Where the Missing Go(38)

‘I just thought I’d pop by on the way to the supermarket, see if you needed anything.’ I’ve already decided I’m not going to mention last night. ‘I haven’t seen you for a bit. How have you been?’

‘I’m fine, dear. How are you?’ No, she definitely wasn’t disturbed in the night, I can tell.

I ask her what she’s been up to these past few days: how was her coffee afternoon at the church last week? She makes me laugh at how another of the ladies, Violet, is pursuing the lone gentleman Sidney – she seems to be wearing him down.

But I’ve heard this story before, down to her withering verdict. ‘She’s a trier, that one. I’ll give her that.’ I wonder how much of the last gathering she actually remembers. She doesn’t mention me coming round at the weekend, finding her sleepy and disorientated after her nap.

Yet she does seem more like the old Lily now, more alert and herself than she’s been for a while. Younger, even. Perhaps she’s better in the mornings.

We chat for a while, talking about her soaps, then there’s a lull.

‘I wanted to ask you something, Lily.’

She tilts her head a little. ‘Yes?’

‘About Nancy.’

‘Who, dear?

‘Nancy. The girl you mentioned the other day, who looks like my Sophie?’

There’s a beat, then she shakes her head, slowly. ‘I don’t think I know a Nancy.’

‘Nancy Corrigan? You know, she used to live in the big house. Years ago, now.’

‘No, dear, I don’t know.’ Her pause is almost unnoticeable. ‘I do hope I haven’t forgotten again.’

I decide to leave it, for now. I don’t want to push it further, and upset her by chasing yet another thing that’s slipped from her memory. Before I go, I head into her loo upstairs. I’m mulling over our conversation as I wash my hands.

So Lily doesn’t remember mentioning Nancy. Well, maybe she wasn’t even referring to the Nancy who used to live at Parklands. In fact, I ask myself, why would she even know about her? Nancy. Sophie. It could just be a coincidence, they don’t sound too dissimilar – a slip of the tongue.

I shake my head in the mirror. No, I don’t believe that. That’s too neat. I think the thought of Sophie the other day jogged her memory in some way – she remembered another girl who went away.

So at some point, she must have heard about Nancy. That would make more sense, if she’s lived here a while. People do talk. And then she forgot about it, I think, drying my hands on her embroidered white hand towel. Because she does forget things, all too often, nowadays.

But I feel cross that I’ve got no further. Frustrated. And now I feel the impulse, like an itch under my skin. I don’t need to. I shouldn’t. It would be an invasion of privacy. I don’t—

Before I can think about it any further, I just do it: I open the bathroom cabinet above the sink.

Yardley lavender scented moisturiser. Elizabeth Arden’s Blue Grass scent. That face cream she’s told me about, that Joanna Lumley uses. And her medicine bottles.

I pull out one of the brown glass bottles, filled with clear liquid. I don’t know the brand name, I don’t think – I squint at the smaller print label, wishing I had my glasses ‘… contains morphine’.

Jesus. I know what this stuff is. Liquid morphine, a powerful painkiller. I knew she had a bad hip but, wow. Poor Lily. She must be in real pain. And there’s so much of it – at least half a dozen of these bottles, some already near empty. How much morphine does she need?

I glance down again at the label: Mrs Lily Green, The Carriage House, Park Road, Vale Dean. It’s hers, of course. ‘To take as and when, for pain.’

There are pills too, I see, carefully easing out a packet: more of the same stuff in capsule form, with directions to take twice daily.

The doctors will know what you can take, of course they do. But even so … I frown. It’s trusting her a lot, with this stuff, to keep on top of her dosage and timings and the rest. Should she really have so much of it? They might not realise how she’s been, more recently. No wonder she’s been so dopey and confused – and if I’m right that she’s showing signs of dementia, as I fear, couldn’t all this be making it worse?

I glance at the bottle in my hand again. I’ve still heard nothing back from the council. I can’t ask Lily. She’ll think I’m prying and just won’t see the danger.

For a moment, a wave of hot emotion rises up over me: I feel so overwhelmed. I lean against the basin. I can cope, I can. But it’s all coming at once. Sophie. Lily. Nancy.

Lily pretending not to know about Nancy.

Why do I think that? ‘I hope I haven’t forgotten again.’

Why is that worrying at me? She didn’t seem distressed, like it touched a chord. Quite the opposite in fact: she was calm, resigned even. Even though she’d forgotten something. Again.

And then I get it. That was it: this time, she wasn’t the least upset.

Checking in on Lily as I leave, I see she’s asleep in her chair, and pull the curtains closed, so the sun’s not shining on her face. I’m not in a hurry now, so I’ll walk down the drive – fewer insects, and branches – rather than the cut-through between our houses. And I am about to turn left, back down to my house, when I pause.