The Memory Dress

Chapter Forty-Five

FORTY-FIVE

Jayne

The solicitor confirms what we now know to be true. He is holding the will for William Hatfield and a letter to his daughter, Fiona Hatfield, expressing his final wishes.

Davina has more than enough to contend with today—Maggie’s arm, broken in two places from her fall, will take at least six weeks to heal in its cast—so I sit on my roof terrace, alone in the late-afternoon sun with a notebook and pen, and make the call to the Royal College of Music. Mrs.Osman, the head of admissions, is back, and she has good news.

“I recognized the image of Fiona as soon as I laid eyes on it. An exceptionally talented concert pianist. I am only sorry you didn’t get me immediately when your neighbor called the first time. I could have saved you a lot of confusion.”

“Thank you,” I say, smiling at the depth of satisfaction in Mrs.Osman’s voice. “Could I ask one more favor, please? I was hoping you could put me in touch with Fiona? I suppose the college must have her contact details. I need to speak to her about her parents, William and Meredith.” I have to assume at this stage there is a good chance Fiona does not know about her father’s death. If she did, wouldn’t she also understand more about Meredith’s life and be more present in it?

“I can’t give you her email or phone number, I’m afraid. That would be a breach of our privacy rules. However, if you are happy to share yours, I could email Miss Hatfield right away and ask her to get in touch with you.”

Before the sun dips below the chimney pots that punctuate my view, Fiona has emailed me back. It feels remarkable to see her name sitting there in bold in my inbox, nestled between requests for last-minute dog walking bookings and a reminder that my iCloud storage is full and needs upgrading. All these weeks of trying to track her down, everyone devoting their spare hours to the cause, the dead ends and the false leads, questioning if we could or should, when of course the answer was in Meredith’s memory room all along—just as she said it would be, just, I suspect, as William planned it to be. This is not a conversation I can have over email and so we arrange to meet. Without hesitation, Fiona agrees to come to Bath tomorrow. On Jake’s suggestion, we arrange to talk at the coach house. I think it’s best if I share everything I know first, before she sees Meredith.

Jake has left the place comfortably tidy for us. Not so immaculate that I feel I can’t touch anything—but considerately so. There are fresh irises in a vase on the kitchen island, the radio has been left on because he knows a shared silence makes me twitchy, and of course the place is filled with the exquisite smell of freshly baked bread. It makes me smile, because I think Jake truly believes that any situation can be made better by the simple act of sinking your teeth into a slice. Everyone has sent messages of good luck, but it is Carina’s that forces me to take a seat and a deep breath.

CARINA: You did it, Jayne, and I couldn’t be any prouder of you. Whether she realizes it or not—and I believe she does—Meredith is the luckiest woman on earth. The day you turned the key in your lock for the first time was the day the course of her own life changed for the better. You’ve helped her, not because a family tree dictated you should, but because you are a good person. That says so much about you and Fiona will understand that immediately when she hears what you have to say. And don’t be afraid to let her know how much you love her mother. I am here and can close the shop at a moment’s notice if you need me. Much love x

It will just be Fiona and me today. We all agreed this meeting doesn’t need an audience. We don’t know how much or how little Fiona already knows and how painful the conversation may be for her. She arrives bang on time and I take my steps to the door unnaturally slowly, bracing myself, allowing my lungs to fill and expand.

I see immediately she has William’s smile. Soft and genuine. A mop of glossy hair the color of a varnished pine table falls about her shoulders. I hadn’t noticed it from her graduation picture because it was pulled back. There are freckles sprinkled across her nose and on her rosy cheeks—nothing like Meredith and everything like him. She hasn’t blended the concealer under her eyes into the skin properly and it catches the light, making her seem more human, less composed. She’s tired. Like me, she probably didn’t sleep much last night.

“Hello, I’m Jayne. Thank you so much for coming, Fiona,” I say, extending a hand. “I’m not sure if Mrs.Osman explained but it took us some time to find you.” I release her hand and step back out of the doorway, so she knows to enter.

“Yes, she did. I’m sorry, Jayne, the different surnames wouldn’t have helped, I’m sure. Mum has an old address for me, from when I first moved back to London, but, well, not the latest one and certainly not my email. She could have given you my mobile number but that obviously never happened.”

The idea that Meredith would remember the number, or where it might be written down, is wildly improbable. It’s my first indication that Fiona is unaware of the way her mother is living.

