I made a cup of tea and joined Ray in the lounge. He was sprawled on the sofa watching the news. Toys were still scattered about, and plates with remains of crumpets
‘Home visit?’ he asked.
‘No, picking her brains. I’ve got a new case needing a bit of medical background. You know you’ve still got paint in your hair.’
‘Where?’ He ran his hands over his dark springy curls.
‘There, at the front.’
He stood up and peered in the mirror. ‘I told them not to start the painting yet. It’ll only need doing again, there’s that much dust flying around.’ He smoothed his moustache. ‘But they’re in such a hurry. Bonuses for bringing it in by the end of March.’ In between making his own wooden furniture to order Ray took on sub-contract work with a couple of builders.
He bared his teeth, turned his profile this way and that.
‘Ray!’
‘What?’
‘Preening.’
‘Just checking.’
‘What? That there’s no paint on your teeth. You’re just vain.’
‘No. Careful with my appearance. It’s in my blood, style, all Italians have it. You English have no idea.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’
He turned back to the mirror to smooth his hair again. Bit pointless. Then whistled the dog. Digger came bounding in, Ray did something playful to his ears and the two of them went off for walkies.
I put Moira’s books on one side then swept toys into one corner of the room where I couldn’t actually see them from the sofa. I removed crumpets and crockery. There was nothing worth watching on television so I watched nothing for half an hour. My yawning reached chronic proportions.
In bed I guzzled a couple of chapters of my library book. When the print began to blur I switched out the lamp and hugged the duvet to me.
I could hear the dog down the street yapping. On and on. I felt my shoulders tense with irritation. Noise pollution. Why couldn’t they just let the creature in or remove its vocal cords? I’d time it tonight. Begin to gather hard facts so I could challenge the neighbours. See how long it kept me awake. It was too much effort to lift my head up to read the clock. I fell asleep.
I rang Rachel, my social work contact, at ten a.m. She was busy for the rest of the day: visits, case conference, court reports, the lot. After further prodding and a promise to foot the bill I persuaded her to meet me for lunch the following day. Her office is in Longsight, mine in Withington. We agreed on a friendly Greek restaurant in Fallowfield, midway between us.
I stuck some washing in the machine, then sat in the kitchen and browsed through the books that Moira had left. It became clear that dementia wouldn’t have resulted from either Lily’s fall or from leaving her home. But both the books listed two types of dementia, Alzheimer’s and something called acute confusional disorder. The latter could result from physical illness, like a severe infection or as a reaction to drugs. So it could be treated and would stop, unlike actual senile dementia.