For a moment he saw not irritation but embarrassment.
He softened his voice.
“It’s an old kettle. I’ll replace it.”
She folded the tea towel.
“There’s nothing wrong with it.”
“The switch isn’t working properly.”
“Then repair it.”
“I’d rather buy a new one.”
“Of course you would.”
The disagreement lasted until lunch.
Jack replaced the kettle the next morning.
May refused to use it for three days.
By the following spring, Jack had begun keeping a list.
He did not tell May.
The list was written in a small notebook he kept in the drawer beside his bed, beneath a torch and a packet of spare batteries.
He recorded dates, incidents, and anything else that seemed unusual.
March 12: Asked three times when Helen was visiting.
March 19: Couldn’t remember new neighbour’s name.
April 3: Left shopping in car overnight.
April 17: Confused Tuesday with Friday.
May 2: Forgot recipe for Victoria sponge.
The last entry troubled him more than the others.
May had made Victoria sponge cakes since she was a teenager. She could prepare one without measuring the ingredients, though she disapproved of people who claimed baking was an art rather than a matter of correct proportions.
On the afternoon in question, Jack found her standing at the kitchen counter staring into a mixing bowl.
There was flour on the worktop.
Two eggs lay beside an unopened packet of butter.
“Everything all right?”
She nodded.
“Yes.”
He waited.
She picked up the wooden spoon, then put it down again.
“How much sugar?”
“For what?”
“The cake.”
Jack looked at the ingredients.
“I’m not sure.”
May gave a short laugh.
“Neither am I.”
She opened the cupboard where her cookbooks were kept, removed the battered blue notebook containing recipes written by her mother, and turned its pages.
Her hands moved quickly at first.
Then more slowly.
Jack watched her expression change.
“May?”
She closed the book.
“I’ve made this cake hundreds of times.”
“I know.”
“I can’t remember how.”
He approached the counter.
“Let’s look it up.”
She shook her head.
“That’s not the point.”
He stood beside her.
The kitchen window was open, and he could hear a lawn mower somewhere beyond the garden wall.
May looked down at the bowl.
“I don’t like this.”
Jack placed a hand on her back.
“Neither do I.”
It was the first time she had acknowledged that something might be wrong.
Helen persuaded them to make an appointment with their GP.
May objected.
“I’m seventy-seven. People forget things at seventy-seven.”
“Yes,” Helen said. “But it’s worth getting checked.”
“Your father has been keeping notes.”
Jack looked up sharply.
He had not told her about the notebook.
May turned toward him.
“Don’t look so surprised. You left the drawer open.”
Helen looked between them.
“Dad?”
Jack sighed.
“I’ve written down a few things.”
May’s expression hardened.
“Apparently I’ve become an engineering problem.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I was trying to understand what was happening.”
“Without asking me.”
Jack opened his mouth, then closed it.
She was right about that.
He had treated her changing behaviour as something to investigate rather than something they were experiencing together.
Helen pulled out a chair.
“Mum, we’re all worried.”
May sat down heavily.
“I know.”
Her voice had become quieter.
“I am too.”
The appointment led to further assessments.
There were questions about memory, attention, daily activities, and changes in behaviour. Blood tests were arranged to look for conditions that might contribute to the symptoms. May was referred to a specialist memory service.
The process took time.
Some days she performed well on the assessments and returned home declaring that everybody had been making a fuss over nothing.
On other days, she struggled with tasks that would once have been simple.
Jack tried to remain encouraging without being patronising
He did not always succeed.
Once, when May became frustrated during a memory exercise, he supplied an answer before she had finished thinking.
She turned on him.
“Will you stop doing that?”
“I was helping.”
“You were answering for me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I can still speak, Jack.”
“I know.”
“Then let me.”
He withdrew his hand from the table.
Afterwards, in the car park, he apologised again.
May stood beside the passenger door, looking tired.
“I know you’re worried,” she said.
“I am.”
“So am I. But every time you jump in, I feel as though I’ve already failed.”
Jack looked at her.
“I hadn’t thought of it like that.”
“Well, perhaps you should.”
She opened the car door.
He stood outside for a moment before getting in.
There were many things he would have to learn.
Listening without correcting was among the first.
The diagnosis came on a wet Tuesday in September.
The consultant was a woman in her fifties who spoke clearly and did not fill silences unnecessarily. She explained that the assessments and clinical findings were consistent with Alzheimer’s disease, a condition that would affect memory and other aspects of thinking and functioning over time.
She was careful not to offer a precise timetable.
People progressed differently.
Treatment and support might help manage symptoms and preserve quality of life, but there was no cure.
May sat upright beside Jack.
She asked practical questions.
Would she be able to keep driving?
Could she continue cooking?
Would she recognise her grandchildren?
The consultant answered honestly, distinguishing what was known from what could not be predicted.
Jack listened and took notes.
When May asked whether she would eventually forget him, his pen stopped moving.
The consultant paused.
“Some people with Alzheimer’s have increasing difficulty recognising familiar people as the condition progresses. But not everyone experiences that in the same way, and we can’t predict precisely what will happen for you.”
