The Memory Dress

Chapter Forty-Seven

FORTY-SEVEN

Jayne

Jake places a warm sourdough between us all. He rips it open with his hands, allowing the steam to escape and rise. It’s Saturday evening, the city below us is teeming with the excitement of a long balmy bank holiday weekend—and I am in the company of a man I find so attractive I have to remind myself not to sit and stare at him. I watch as the butter melts into the pockets of the bread and he expertly fixes a round of gin and tonics in heavy glass tumblers, one large ice cube in each, topped with a spiral of orange zest. The whole gang is here, filling Davina’s kitchen once more. I only wish Meredith was completing our little family but there are things to discuss first.

“Make mine a strong one please, Jake. It’s been a shitty week, but Maggie is asleep in bed, Willow is FaceTiming friends, and I have the weekend off. Tragic as it may sound, that’s all the excuse I need.”

Me too. I want to lift the glass, arch my head backward, and drink deeply, to loosen my joints from the heaviness lodged in them.

“Well, your lovely mum has been doing brilliantly, Fiona.” Despite the appraisal of her week, Davina is fizzing with energy tonight, her arms thrown wide in excitement. “She has remembered so much. It doesn’t always stay with her, but it’s been like she’s living it all over again in vivid detail. It has been a privilege getting to know her.” Davina raises her glass aloft and we all do likewise. “To Meredith.”

“Thank you.” Fiona’s cheeks flush a little at the compliment. “Sorry. That sounds so inadequate. What you all have done for Mum is truly humbling.”

Davina bats away the praise with a flick of her hand.

“And actually, thank you for sending us the memorial footage,” adds Davina. “We’ve incorporated it into Meredith’s digital life story, along with some of the early photographs you sent from before she and William were married. It works wonderfully together, I think, but you can see for yourself.”

“I would love to watch it.” Fiona’s response is genuine, but I wonder how hard it will be for her to revisit times when she didn’t feel as loved as I believe she is. After one quick trip back to London to gather some more belongings, she’s been in Bath a few days now, spending most of them sitting with Meredith in her memory room and absorbing the contents of William’s letter—the details of which I hope she will share with us all tonight.

“I brought some fabric swatches back with me too. Some are from the very dresses Mum has been revisiting. She always kept a small piece from each at the time. A memento I suppose. She’d bring them home and I’d tuck them away, fascinated that I owned a small scrap of a princess’s dress. Even after all this time, I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away. Maybe they might be useful now? Something more tactile?”

“Yes! Show them to her. It’s one thing to see film footage but quite another to hold the very fabric that she worked with again. It could work wonders.” Olivia beams as she takes up her place in front of the laptop. We all squeeze in tighter, as close to the screen as we can get without blocking one another’s view.

“My goodness, they were so in love,” Davina says wistfully as the first image fills the screen.

“They adored each other,” whispers Fiona. “I never imaged a time when they wouldn’t. Even then, as a child, I could feel the force of it, the way they gravitated to each other. If one of them wasn’t in the room, the other couldn’t be fully at ease. It’s staggering really that their paths crossed because, honestly, I don’t think either of them could have lived a happy life without the other.”

Except that’s exactly what Meredith will have to do now, and the collective knowledge of that forces a thoughtful silence to descend over us.

I feel Jake’s hand slide into mine as the film reveals a collection of new baby and toddler pictures that Fiona has supplied. Two exhausted parents on a brown leather sofa, Fiona wedged in between them. The family resemblance between Fiona and William is clear for us all to see. Then a vast bouquet of pale cream roses that would require two arms to lift, its stems stripped and covered in a thick band of finely stitched lace. Meredith in a small brimmed hat, black gloves, holding a handkerchief that bears William’s initials. I feel my jaw lock, my teeth clench together. This is the end. How is Meredith going to react if she is shown it? Fiona’s eyes don’t leave the image of her mother, her eyebrows twitching as she leans in a fraction closer to the screen, absorbed by what she’s seeing.

A framed image of William appears, taken in the workrooms of Catherine Walker. He’s wearing the long white overcoat. It’s unbuttoned to reveal a smart navy suit beneath. He looks focused, leaning his weight forward onto the table on one elbow, his head tilted in concentration, like he’s listening intently to someone just out of the shot.

