This story references Dementia - its effect on the sufferer and the carer. Hints of violence might be upsetting.

A Recipe for Survival

They’d been to the market that morning, bought wonderful cheeses just in from France, an organic chicken nearly twice the weight of those in the supermarket in Singapore.  Their dog had been tossed a chunk of prime beef – she made a beeline to the butchers on market day, and to the fishmonger’s who fed her gently with home smoked salmon. She sat like a lady, accepted it daintily then danced to the delight of them all.  Slim and beautiful, she was a rescue, a refugee from wild and unforgiving hunting lands, where any disability or failure to perform might lead to death; would certainly lead to rejection. The kindness of strangers had saved her.  That and her sweetness and beauty.  Now here she was in a colder, more northerly, climate, and they worked daily to ease out the kinks of past unkindnesses.  Gradually the wild was being reined in, and what was left was sleek and calm.

They wondered if she mirrored their own experience in some way.  Years, decades, in Asia had left them susceptible to the cold now too.  And perhaps they too were refugees of sorts. Yes, of course they were. They weren't the victims of war or violence - just luck really. The dog was the same. Born to be a hunter, she couldn't hunt. So the scrap heap. Their own golden world of warmth and smiles and comfort, exciting, fulfilling, full, had just blurred gradually, disconcertingly, shaking and fading into darkness until suddenly torpedoed... by a diagnosis. Continuing was too dangerous. Other people's trust depended on his clarity, his clear recipes for financial growth. Lack of clarity would be a recipe for disaster. So, bags had been packed, lives into packing cases, and off they had flown to where his disability was known and could be treated. No recipe for healing, no hope of that, but a recipe for slowing, holding back the inevitable, and medicines administered with calm efficiency. And they worked daily on that challenge too, looking to ease out the kinks of life’s future, and final unkindness, the loss of self.

They had their own recipe, one for survival:

·      One dog - for love and exercise

·      One garden - for beauty and exercise

·      One kitchen – for experimenting, enjoying and indulging

They had come about as far North as the land would let them and were both surprised and deeply grateful for the pleasure the land and the people gave them.  They were surprised and grateful too for the pleasure they derived from the produce of the land and its people and the preparation of that food each day and, in particular, the feasts they put together in their kitchen and washed down with good red wine.

Each night they dreamed up another recipe. A recipe for survival in an increasingly cold and baffling world. And then one night it all caught up with them.

It was late.  

“Salmon in wild garlic pesto…”   He shouted up the stairs.

“Fine”

What to put in the salad though? He riffled through the crisper drawer. Made a selection and turned back to the task at hand.

Low, brilliant light flooded in through the window, making it almost impossible to see and his eyes narrowed as he chopped.  It stayed light so late in this country. Particularly this far north. His thoughts flashed back to Asia. Dark by six in winter, seven in summer, and dinner on the table by eight.  Served by smiling, gentle women who called him Master.  He gave a smile, only a little acidic. He could remember all that so well.  But the daily, the immediate?  His hands clenched on the garlic press and a fragrant clot fell on to the counter.  He started, brought himself back to the present.  Looked around. 

No gentle smiling women here now.  Colder climes, colder relationships. Dinner served up closer to Midnight these days.

Dinner, that’s it.  Salmon … done … salad…. 

Hair tied back- not really long enough yet for a pony tail so pinned as well as tied -his movements were irritable, hesitant. That’s what he was, these days; irritable and terribly hesitant. A long way from the man the financial press had so loved; besuited then of course, and active, even on the page, caught on film, his eyes wide in anticipation and frank enjoyment of the deal. Still the same man surely? Despite pandemics, illness, the gradual eating away of his mind?

Was he?  

Was she?

Upstairs, she sat alone, fingers summoning the bank on the computer. Her eyes wide, searching, as the page swam into sight and sharpened into focus.  Her hair was longer now too, quite white and wilder than in the sleek, creative publicity shots where she had posed, fingers pulling down designs from the ether then not numbers. She had felt sleek then, calm, poised.  Now?  She recognised the wild in herself, feared it.  She flicked her hair aside impatiently and stared at the screen, found the payment, laughed in relief, clicked on print, closed down the screen and went down to join him in the kitchen.

He looked up, startled.  Hadn’t heard her coming. 

“Almost ready?”

“Mmmm.”

“Payments in.  Finally.  I can breathe again.” 

She laughed.  Put her arms around his waist. Turned and poured herself a glass of wine. 

The dog came over for a pat and a sniff and the possibility of dividends.

“Fuss about nothing – there’s plenty there.”

He shrugged and turned back to add salt to the dressing.

Silence.

There hadn’t been. They were living on diminishing resources now and the responsibility for managing and balancing them was hers. And suddenly the numbers and reminders and the starting awake at night in the fear of an empty account and an overload of commitments had her choking on her wine. His mind no longer acknowledged such things.  Hers, spared them by him for so long, had made them into monsters. 

Great, 

greedy, 

bloody 

monsters.

She stared at his back.

Taking up a knife, she cut down quickly, rapidly, till her hands were dripping, red.

The dog whined. Once. Then whined again.

Time stopped.

And then 

she closed her eyes,

breathed in slowly, 

reined in the wild, 

regained the sleek, the calm ... the kind.

She looked down at the fruit she had mangled on the board. Tossed the dog a treat.

“Dragon fruit to follow the salmon, Darling?

Cheers!”