You should know, too, that Daddy’s been the victim of several scams over the last few years. Before we knew he was ill, he had handed out his password to computer scammers. Twice! Next thing, he paid someone upfront to come fix the roof – ridiculous amounts, you wouldn’t believe – but they took the money and never came back. Not surprisingly.
We’ve got control of his accounts now but there isn’t much left in the pot, and the rest of it is tied up in trusts for us when he dies. Unless we have a miracle or win the lottery we’ll have to sell The Hall just to pay for proper care – and it won’t bring much given the state of disrepair it’s in.
So now you know. It’s a terrible state of affairs and we’re totally lost as to what to do.
Daddy gets worse at night, so you need to make sure all the doors are locked or he’ll get out.
Oh, and keep him away from the new neighbour, Jacob Taylor. He seems very shifty and we think he might be hatching some kind of scam. Daddy is a prime target for that kind of thing as we know.
Don’t do anything silly. Please.
Tamara and Tilda
Brilliant. Just brilliant. A weight settled on Emily’s chest, thick and dark and bordering on the panic she’d felt earlier. The neighbour is a scammer. The house is falling down and The Judge is a liability.
Great. Just great.
After ordering a restorative pot of tea, and finding The Judge a pencil for the cryptic crossword, she took a deep breath that wasn’t anywhere near as helpful as she’d hoped… and replied:
What’s his routine? What do I actually need to do for him?
How much are the roof repairs going to be?
Is there really nothing we can do?
Sell some of the land off? We do have a lot and we don’t need it.
Have you actually asked for professional advice either for the roof or for The Judge?
What about a nursing agency?
Couldn’t we get daily help?
A sleepover companion?
Security?
How’s Sylvie?
HELP!
She crossed the last word off. She didn’t need their help, just some answers. Plus, she was starting to rue ever finding the damned Wi-Fi in this village. There was a lot to be said for living in the Dark Ages; blissful ignorance for one.
She asked Tom to pop over and buy a vanilla slice for herself and wondered about Face Timing Brett, but decided to do it when she didn’t have an audience.
Another incoming… a surprisingly quick reply from Tam and Tilda:
Just sit with him, basically, and tell him what to do and when. His tablets are in a box marked with the days of the week, kept in a cupboard above the fridge in the kitchen.
Can’t afford to pay for daily help, sleepover companions or long-term nursing care. The roof repairs were estimated at almost a hundred thousand. There’s no money.
We could sell some land – good idea. But not to just anyone, and not to that Jacob Taylor.
Sylvie is going in today. She’s quite worried, as is Tilda. I’m fine, of course, holding everyone together as usual.
Will be in touch.
T
Emily glanced over at The Judge who was staring through her, the tip of his pencil in his mouth, completely lost in his own world. When he sensed her watching him his thick eyebrows rose and he gave her a gentle smile that was at odds with the way she was feeling. She was stuck here trying to deal with the fallout from years of neglect on the heels of years of arguments. She couldn’t remember a time when he’d ever smiled at her, when she’d ever appeared to generate in him any kind of fatherly pride or pleasure. But now he didn’t know who she was, he seemed to quite like her. Go figure.
But, maybe it was better if he didn’t remember who she was. Remembering what they’d said to each other would probably just upset him all the more.
And just sit with him? It didn’t make sense. Surely he needed to be stimulated, as Mr Taylor had said? She made a note to look into that and make a call to the local GP. She hoped old Dr Shepherd had left, because she had a few bad memories that lingered there, too.
Funny how none of her youth had mattered at all for the last however many years; she’d put the whole bad teenage behaviour thing behind her and moved on. Until now. Every time she walked past a house or a shop here she expected someone to haul her in and tell her off.
As they meandered back to The Hall, carrying shopping bags loaded with fresh vegetables and chicken for a healthy home-made soup, Emily’s panic began to abate. She would Skype Brett. She would call a realtor… what did they call them here? Estate agent, yes… and get a valuation of The Hall. She could do a lot of her work offline from there, too, and then wander down to the café for email updates. Most of her clients need never know she was even out of the country. She had a little money set aside, she could use some of it to sticky-tape this whole disaster together until the girls came back.
It’d be fine. She’d sort it all out. Wave her magic wand or something.
Although, with him hobbling beside her, muttering about that missing dog again, her magic touch suddenly felt a little underqualified.
But, she had a plan. That was a start. Wasn’t it?
They’d just about reached the Duxbury Hall driveway when a dark car drove by and turned into Jacob Taylor’s driveway. The Judge raised his stick and waved.
‘What do you know about Jacob Taylor?’ she asked him, dropping the shopping bags and letting the blood flow back into her fingers as she craned her neck to peer into the back of the car. But she saw absolutely nothing but glass. ‘Who is he? What does he do?’
‘What does who do?’
‘Jacob Taylor?’ The scammer. Her heart began to thud. She’d need to keep an eye on him.
‘Who?’ The Judge couldn’t even remember two seconds ago.
‘Never mind.’ She hauled the bags up again and made towards The Hall. ‘I’ll work it all out for myself.’
Just like she always had.
***
‘Shoot! No. No! Not again! Why is this so bloody hard?’ Working things out for herself was proving more difficult than she’d thought it would be.
It was Wednesday morning and Emily was fixing a breakfast of pancakes, berries and natural yoghurt. At least, that had been the plan. What she hadn’t accounted for was the batter sticking to the bottom of the pan and burning, not once, not twice, but three times.
Pancakes had seemed like an excellent idea when she’d absentmindedly picked up the ingredients, her mind on so many other things, but now she was down to the last dribble of lumpy goo and her head was starting to throb. Mainly, she assumed, because she’d