Page 31

“The place is growing,” I say.

“All the time. It’s good, although it puts more pressure on services and amenities.”

It’s such a beautiful day. The park smells of spring—mown grass and fresh flowers, warmed by the early sun. I feel happy. I’ve missed the island. Missed the community, the people, the slower way of life. Life in Wellington is busy, which is good, but it’s often fraught and stressful. I can’t imagine anyone ever being stressed on Evermore Island.

We leave the park behind us, pass the bowling greens, and then follow the sign for Wisteria Villas. I haven’t been here before—I’m not even sure it was built last time I was here—but it turns out to be a full retirement village, with independent living units as well as care homes and care suites.

Vix takes us into the main reception, and I ask for the Day Manager, Louise, whom I’ve spoken to on the phone. A small, grey-haired woman comes out with a big smile and holds out her hand to me. “You must be Mitch.”

“Hello, yes, pleased to meet you at last.”

“So you’re John’s famous grandson.” She winks at me. “He’s been telling everyone about you.”

“Oh jeez.”

She chuckles. “There are no secrets in a retirement village, I can tell you that. Come on. I’ll take you to him. He wasn’t feeling well enough to come to the café today, but he’s fine in his room.”

I’d told Vix I wasn’t nervous, but my stomach flips as we follow her along the corridor. He’s not well enough to leave his room? That doesn’t bode well.

The corridor leads from the offices to a large, light-filled atrium. “It’s so lovely here,” Vix says as we cross it. “And I like that there’s lots to do. Art classes, exercise classes, and a really nice café.”

Louise takes us into an elevator, and we go up to the next floor. “Each floor has its own lounge and library,” she says. “John spends a lot of time there. He does love his books.”

“Tell me about it,” I say wryly, thinking about the boxes in his flat.

“He spends most of his time reading.” The elevator dings and she leads us out into another open space, then takes us across to the suites on the other side.

“How has he been?” I ask.

“He’s good. Relatively cheerful. He has physio three times a week, and he does his exercises every day. He’s had a little sensation return, but he’s still almost completely numb down his right side. It’s a long, slow process, unfortunately, and I don’t know how much more sensation he’s likely to get back.”

I feel the first flicker of alarm. I’d hoped he’d be making more of a recovery by now.

She stops by a door with the number 23 on it and knocks. “Come in,” a voice says from inside, and she smiles at us, opens it, and leads the way in.

“Morning, John!” she says. “I’ve brought someone to see you.”

It’s a medium-sized living room with cream walls and a dark-grey flecked carpet, with sliding doors onto a balcony that overlooks the gardens at the back. I don’t have time to take in anything else though, because my attention focuses on the man sitting in an armchair, and I feel a rush of emotion.

We have a similar build, and he has the same blue eyes as my father and I. He used to have dark hair, too, although it’s a bit thinner now, and completely grey. He’s lost weight since the last time I saw him, and even though I’d tried to prepare myself for it, I’m shocked to see how much the right side of his face is drooping.

“Grandad.” I walk over to him. “Don’t get up.” I bend and give him a big hug.

“My boy.” He lifts his left arm around me. “Sorry, this one’s a bit useless,” he jokes, shrugging his right shoulder as I draw back. His speech is slightly slurred.

My voice has disappeared, and Vix must have spotted it, because she says, “Mitch, you sit in the armchair, and I’ll take one of the fold-up chairs. How are you today, John? You look well. What’s all the gossip at Wisteria, then?”

“Everyone’s talking about who they’re taking to the music festival,” he says. “Honestly, it’s worse than high school.”

Vix chuckles. I lower myself into the armchair, shocked at how emotional I feel. The stroke has clearly affected the right side of his body and face. He was never the sort of guy who was out doing sports or going to the gym, but it’s a shock to see how much it’s changed him.

I know without having to ask that there’s no way he’s going to be able to manage on his own in the flat. And he definitely won’t be returning to work.

We’re going to have to sell the bookshop.

Fuck.

It’s the first time it’s really sunk in. Until now, I think a small part of me had hoped he wouldn’t be as bad as all that, and he’d say that things would go back to normal after he’d a rest. But that’s not going to happen. It’s done, and there’s nothing I can do except help him deal with it.