The image is held on-screen, giving everyone time to read the inscription below.

William Henry Hatfield

Born April 1942

Died May 2017

Husband to Meredith Rebecca Chalis and father to Fiona Caroline Hatfield

A quiet perfectionist. A modest gentleman. An admired talent.

As his portrait fades, the camera shifts to people in sharply tailored suits and monotone dresses as they rise from their seats and begin to exchange kisses. Men wrap arms around each other’s shoulders or deliver hearty handshakes. Champagne flutes start to move through the crowd. There must be two hundred people present. Then I see Meredith, her eyes impassive, quietly receiving a swirl of people who make no genuine impact on her expression. I notice how she sets her smile, lets it drop momentarily between one well-wisher and the next, then quickly resets it. Her essentials bag is bobbing from her right wrist, rising and falling with every handshake, like a security blanket she cannot detach herself from.

“She’s not right,” Fiona says as the film ends.

“It must be hard to watch,” says Davina, “but I suppose we have to remember that she had recently lost her husband. She was grieving.”

I know everyone experiences the death of a loved one differently, but it looks nothing like the grief I’ve seen—where there was no place for well-dressed women with immaculate hair and a ready repertoire of polite conversation.

“No, that’s not it.” Fiona’s voice is flat.

“None of those people look close to her,” I add hesitantly. “Maybe they weren’t. It’s a memorial, not a family funeral, so they would have been professional colleagues and clients presumably rather than close personal friends?”

Fiona nods her head in agreement. “Her eyes are vacant, she looks detached from what’s going on around her. She never made a speech. Even from that short clip, I can tell she wasn’t personally involved in organizing the day. It’s someone else’s idea of how my father should be honored. And I don’t mean to say it wasn’t wonderful and I am so glad they did it, but…it’s just not her.”

“What do you mean?” asks Jake.

“She was already struggling to understand what was happening. That Dad…that he wasn’t coming back.”

Davina rewinds the film and plays that section again.

“It might also explain why you weren’t there, Fiona. If Meredith hadn’t fully grasped the finality of William’s memorial, then she wouldn’t necessarily connect the need for you to be present.”

Fiona nods slowly. “His death certificate shows that he had a fatal stroke. I checked the records before I left London. And I know from the letter he left me that it wasn’t his first. There were other, milder ones preceding it. Surely Mum would have been aware of that?” She sighs, shakes her head. “I always thought she knew his health wasn’t the best. I remember him being tired. They both worked so hard. The hours were long but the job so rewarding that he stayed in it longer than perhaps he should have. It must have been very stressful, all those deadlines, all that visibility. I remember them discussing Dad having one of his headaches or dizzy spells. But his symptoms were always relatively mild, easily dismissed, I suppose. I’m concerned that Mum has lost all knowledge of that.”

“She has talked about long hours and William not looking after himself, his headaches, and how he never bothered to get them checked out.” I try to recall anything else she may have shared. “But I don’t think she has ever specifically referenced an illness.”

“The letter my father left for me with the solicitor was dated January 2017. That’s six months before his memorial took place. He makes it very clear she was already declining. I don’t understand how she could have attended this day without anyone questioning her behavior and whether there was more to it?”

“Because they weren’t looking for it and it would have been easy to miss in the circumstances, wouldn’t it? This was a woman supposedly grieving for her deceased husband.” Davina starts to make everyone a fresh pot of tea.

“Perhaps no one thought it was their place to question her, on this of all days,” adds Carina. “They assumed that someone else was taking care of her. At least some of them knew she had a daughter, presumably? The inscription says as much.”

“Yes, you’re right, of course.” Fiona understands that Carina’s words are not intended to hurt her. She wants to help, to offer possible explanations, just like the rest of us. “But it does make me wonder if Dad’s final wishes are really the right ones. If it’s for the best. He says in his letter to me that he wants her to stay in the apartment, not to be moved to a specialist care home. He has signed over the legal ownership of the apartment to me. It seemed perfectly reasonable when I first read it but now…I’m not so sure.”

I close my eyes slowly. I feared this would be her reaction. Jake’s eyes settle on me. Even with her back to us, I register the slump of Davina’s shoulders, she looks to the ceiling in exasperation.