“Would you like a tea?” Jake has helpfully left everything out on the counter so I don’t have to rummage around for it.

“Just some water would be great, thank you.” She slips onto one of the high stools and I hear her take a deep, calming breath. She’s nervous, too, and it gives me the push I need to get to the point. I sit facing her.

“Can I ask, when was the last time you saw your parents?”

“Not since 2010. I moved back to London to enroll at the RCM, the earliest date I could. I haven’t spoken to either of them since then.” The fact she can recall the dates so easily says a lot, I hope. This is not insignificant for her.

“No contact at all?” I say, stunned.

“To be fair to him, Dad tried, several times at first, but I wasn’t ready…I didn’t want to talk to either of them back then.” She forces a small smile that seems loaded with regret. “By the time I was ready, the two of them had clearly moved on. I didn’t get any response.” Her smile remains fixed in place.

I suspect this is not a subject she has discussed much until now. She’s choosing her words carefully, just giving me the facts as she sees them.

“I sent plenty of concert invites that went unanswered. And I came by once. It was April last year. I wanted to give them both a recording of my work. It was one of my final exam pieces—Chopin—and I was so proud of it. I hoped they would be too.”

“Piano Concerto Number 1 in E Minor, by any chance?” I smile deeply as I recall all the times we’ve heard Meredith humming softly to herself, a tune none of us could identify.

Fiona pulls back from me slightly, clearly stunned by my guess.

“Well, yes, but how on earth did you know that?”

“Meredith is always humming it. Sorry, please go on.”

She takes a slow deep breath, trying to give herself the courage to continue. “I stood outside on the pavement and Mum appeared at the window.” She smiles then at the memory of seeing her, before it quickly fades. “I waved up at her and…nothing. She ignored me.” Fiona shakes her head. Even after all this time she hasn’t been able to make sense of this encounter. “I stood there like a fool smiling until eventually she moved away from the glass. I pushed the recording through the letter box and left, thinking she couldn’t forgive me for the lack of contact for so long. It was a four-hour round trip and I didn’t even get to say hello.” The recollection hurts her. She drops eye contact and reaches for her water. I recognize the deflection tactics and I also know her tears are hovering just below the surface. This would have been her last chance to see her father before…

“Your mum listened to the recording, Fiona, many, many times, you can be very sure of that.” I nod slowly, trying to convey that I am not judging anyone’s actions.

“Maybe there was just too much bad blood.” Her eyes cloud. “Maybe they were ashamed. Maybe they just didn’t care. I have no idea. Sending the graduation photograph was my last attempt. I told myself if I didn’t hear anything after that, then it was time to walk away for good. And I had accepted that, but then I got Mrs.Osman’s email and here I am, still hoping to be loved.” She chuckles sadly.

Her honesty floors me. She doesn’t speak with self-pity but a weary acceptance that there is little more she feels she could have done. But with every word she says, I feel sure she has no knowledge of Meredith’s situation—and why would she after so long apart? She can see only the rejection and none of the complications behind it.

“There is so much I need to tell you, Fiona. And I’m sorry if it’s not in the order it should be, but I think a lot has changed since you returned to London.”

“Dad.” She nods, swallows hard, then pinches her lips together.

“Yes…he’s passed away. I’m not sure if you knew that?” I try to soften my body language, leaning toward her slightly.

“Not until last night.” She reaches for the water again and I can see her hands trembling. “I guessed there had to be a specific reason why you were getting in touch now and not before. I also knew if one of them had died, there was a good chance it would have been talked about in some way. They were both exceptionally good at what they did—it was their absolute passion in life beyond each other—I felt sure the moment would not have passed without some acknowledgment of that and I was right. There was a memorial, organized by the team at Catherine Walker. Even some film footage. It’s not how you imagine you’ll discover the loss of a parent, is it, on YouTube?” I see the performer in her then. The way she is using her breath to steady herself, to hold in emotions in a way that most of us would be incapable of. Her long fingers, probably so used to moving with fluidity, are knotted tightly around one another.

“I don’t know if anyone at Catherine Walker ever attempted to find me, but the chances are, like you, they wouldn’t have known where to look. And anyway, wouldn’t they assume my own mother would invite me?”

“I’m so, so sorry, Fiona. For your father’s loss but also that this is the way you had to discover it. And I am so very sorry we didn’t get to you sooner. We’ve been trying, I can promise you that.”

