Chloe had stayed out of the way at Low Drove for the rest of the day yesterday. Patrick had put an old TV in her room during the week and so she sat upstairs watching classic black and white movies that barely held her interest. How could she follow any plot when what she really wanted to know was what was going on downstairs? She spent every few minutes turning the sound down on the remote control, but no voices had floated back up in response. She certainly hadn’t heard any more arguing, which she was surprised to find disappointed her. No one had been there when she went down to breakfast this morning. She ate alone, each mouthful sticking in her throat, wondering if this was what awaited her now.

‘Are you the florist?’ Nan says.

‘Sorry?’

‘You’re the lady who brought the flowers, aren’t you?’

One of the carers bustles in.

‘Of course she’s not a florist, Grace, she’s your granddaughter.’ This carer speaks in a loud, clear voice, articulating all her words. There’s nothing wrong with Nan’s hearing, Chloe thinks.

‘Who?’ Nan replies.

The carer sighs with a smile and rolls her eyes at Chloe. ‘Right, shall we get your shoes on? We’ve got a little surprise for you in the communal room, a bit of a birthday party.’

‘Is it your birthday?’ Nan asks.

‘No, Grace, it’s yours.’

‘Oh, is that why this young lady has brought some flowers?’

The carer sighs again, getting up from the floor as Nan wriggles her toes inside her shoes.

‘Come on, Grace,’ she says, helping her up off the chair.

The two women shuffle down the corridor and Chloe trails behind them. There was a time when she would have envied the ease with which this woman now chats to Nan. But as she passes the watercolours that line the corridor, she feels trapped inside her coat. She takes it off, but she doesn’t feel any better as she follows Nan down the corridor, fitting her own feet into footsteps Nan leaves behind. Not that she says anything. She can’t. She just allows herself to be swept along by it all. She plays her part.

‘Here we are,’ the carer says, guiding Nan towards two armchairs by the window, then she mouths to Chloe, ‘I’ll just go and get the cake.’

Nan sits in the chair and turns to Chloe.

‘Oh, hello, dear, do you live here too? I’m just visiting.’

A few moments later, three carers come into the room holding a cake and singing ‘Happy Birthday’. A few other residents start miming the words too – a familiar song embedded in their brain that dementia can’t steal.