“Surely there has to be some recognition on her part that my father, her husband, is gone and he’s not coming back? I’ve seen no sign of that yet. And if she can’t even recall him being unwell, then what are the chances of that? I don’t want her to continue waking every morning to the same awful feelings of abandonment. She needs professional help to understand that he didn’t choose to leave her but also that he’s not coming back.”

Everyone exchanges a look of deep concern, collectively understanding that these decisions must be deferred to Fiona now, no matter how much we may all disagree with them, but Davina isn’t so easily silenced.

“Meredith’s done so well these past few weeks but that day with the ambulance arriving seemed to push her a little further,” she offers. “She seemed to understand then that there is an ending to this story—to her and William’s story.”

Jake’s eyes fix on Davina, appealing to her not to push this too far.

“But she’s made no mention of it to me at all,” Fiona says. “I don’t think she remembers the incident. I’ve spent the past few days slowly and gently trying to take Mum back over everything that happened in the months and weeks leading up to my father’s death and afterward. To see if there might be some level of acceptance, or resignation even. But there isn’t. I think it’s why she struggled initially with any clarity around her working life. He was so entwined in it that the pain of losing him wiped out everything else, until now. Until you all started to help her. But she still can’t accept that he’s gone.” She shrugs her shoulders as if resigned to the futility of the situation that has led us all here.

I can’t speak. Meredith isn’t a spreadsheet, preprogrammed to respond a certain way. An equation that will logically complete itself once the correct information is inputted. I know Fiona needs time to work this out for herself, just as we have, but the clock is ticking.

I realize then that Fiona sees that future plotted along one straight line, when the truth is more a network of roads branching off from one another—disappointing and confusing dead ends, ways in with no ways out, but also beautiful views from the top of Meredith’s chosen hills and the mountains she will climb.

Carina starts to clatter the teacups around in front of us, asking Jake what he’s baking next. They’re trying to break the conversation, to signal to Davina that we have taken this as far as we should today. She registers what they’re doing and ignores them.

“It’s going to take me a while to work out what’s best for her.” Fiona’s voice drains of confidence. Panic is creeping in. “She’s going to need lots of intervention as the months and years go on, isn’t she? How will she manage in that apartment? It would probably be too large for someone on their own even without the dementia.”

“Look, Fiona…” Davina’s voice is too hard.

“Wait.” Jake raises a hand to cut her off. “Fiona has a very valid point. We are already organizing her food shops. She will need someone to manage her utility bills, her medical appointments, all her financial affairs. It’s not a small thing. Which means it won’t be an inexpensive thing. How far off might she be from needing full, around-the-clock care, even if it’s here at home?”

“It’s going to cost a fortune. My career will start to demand I travel more and how can I?” Fiona swallows hard. “She isn’t going to get better, is she? Only worse. Selling the apartment would mean I could get her the best care she needs. But it’s not what Dad wanted. He says it’s not what she wants either.”

“She won’t want to leave.” I force some softness into my voice. “I’m sorry, Fiona. This is your decision to make. I just want to make sure we’ve told you everything we know before you make it, that’s all.”

“Jayne is right, she really won’t,” adds Davina, more measured now, “and, honestly, neither would I, if it were me. She’s become…well, she’s become a very dear friend to us all. We don’t want to let her down. We all remain ready to help.”

Fiona smiles, like she appreciates the offer, but I can see the doubt in her eyes. She doesn’t know us. We met for the first time only a few days ago. I’m sure she’s asking herself what there is to stop us reneging on this arrangement at any point—and where that might leave her. Having to abandon a busy work schedule? Sacrificing a loved career—something she’s already explained her parents never did for her?

“As you know, Mum has very little concept of time. Dad’s disappearance doesn’t feel like it happened more than a year ago to her, it feels more like last week. She truly believes he is coming home, and I have started to wonder if it is better to allow her to believe that, rather than fighting it.”

I feel Olivia bristle beside me. I look at the others and it is the saddest sight. Not one of us is unmoved by this.

“Our goal has always been to bring her some peace,” I say. “I’m really not sure how this would achieve that.”

