Page 74 of Forever, Maybe
The corkboards that once cluttered the walls, covered in photos, invites, flyers and gig tickets, had vanished. “Thank you, God,” she muttered under her breath.
Downstairs, her dad moved about, his footsteps creaking across the old floorboards. Her mum had gone to bed an hour earlier, and Nell had seized the opportunity to retreat to her room, claiming exhaustion.
She’d been here a few weeks now, and it had been full on. There was no longer any doubt about her mother’s condition—it was unmistakable when you were around her day in, day out. The muddled words, the vacant stares, the growing confusion over even the simplest tasks—it was all there, laid bare. So much of the time, she looked lost in her own home.
She traced her finger down the list of Hardys in the phone book. The list was shorter than it would have been years ago—so many people had ditched landlines or opted to go unlisted—but she was counting on the Hardy seniors, like her parents, to still cling to old habits.
There were twenty Hardys in total, not surprising given how common the surname was, and three had the initialR.She’d spent the last two days racking her brain, trying to recall Hardy senior’s first name. It had finally come to her over dinner with her parents a few hours ago.
Reginald.Reggie to his mates.
That left her with three possibilities. What now? Should she call them all, rule out the two who weren’t Reggies, and dive straight into the truth with the one who was?
No. She dismissed the idea immediately. This wasn’t the kind of news you dropped over the phone. It required tact, warmth—ideally a large glass of wine within reach. Face-to-face was the only way.
She glanced at the clock. Ten o’clock. Too late to call anyone. But the thought wouldn’t leave her. That same fire she’d felt at the party reignited, the sense that the Hardys shouldn’t go to their graves without knowing the truth.
Nell closed the phone book, her resolve hardening. The first call went unanswered, but the answer machine message offered all the information she needed, delivered in an overly formal tone:“Robert and I are currently unable to take your call. Please leave a message, and we will return it as soon as we are available.”
No Reggie there.
Nell moved on to the second number. The phone rang twice before a querulous voice answered. “Hello?”
“Sorry to bother you so late,” Nell began, keeping her tone as polite as possible. “I’m looking for Reginald Hardy. Reggie?”
“Who wants him?” The voice, suddenly sharper, snapped back.
Caught off guard, Nell froze. Her pulse quickened. “Uh—”
She hung up.
Cowardly? Maybe. But it didn’t matter now. She had what she needed. That number in the phone book came with an address. Tomorrow, she’d go there. No phone call could substitute for a face-to-face conversation, no matter how daunting it felt.
Nell placed the receiver back in its cradle, her heart pounding. Tomorrow, then.
The Hardys’ address led Nell to a small, weatherworn cottage on the outskirts of Cromer. Earlier that morning, she’d accompanied her mum to the GP, where a harried doctor—about Nell’s age, with an air of being stretched thin enough to snap any moment now—had assessed Cate. It was clear the woman knew little, if anything, about her mum’s history.
Dementia, the doctor explained, was not a straightforward thing to diagnose. Blood and urine tests were booked to rule out conditions like depression, infections and vitamin deficiencies. If those came back clear, the next step would be a referral to the memory clinic at the nearest hospital.
Nell parked her parents’ car a few doors away from the Hardys’ house. She’d told Bobby she fancied a trip to Cromer to see the sea, maybe even do some sketching. Naturally, she made no mention of her plan to knock on the Hardys’ door.
A battered red Fiat Punto sat in the cottage’s driveway, its passenger side crumpled. The sight of it made her throat tighten. Reggie’s sleek black Audi TT flashed into her mind—how he’d spent every Sunday morning lovingly polishing it until it gleamed. The memory felt like a cruel twist of fate, an unwanted reminder of how far their world had shifted.
Her hands trembled as she dropped the car keys into her handbag, inhaling deeply to steady herself. Out loud, she rehearsed the words she’d gone over at least a hundred times.
“Reggie, Pamela… do you remember me? Cate and Bobby’s daughter. Me and your Darren were close friends…”
But beyond that, the script crumbled. No matter how many ways she tried to frame it, the next part was impossible to rehearse. The words were jagged, sharp and heavy with consequence.
She could already picture their faces—confusion turning to hurt, then anger.But why didn’t you tell us?she imagined them demanding.Why didn’t you ask us what WE wanted…?
She had two hours to return the car. Bobby wanted to meet an old friend, and Nell, knowing how much he needed the break, couldn’t let him down. She’d have to drive him there. But first, she needed to force herself out of the car, walk past the bashed Fiat Punto, raise her hand and knock.
Rat-a-tat-tat.
She took deep, measured breaths, trying to quell the fluttering inside. A second car pulled up, and a woman stepped out, heading straight for the Hardys’ front door. Nell turned quickly, staring down the street, instinctively ducking when she recognised her.
Patsy Hardy—the eldest child. Yes, that was her name. Short for Patricia. Patsy was ten years older than Nell, seven years older than her brother. She must be nearing fifty-two or three now, though time had not been kind. Her hair was iron-grey, her shoulders hunched inward, her movements stiff and weary. Bobby had once remarked on how ancient the Hardys looked when he and Cate bumped into them in Ikea. Family tragedy had a way of carving itself into a person’s appearance.
