. Well George, I think I’ve done a good job thereand make no mistake. I almost skip out of the care home feeling giddier than Ihave done in years.
CHAPTER 5
April 1998
I
awaken as usual to the noise of the animals. I hear therooster singing his morning song, imagining him striding along proudly showingoff his plumage. He’s closely followed by the hens. It’s lambing time so wehave to keep a close eye on the ewes. They are hardy beasts and are used to thetough terrain of the Inner Hebrides and can easily lamb outside, but we have tobe aware in case any lambs get stuck in the birthing process, so I keep an earout for the sound of an ewe giving birth but I hear nothing.
This is my favourite time of the day,early morning when I am alone with no pressure to do anything or be anywhere. Iknow I could sleep on a bit longer but I’ve trained myself to wake when therooster calls so I can have some precious time to myself. I lose myself in myimagination. I wonder what it would be like to be living in a foreign country;to be a different race or religion. Having never left Skye and only ever leftthe croft to go to school or accompany mother once every few weeks to do foodshopping, my imagination was my sanctuary. I fantasize about what it would belike to be rich and live in a fancy house with fancy clothes. Imagine having abutler to chauffeur you around to a posh restaurant or clean up after youbecause frankly you couldn’t be bothered. Or imagine living as a nomad in thedesert, what would that be like? The blazing sun on your face and your camel byyour side. The weather on Skye could be wild at times and blazing sun was nota frequent commodity so I pause on this thought and imagine the sun warming mywhole body.
My happy dreamscape is broken into shardsas the jarring voice of father