“She remembered those dresses, Jayne,” Davina reminds us all. “Because of you and the time you gave to her, she remembered all the magic she created with William. You took her all the way back through their story to the night the ambulance was called. That’s not a failure—that’s an enormous success.”

She’s right. What we have all done for Meredith and the effect it has had on her can’t be understated.

“We’re not experts, Fiona, but what does that mean anyway? Everyone will experience dementia differently. There isn’t a tried- and-true method for this. It takes kindness and time and patience. We have taken the time to get to know your mum.” I look around the room at my friends and see the pride and passion in their faces, their absolute determination not to give up. It gives me all the courage I need to say what needs to be said, not just for me but for them too.

“We know that when she travels she feels more comfortable if I take a flask of tea, that she will never say no to an egg sandwich, that she knows every word to every song in Steel Magnolias , that she boils her eggs in the kettle and sleeps with William’s scarf on the pillow next to her because it still holds his scent. We have played her life story to her every single day, and for the hour or two afterward, she is more alive and energized than at any other time. She loves Davina’s leftovers, especially the lamb because she cooked it for William, and even though after all these weeks I have to introduce myself almost every time I knock on Meredith’s door, names don’t matter. It’s how she feels in our company that makes all the difference. There has been great honesty in the way we have all supported your wonderful mum and, forgive me, but I’m just not sure we should alter the truth to suit her. Doesn’t she deserve more than that? Could we just take some more time to think it through?”

Fiona’s face has visibly dropped. She’s worn down by us, baffled by the decisions she has to make—and it’s our fault for making her feel cornered by our experience versus her obligations.

“I will never be able to thank you all enough for everything you have done for my mum when you could so easily have looked the other way. I also know you might disagree with some of the choices I have to make but I hope you can respect that I have to take responsibility for them.” She stands and picks up her handbag from the floor.

“Maybe Meredith should experience death and grief, just like we all do?” Olivia has said very little until now.

“Sorry?” Fiona is at the door but pauses. “What do you mean?”

“Why shouldn’t she feel the hurt? The crushing emptiness that comes with losing someone irreplaceable. Feeling it will only confirm how right she was to love William as hard as she has all these years.” Fiona doesn’t know it, but Olivia is revisiting her own hurt. Her face has crumpled. She doesn’t want to talk about any of this but for Meredith’s benefit she is willing to enter the fight.

“Do you really think she could cope with that?” From the look of skepticism and doubt on Fiona’s face, her raised eyebrows, it’s clear she’s already made up her mind.

“She’s human. She has a right to her own feelings, and who are any of us to deny her them? As the months wear on she’s going to feel less human, less sure, less of everything. Let her feel as much as she possibly can, while she still can. Let her be as much of herself as possible. It’s the greatest gift you can give her right now.” I watch as a single tear slides down Olivia’s left cheek.

“You know this?” Fiona has placed her bag back at her feet. I think she senses that Olivia is speaking from a position of true knowledge.

“I wish I didn’t, but yes.”

Jake hands Olivia a glass of water, then Davina is at her side, a firm arm wrapped around her shoulders.

“Hang on.” Carina slides off her stool. “We’re losing sight of what we know. We have a clear way to connect Meredith to William’s death. She was at the memorial. The film footage places her there in the same way the dresses and all the locations they were worn to placed her back into her professional world and closer to William.”

I place my hand on Fiona’s arm, keeping her still for a second longer.

“Let’s at least try it, shall we?” I smile, I need her to know that I am on her side. This is not us against her.

This is what we all wanted. We are within touching distance of everything we hoped we might achieve when we came together that first evening and promised to help a woman find her husband and daughter.

“Okay, but honestly, from what I have seen of Mum since I got here, I’m not expecting it to work. She’s spent such a long time believing one thing. I’m not sure we can hope the footage will easily reverse that.”

As I watch Fiona leave, I think about the dress in Meredith’s apartment, where this all began, the email from Christie’s still sitting in my inbox, everything we have done together, the lessons she has taught me, the confidence she has filled me with, without even realizing it. I think about Meredith’s warmth, the truly happy times we have spent together, and the times she’s unleashed her fury on me, and I silently ask myself, Is it just too much to hope that her love for William will triumph over everything?