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‘Not at all! I have no problems with my memory whatsoever!’ ‘Mr McDonald, it’s really a very common aspect of ageing.’ ‘Well, not mine! I have no problems with my memory whatsoever!’ Alex repeated angrily. ‘And if anyone’s been telling you otherwise they’re a damn liar!’ He cast an angry, suspicious look at Robert, who, taken aback, started to protest.

‘That’s fine, then, that’s fine,’ said Dr Alvarez, closing the file on his desk and tapping it decisively, so that Alex’s attention was drawn back to him. ‘Thank you so much for this chat, Mr McDonald, and now I think Margaret Appleby, who you met earlier, is ready to talk to you. But perhaps we can get you both a cup of something first?’

Alex conceded a little stiffly that that would be nice. Leaving his father in a small sitting room, Robert grabbed his mobile phone and stepped outside to call Vesna, but only reached her voicemail. Even hearing her recorded voice made him feel more settled. He left a brief message and returned to the sitting room, where his father was now chatting cheerfully with an attractive young woman in a blue uniform. Margaret Appleby was there, too, and the whole atmosphere seemed perfectly convivial.
This’ll be fine after all
, Robert told himself, assuming a hearty smile as he entered the room.

‘Let’s move along to my office then, shall we?’ Margaret Appleby suggested when they finished their tea. Robert recognised the words and tone he had used himself ten thousand times: it was the jolly inclusiveness of institutional authority, and it made his heart sink. He cried with a great show of cheerfulness, ‘Yes, let’s! Dad? Ready?’, picked up his briefcase and jumped to his feet.
Oh, this is all such fun
, he told himself disgustedly,
checking out whether the old man’s really losing it!
and that scathing unvoiced thought made him thankful that he’d had the good sense to stick with primary school teaching. There
was no way he could cope with the cynicism and sarcasm of adolescent students; his own inner commentary was bad enough.
Best to know your own limitations, really, before others point them out to you.

Margaret Appleby explained the four or five short tests she would give Alex to help her get an indication of, variously, his short- and long-term memory function and cognitive ability. As she said ‘memory function’ in her brisk voice, Robert flinched, sure that his father would arc up again, but Alex merely nodded politely as he listened. First, Mrs Appleby said, she was going to say five words and ask Alex to repeat them, and then to tell her those same five words when they had finished the other tests. These would involve a little mental arithmetic, the arranging and duplicating of geometric patterns, and recall-testing using a number of objects.

‘Now then. Are you ready for that list of words, Mr McDonald?’

‘Ready when you are, Margaret,’ Alex replied with a winning smile.

‘Right then. I’d like you to repeat the five words when I’ve finished saying them, then tell them to me again at the end of our session. Here they are: chicken… boy… cricket… motor-car… shoe.’

Robert told himself a quick story as she said the words: a chicken fluttered up to a boy playing cricket. As he chased it off the pitch a motor-car drove past and someone threw a shoe out of it.
That’ll do
, he thought.

‘Could you repeat those words to me now, Mr McDonald?’

‘Chicken… cricket… motor-car,’ said Alex. ‘Wait, there’s one more. Chicken, cricket, motor-car… No, I can’t get it. Sorry.’

‘That’s fine, Mr McDonald,’ said Mrs Appleby smoothly. ‘We’ll move on to the next one then, shall we?’

She asked Alex to count backward in sevens from one hundred, which he managed quite well, Robert thought, down to the sixties, and then he seemed to lose track and was subtracting by various inconsistent numbers, tailing out in the thirties. He looked at her enquiringly, and she smiled brightly back.

‘Doing well, Mr McDonald. Any more?’

‘No, no, I don’t think so,’ Alex said. Robert felt like his own brain had stalled too. His father had been an engineer, calculating numbers and equations day in, day out, long before there were calculators to do the donkey work.
I was good at arithmetic, but Dad could do long division in his head faster than I could do it on the page.

Mrs Appleby was now showing Alex a wooden tray on which sat an assortment of objects, twelve or fourteen perhaps in all. Alex had two minutes to memorise as many as he could, then she would cover them with a cloth and he was to tell her those he remembered. Robert stared at the objects, too, feeling almost panicky. His father was gazing at the tray keenly but appeared quite untroubled.
Candle… scissors… pencil… little sieve thing, what do you call that? Tea-strainer, of course!… button, roll of film, rubber glove…
Robert started to memorise the objects in groups of four, connecting the objects in each group with a little story that gave him visual cues, but before he had finished, the two minutes were up and the tray was covered again.

