Libby bent down next to Frank’s chair so her face was level with his. “I’m so sorry, Frank. You said something about a funny smell before you hung up, but I didn’t think anything of it. I should have come straight up here.”
Frank didn’t respond. His eyes had gone back to the silent TV screen, on which a lion was stalking a pack of gazelles.
“The doctor gave him some strong painkillers earlier and they’ve knocked him out a bit,” Clara said.
“I feel terrible,” Libby said. “I should have come up and checked on him when he said Dylan wasn’t here.”
“It’s not your fault. I blame that bloody carer. It’s gross negligence, what he did; if he’s ill, he’s supposed to call the agency so they can send a replacement.”
“I think something has happened to Dylan,” Libby said, but Clara ignored her.
“I should have trusted my instinct. The first time I saw him, I knew he’d be trouble.”
“That’s not fair. I’m sure Dylan will have a good explanation for this.”
Frank must have heard Dylan’s name, because his head jerked again. “Where’s Dylan? Is he here?”
“No, Dad, Dylan didn’t come,” Clara shouted, and Libby saw him wince. “The agency are sending a new carer for you tomorrow morning.”
“But I need Dylan.” Frank’s voice was weak, and he reminded Libby of a small child.
“What happened with the care assessment?” Libby asked.
“I had to cancel it because we spent the whole morning inA and E getting his hand seen to,” Clara said. “We only got home half an hour ago.”
“What does that mean? Will they reschedule?”
Clara shook her head. “There’s no point. I don’t need a care assessment to tell me that Dad’s not safe to live here alone, especially now he can’t use one hand. I’m going to start looking for a care home for him ASAP.”
“Really?” Libby said in alarm, and Clara looked at her sharply. “I mean, your dad obviously had a bad morning today, but when Dylan’s here, he’s usually fine.”
Clara let out an impatient sigh. “I’m sorry, but who are you, again?”
“I’m a friend of your dad’s.”
“And how long have you known him?”
“A couple of months.”
“Right. And I’m his daughter, who’s known him for almost fifty-five years, so I think I can look after my father’s interests a little better than you can.”
“Of course you can. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. I just know how much he was hoping to retain his independence, at least for a little while longer.”
“Look, I’m aware Dad’s not exactly delighted at the idea of moving into a care home. But this house is too big for him and full of hazards: it’s not just the kitchen; he could easily trip and fall down the stairs or hurt himself getting out of the shower. And with the dementia, he’s going to need more and more specialist care.”
Libby looked down at Frank, huddled in his chair, cradling his bandaged arm. For the first time ever, he looked old and frail.
“He’ll get used to it soon enough,” Clara said, her voicesoftening. “And it will be good for him. He’s been far too lonely, shut up in this house and riding the bus on his own. At a care home he’ll be able to socialize with people his own age.”
Libby remembered what Frank had said to her, not long after they first met.If they put me in a care home, they might as well put me in a box and bury me.
“Would you mind sitting with Dad for five minutes while I make him some tea?” Clara said.
“Of course.”
Clara nodded at her and then walked out of the room. Libby turned to Frank and rested her hand on his arm.
“Frank, what a day you’ve had.”