“I think it’s probably Mum who needs to apologize to me. Hopefully she will find it in herself to do that. She said some awful things before I left that she has never said sorry for.” Her tone firms, and as much as she has my sympathy, I also can’t bear the thought of her being cross with Meredith when they see each other.

“What do you mean?”

“She was there, Jayne, at the memorial. I could only bring myself to watch it once but she’s clearly visible in the footage, surrounded by all her former colleagues. She had that moment to honor him, to praise him if she wanted to. But she denied me the chance. She never called me. I was never invited. Why? He was my father, and despite everything, I loved him. I deserved the chance to say goodbye. Or to at least have a choice about whether I wanted to.” The part she has been playing crumbles now. Tears start to stream down her face, and she loses control of her voice, her words pitching higher than she intends them to. I reach for the box of tissues Jake has placed next to the flowers, another small act of kindness that I love him for.

“I can’t speak about the memorial, Fiona, I knew nothing about it until just now. But I know there is a letter waiting for you from your father. It’s at the solicitor’s office that holds his will. That may have some of the answers you are looking for.”

“A letter?” Her face recovers a little. She likes the practicality of it, I think, and maybe the prospect of hearing her father’s voice again.

I allow my lungs to fill.

“Fiona, we believe your mum is living with dementia.”

There’s a long pause before Fiona weakly says, “Dementia? How do you know? Has she been diagnosed?” Her back straightens, her face twists with concern. I can see love there—she cares, despite her attempts over the years not to, perhaps.

“Not formally, no. But one of the other residents in the building has a little experience with it. There’s been a lot of trial and error by everyone, trying different intervention methods to help your mum, some of which have worked well, others less so.”

“Everyone?”

“We’ve had a bit of a rota going so the residents in the building check in on her at least twice a day. We make sure she’s getting dressed properly and that she’s eating enough. Everyone thinks very highly of your mum.” I’m trying to decide whether to come clean about the road trip, me dragging Meredith off to London, twice, then Sandringham and Althorp, but Fiona looks so crushed, I hold back.

“It should have been me. I should have been here helping her. I’m so sorry you had to shoulder all of this. What must you all think of me?” She cradles her face in her hands. “I don’t know where the time has gone. How the days have somehow turned into years.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me. Families are complicated, I know that.”

“I don’t want you to think I don’t love her. I do, of course I do. But they were both so devoted to their careers, I often felt as a child that I came a poor third, after their work commitments and each other. Even when we moved to Bath and they scaled back, I spent most weekends at the university having music lessons with the children of other parents who were too worn out to entertain them on their precious days off. At least, I remember that’s how it felt. They gave me this huge opportunity to nurture a skill I never knew I had until the first time I was put in front of a piano. Financially, my father made sure I had everything I needed. He covered all the cost of my tuition at RCM, but he never once attended a concert. Neither of them did. I wasn’t wanted, Jayne. I was a mistake. Mum told me as much.”

I shake my head. I know this cannot be true.

My mind travels back over some of the conversations I’ve had with Meredith, the more lucid ones where she has smiled deeply through her recollections of Fiona. How proud she is of that graduation photograph. The regret she confessed that day at the Royal Albert Hall of never hearing the piece of Chopin played live. I think about the trunk of small dresses in the memory room, the late nights she must have spent making them. Then I think about Meredith’s references to William protecting her.

“You have lots of time to talk now, to try to really understand each other, that’s the positive in all of this, isn’t it? If you want to?” I will my face to convey this is exactly what Meredith would love.

She traces her fingers under her eyes, wiping the tears away. “I’d like to very much, if she would? I feel like I need to get to know my own mother all over again.”

The fact she is keen to see Meredith is great. I don’t think any of us had ruled out the possibility that whatever pushed this family apart may have been too insurmountable to bring them back together again. But I also need to warn her.

“I just want to prepare you for what you’re going to see when you enter her apartment.”

“Okay.” Fiona straightens on her stool.

“Seeing it for the first time, you’ll think it looks incredibly cluttered. But it’s not messy to Meredith. She likes to have her things around her. She has built a memory room, a space that charts her life in a way that makes little sense to the rest of us, but it comforts her. We think your father may have helped with it, when he realized she may need it.”

“I could have helped with that too.” She brushes away fresh tears with the tissue I hand her.

“You still can. Also, we’ve made some changes that might seem odd when you first see them. Like putting pictures of what’s inside her kitchen cupboards on the doors so she knows where everything is. And we’ve signposted a lot of things, like her morning wash routine. There are also headshots of us all just inside her front door so she knows who to let in and who not to.”