Robert recalled ten of the objects, his father five. Robert felt sweat breaking out under his arms and a familiar tight sensation across his chest.
Where’s my briefcase?
he thought wildly.
Did I lock the car? Slow down, slow down.
He took several soft, deep breaths and consciously unclenched his hands, relaxed his throat and jaw.
It’s all right. It’s all right.

Alex had pulled his chair right up to the desk to copy a simple geometric diagram. He looked like he was enjoying himself; it was, after all, the sort of thing he could once have done in his sleep. Although Robert forced himself not to crane forward in his chair, still he could see that the diagram his father was drawing in the blank section of the sheet was a very imperfect copy of the one printed beside it.

‘There we are!’ said Alex, sounding perfectly satisfied, even triumphant.
He can’t see that it’s a mess
, thought Robert.

While Alex tackled the next test, arranging component shapes within a diagram, Robert silently hummed to himself every violin
piece his daughters had ever learnt, starting with ‘Twinkle twinkle little star’. Finally it was over – but not quite.

‘Last thing, Mr McDonald. Do you remember that when we first came in here I read you a list of five words, and asked if you would repeat them for me at the end of our little get-together?’

Instantly the image of the chicken on the cricket pitch rose in Robert’s mind, the boy chasing it, the car driving by, a shoe sailing from the window. Alex looked completely blank.

‘A list of words, five words. You repeated them to me before we began doing the other tests, and you were going to repeat them again.’

‘I do beg your pardon,’ Alex said charmingly. ‘It must’ve slipped my mind. But I don’t think we’ve got time for that now, I’m afraid, Robert needs to get me home. I’ve got a lot of things to attend to.’

‘Of course,’ Mrs Appleby said. ‘I’ll just get Maureen to give you a glass of water before you go.’ The attractive young woman in the blue uniform re-appeared and, taking Alex’s arm as though he were her partner for the next dance, engaged him in chat as she led him from the room. Robert made to follow but Margaret Appleby laid a restraining hand on his arm.

‘A moment, please,’ she said, and led him back to the desk. ‘Dr Alvarez will be sending the results of this assessment and a written report to your father’s GP. But I can tell you now that your father’s dementia is presently in the range of mild to moderate, and will almost inevitably become more severe, though at what rate it’s impossible to predict.’

‘Dementia?’ Robert repeated blankly.

‘I’m afraid so, yes. What concerns me most immediately is the impairment to his spatial perception. Does he drive a car?’

‘Yes.’

‘Often?’

‘Oh, I’m not… No, not all that often, I don’t think.’

‘Well, he shouldn’t. I’ll be writing to his doctor about this, too,
recommending that his licence be suspended pending a driving test, which I can tell you now he will fail. In the meantime, please discourage him from driving.’

Robert gazed at her capable, efficient face. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say. His briefcase suddenly felt very heavy; he swung it up to his chest and clutched it in both arms.

Margaret Appleby smiled a conclusive goodbye smile. ‘Thank you, Mr McDonald. Can you and your father find your own way out?’

PART TWO

CHAPTER 7

In Deborah’s opinion Silver had taken one hell of a risk, having an outdoor party in September. Melbourne’s notoriously unpredictable weather was never more so than in spring; many a public event or private function had been ruined by lashing rain and freezing winds roaring in suddenly off Bass Strait. But no, Silver’s fiftieth birthday party turned out to be the warmest September day on record. A cool change was due to blow in the next day, but this was a Saturday night for high heels and party dresses, short sleeves and the giddy illusion that the long grey winter was finally over.

Deborah, Angus and Olivia came early to help with anything lastminute, but it all appeared to be well in hand.

‘Jeez, guys,’ said Angus, looking around with admiration after James and Silver had welcomed them. ‘The place looks like a million dollars!’

‘Angus,’ said Deborah drily, ‘that’s because this place
is
a million dollars. Closer to two, wouldn’t it be, Jaf?’

‘’Bout that,’ agreed her brother amiably. ‘It does look fantastic though, doesn’t it? Silver hired these installation artists from South
Gippsland. They brought down a truckload of stuff and put it all together here.’

