Page 4 of The Stranger in Her House

Come rain or shine, umbrella or shorts, nothing stops me from lacing up my hiking boots for my daily walk. I’m slathered in sun cream – factor 50, after that scare with the mole on my arm – and I’m wearing my eldest daughter’s baseball cap to protect my head from the sun.

The end of my hike is in sight and I’m walking the riverbank route back towards the village when I spot Connie leaving the Village Hopper at the bottom of the hill. That minibus is a lifesaver, travelling from village to village, dropping people off at libraries, supermarkets or in Buckingham town centre. I count six bags of shopping in Connie’s hands and they’re dragging close to the ground. I cross the road and offer to share the load.

‘Oh, thanks Zainab,’ she says gratefully as I take three. I steal a quick glance inside. They’re crammed with inexpensive, own-brand tins of soup, vegetables, beans and fruits.

‘It’s a cheaper workout than joining a gym,’ I joke as we begin our ascent up the steep hill. As much as I enjoy my walks, my knees start to ache by the time I reach this bit. ‘Have you tried onlinedeliveries?’ I ask. ‘We started using them during the last lockdown and I’ve yet to return to a supermarket.’

‘The places we shop don’t deliver,’ Connie replies, and I realise the insensitivity of my question. She can’t afford Sainsbury’s. ‘And my car is back in Italy,’ she continues. ‘So until I get the chance to return and drive it back here, it’s public transport for me.’

‘How long has it been now since you moved here?’

She thinks for a moment. ‘Well, Mum and Dad came here sixteen months ago, then Dad died two months later, and I returned to England soon after that.’

‘It was a terrible shame,’ I tell her. ‘I only met your dad a handful of times, when they joined the bowling club, but I remember how funny he was. And you could tell, even after all their years together, he and your mum were still besotted with each other.’

‘They were very lucky.’

I quietly recall the first time I met Gwen and how, a few minutes into our conversation, I knew that there was something about her that looked a little bit – well, I’m not sure how to describe it –uncertain, perhaps? Like she was trying to mask an anxiousness. It reminded me of an aunty I had back home. Like Gwen, her expression sometimes froze mid-conversation and you couldn’t be sure if she was disinterested or deep in thought. They didn’t have the experts or the diagnoses we have today and so doctors dismissed it as ‘the brain sickness’. It was only after Bill died that I learned Gwen had vascular dementia and Alzheimer’s. I only see her now when Connie walks her to church on Sunday mornings.

‘Do you still need me to sit with her on Friday afternoon?’ I ask.

‘If you don’t mind,’ Connie says. ‘I shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours. I have a few loose ends to tie up work-wise.’

‘You must miss living in Italy.’

‘Oh I do,’ she replies. ‘Good food, good weather, good friends.’

‘Where were you living?’

‘The Amalfi Coast. Do you know it?’

‘I’ve only been to southern Italy once, a long time ago. What line of work were you in again? I want to say something to do with weddings?’

‘Yes, I was a wedding planner.’ Her brown eyes light up as if, by mentioning it, she has been transported back there. ‘My clients were British couples who wanted the Italian wedding experience but weren’t sure where or how to go about organising it. I’d give them a list of suggested locations, I’d FaceTime them from each place on their shortlist or send them videos, and once they made their decision, I’d do everything from applying for the right licences to booking hotels and villas.’

‘And you gave it all up for your mum.’

‘At least for the time being, anyway. I’ve handed most of my clients over to other planners I know over there, but there were a few soon-to-be-wed couples I couldn’t find a replacement for and I can’t let them down. So I’ll have to spend a few more weeks there later in the summer.’

‘And is there a young man waiting for you over there? Or a young woman? Sorry, I never know what I can or can’t ask these days.’

‘It’s fine, and no, there’s neither. Just me.’

‘Do you think you’ll eventually go back and live there full-time again?’

‘You mean after Mum dies?’

‘Oh no, I didn’t mean ...’ My voice fades because that’s exactly what I meant. I must engage my brain before I open my mouth to speak.

‘It’s okay,’ Connie says. ‘I’ve sublet my apartment, so we’ll see what happens. Everything feels a bit up in the air at the moment.’

My arms are growing weary so I throw my shoulders back. ‘And how is Gwen doing?’

‘So-so. Lately I’ve found myself having the same conversations with her time and time again. But at least it means we never run out of things to say.’

I feel sorry for Connie. It’s no life for a woman of her age. It must get lonely spending all her time cooped up with Gwen.

‘To be honest,’ I say, ‘I didn’t even know she had a daughter until you moved here.’

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