The shock is visible in the wideness of Fiona’s eyes.

“It’s a lot to take in, I know. We’ve had a lot longer to absorb it all than you have. The important thing, I think, is that she has been doing so well, with a little help. It derailed a little last week when the ambulance…” I pause, thinking how best to phrase this. “She heard a siren and panicked. We don’t know any of the details around your father’s death, how it happened, but she seemed to connect the sound of the siren to William needing medical help.”

Fiona lowers her head while she processes that thought. “Do you think she may have been the one to call it, that he might have died at home here and she had to deal with it all alone?” I see the guilt cling to her. It settles heavily on her shoulders, hangs in her jaw, making her head appear heavy. I don’t want to dwell on the negatives, but neither can I lie to her.

“Sadly, I do think it’s possible, yes. There is rarely anyone at home here during the day except Olivia, and she often works wearing noise-canceling headphones. Her kitchen, where she works, is at the back of the house, she probably didn’t see the flashing lights. Plus, it’s a busy city, there are sirens going off all the time. Even if Olivia had heard it, she wouldn’t necessarily have thought to investigate it, I’m afraid.”

Fiona nods. She understands. Anyone who lives in a city would. I think about how I’ve learned to block out noise, barely registering the scream of a car alarm anymore.

“What’s clear is Meredith needs more help. We are here, of course. But we can see she needs a formal diagnosis of her stage of dementia and professional help that is tailored specifically to that. The apartment could become very difficult for her to manage otherwise.”

I immediately regret saying it, because the way Fiona slowly nods and starts to punch notes into her phone suggests it might be Meredith’s living arrangements that she’ll prioritize, when her mum needs her to first understand her wishes.

“There’s no rush, obviously, but I’m sure you’d like to go and see her.”

“I really would.”

I open my mouth to deliver my usual “Hello, Meredith, it’s Jayne from upstairs” but I don’t get any further than the first part.

“Fiona!” beams Meredith. “Gosh, your hair has got so long. I need to book you in for a cut.”

Fiona and I exchange a quick glance but it’s Meredith who takes the conversational lead.

“Come in then. You’ll want tea and crumpets for breakfast, won’t you?” As she turns and moves away from the door, I see ladders in her tights running up the backs of both legs, one so bad her heel is exposed.

I look at my watch. It’s long past lunchtime already.

“Don’t worry, Mum, I’ll grab something to eat later.”

“After your lesson with Mrs.Tims?”

I’m guessing from the horrified look on Fiona’s face, Mrs.Tims is a teacher from many years ago.

“I’m not having a lesson with Mrs.Tims today, Mum, I haven’t had one for…” Fiona looks to me for guidance on how to finish her sentence.

“Hang on,” Meredith shouts over her shoulder. “Just let me get the kettle on.”

We perch on one of the sofas, listening as she clatters around the kitchen.

“I’m going to leave you to it,” I say. “My advice, which obviously you don’t have to take, is to just go along with the conversation, rather than trying to correct her. She’ll be more comfortable that way and the alternative might tie you up in knots.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay?” She grimaces, but her eyes are bright, anticipating what the next hour or two may bring.

“I can if you’d like me to, but I think you will be just fine without me. This way she only has to concentrate on you. I’ll be upstairs, and you have my number if you need me.”

Meredith steps back into the sitting room carrying a tray of tea and a plate loaded with biscuits, most of them broken.

I say my goodbyes as she’s setting the tray down on the low table.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like a biscuit before you go?” She lifts the plate toward me. “Just not the custard creams. They’re William’s favorites. He won’t appreciate it if we eat them all, will he, Fiona?” She chuckles and the effect the sound has on Fiona makes my heart ache.

Her face seems to droop with the relief of being accepted back into her mother’s home, like she stepped out only a few hours ago to visit a friend. But she is also seeing the struggle that lies ahead, the difficult conversations, the frustrations, the altered reality that’s now the norm. The fragility of a mother she might once have thought unforgiving and single-minded and how her own hurt has robbed them both of the precious time that is cartwheeling away from Meredith at a rate none of us can truly understand.

As I open the door to leave, I also see the unguarded happiness on the face of an older woman, my friend, who for the first time in eight years will spend the afternoon with her only daughter. One she clearly never stopped loving.

Meredith raises her hand to Fiona’s cheek and traces her fingers across her skin. “You look so much like your father,” she says, smiling. “I’m so lucky to have you both.”