‘It’s pretty wild,’ said Olivia, checking out the neon stick figures just starting to glow as the daylight dimmed, the towering floral displays, the pretty lights twined through the trees and shrubbery. Garden seats were embraced by papier-mâché dragons and other fanciful beasts, and there was a bar done up like a pirate’s treasure cave.

‘Understatement,’ said Silver proudly as she surveyed the scene. ‘It’s a gift.’ Deborah and Angus laughed.

‘I tell you what’s a gift, Silver,’ said Angus. ‘An American with an ironic sense of humour. And especially, having one in the family.’

‘And happy birthday, congratulations and all that,’ added Deborah, kissing her. ‘It feels weird not to be giving you a present.’

‘No, no presents! It’s a condition of attendance at this party.’

‘Well, you’re going to have to chuck me out then,’ said Olivia, hauling a wrapped rectangular parcel out of her bag and handing it to her aunt. ‘Because I went ahead and got you one anyway.’

‘Olivia!’ said Deborah, startled.

‘For you, my wicked niece, I will make an exception,’ said Silver, unwrapping the parcel. It was a book of dog photographs.

‘Why am I not surprised?’ murmured Deb.

‘Wonderful! I will treasure this. But don’t tell anyone.’ Silver made kissy-kissy mouths at her and Olivia smiled.

People started arriving, and in droves; the hot day had put all of Melbourne in the mood for a party, and at least half of Melbourne, it seemed, had been invited to this one. Many guests had a connection to the visual arts, whether making it, selling it, buying it, framing it or writing about it, but plenty of others were simply people Silver had met somewhere, somehow, and liked, and who liked her.

‘She’s incredibly popular, isn’t she?’ Deborah commented to Angus when they found themselves standing together at one point, after a hectic couple of hours. ‘I mean,
genuinely
popular.’

‘Yep. It ain’t just her dough, you know.’

‘And it’s not her looks either,’ said Deborah. She’d had quite a few drinks already.

‘Probably not,’ agreed Angus cautiously. They observed Silver as she stood amid a cluster of animated people all laughing and talking.
She really is plain
, thought Deb.
But somehow you just don’t notice that. Not usually.
Silver was a woman with a generous build; she liked her food and her wine and her figure showed it. She was inclined to be lumpy.
Barge-woman’s arms
, thought Deb, remembering a disparaging expression she’d once heard Auntie Joan use. Silver’s dirty-blonde hair was inclined to be fly-away, too, and her features were rather… coarse. But none of this seemed to bother her, and it didn’t seem to bother her remarkably handsome husband either.

‘You know what?’ said Deborah suddenly. ‘I’ve never heard James say a harsh word about Silver. Or to her.’

‘Ye-es,’ Angus said, even more cautiously. ‘And what do you make of that?’

Deborah shrugged. ‘That they’re very lucky, I guess.’

‘I guess so. I wish I was that lucky,’ he added, addressing the night air. Deborah swung around and gave him a suspicious look.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she asked.

‘Whatever,’ said Angus. ‘What’s Ollie doing?’

‘Helping the caterers, last I saw,’ said Deborah, moving off. ‘I’m going to get another drink and mingle some more.’

Olivia enjoyed taking the platters of food around; it gave her something to do, and the caterers were pleased to have the extra help. But she was relieved to see Laurence arrive, finally, with Auntie Meredith.

‘Hey, Ol,’ he said, coming over to her immediately. He took some gourmet morsel from the platter she was holding and chucked it in his mouth, then another two in quick succession. ‘Yum! I think that whole plate’s got my name on it, waddaya reckon?’

‘Looks like it to me. Let’s take it over there,’ Olivia said, indicating
an unoccupied swing seat in a quiet spot. ‘I’m sick of standing up.’

Laurence steadily worked his way through the array of delicious titbits, finally declaring, ‘Not bad for starters!’ as he put the empty platter aside.

‘Healthy teenage appetite,’ commented Olivia.

‘Hasn’t it hit you yet? The take-no-prisoners food thing?’ asked her cousin. She shook her head. ‘You wait. In another year or so you’ll be scarfing it down in your sleep.’

‘So when are you gonna slow up?’

‘Who knows? Mum keeps saying “Any minute now”. Could be just wishful thinking on her part though.’