The door to Gran’s bedroom was ajar. He swallowed, and took a deep breath as he pushed it open.
Gran was sitting on the edge of the bed.
‘Hello, darling,’ she said, smiling at him.
Jake looked round.
‘Is Verity still here?’
Gran shook her head.
Jake went over to her. He knelt in front of her and took her hands in his. He felt, with a shock, the fragility of her bones, the thinness of her hands and wrists.
‘Has Verity gone home, Gran?’
Gran looked straight at him.
‘She’s gone,’ she said, her face confused and her lip trembling.
Oh God, she’s going to cry!
‘It’s OK, Gran,’ he said gently. ‘I’m here now. We’ll manage. We’ll be OK. You’ll see.’ Awkwardly, he released one of his hands and started to stroke her arm.
‘I wish she was here,’ said Gran. ‘I want Verity.’
Jake closed his eyes. There was something so final about the way Gran had said, ‘She’s gone.’
They didn’t speak for a while, and then Jake said. ‘Did Verity say she’d come tomorrow?’
Gran shook her head impatiently and snatched her hand away.
‘You stupid boy! She’s gone!’ she yelled. Suddenly, Jake felt very alone.
Verity knows I’m angry with her. She knows I don’t want her here in my house. How can she see into my mind when she’s not even here, for God’s sake?
Was she only here when she felt welcomed – needed? And why was Gran so certain that Verity had gone – not just gone home but gone away, out of their lives?
‘She’s only at the end of the road, Gran,’ he said, ‘She’ll come and see us again.’ But even as he said it, he didn’t believe it.
Gran looked at him full in the face, her eyes less vague than he’d seen them for some time. Some of her old fire was there. ‘Stupid boy!’ she repeated.
Slowly, Jake got up from his knees and stood up.
‘Are you going to get ready for bed now, Gran?’
‘Eh?’
‘Are you going to bed?’
‘Mind your own business!’ she snapped.
Jake smiled, and walked out of the room.
Still a bit of fire left in her, then!
He went slowly downstairs and sat in the lounge, fighting a desire to break down and cry. He checked his phone and saw three messages from Tom.
His finger hesitated as he texted back; how could he explain? He sighed. He couldn’t. Even to his best mate, he couldn’t possibly explain. Carefully he composed a reply:
Thanks for not giving up on me.
Chapter Eight
Jake stayed up late that night. He heard Gran stomping around in her room and when the stomping stopped, he went up to check she was OK.
She was asleep on the top of her bed, still wearing all her clothes. Jake brought a duvet in from his parents’ room and gently laid it on top of her.
He started to make plans.
Ten more days before Dad came home. He’d have to duck out of school for the last few days of term. He couldn’t leave Gran on her own. And he couldn’t go to the footie course either. No chance.
For Mum’s sake, he must try and keep things together until Dad got back. He must try and make her think everything was OK.
He’d have to go and visit her on Saturday, as normal, then. Could he ask Irene to sit with Gran for a couple of hours while he went to the hospital by bus?
He texted Tom again before he headed for bed. Sorry, mate, no chance I can make the footie course. He hesitated, his finger still on the keypad, then added. Don’t ask.
He felt desperately tired, but he didn’t get to sleep for ages. He kept seeing those girls and the pony, freeze-framed in his mind’s eye, in that huge paddock lit by a pale winter sun that had no place in the here and now.
Who were they? What were they doing there? How had that paddock appeared and then disappeared?
Is it me? Am I going nuts?
And sleep, when it did come, was full of terrifying dreams. He was being chased by something menacing. He couldn’t see what it was, but he could hear it crashing behind him, coming nearer and nearer.
***
It was late when Jake woke the next morning, and he lay where he was for moment, dozing. He wasn’t going to school, so it didn’t matter.
He didn’t hear any movement in the house, but that didn’t necessarily mean that Gran wasn’t up and about doing something life-threatening with electricity.
Reluctantly, he heaved himself out of bed and went to check in her room. She was still asleep, still fully dressed, sleeping peacefully under the duvet.
He went down to the kitchen to make himself some breakfast. He checked his watch. Nine-thirty. School would have started by now.
He made himself some toast and ate it standing up, not caring that a blob of honey had landed on his T-shirt. He wandered to the front door and looked out on another warm summer’s day. He peered down the road, but he knew he wouldn’t see Verity.
He sighed. The first thing was to go and see Irene, swallow his pride and ask for her help. He knew Gran would hate Irene interfering, but what else could he do?
As he was gulping down a mugful of tea, he heard noises upstairs; the familiar thumping of Gran’s footsteps on the landing, shuffling towards the bathroom. He waited to hear the flush of the toilet, the sound of running taps, but there was nothing.
He stayed downstairs, thinking about what he would say to Irene.
‘I want to go and see Mum in hospital tomorrow. Please can you look after Gran while I’m out?’
She’d be all over him. He could just imagine what she’d say. ‘See, I knew things weren’t right. I knew she wasn’t herself. You can’t cope, can you, dear. Well, you don’t have to now. You leave everything to me, I’ll see to your gran.’ She’d fuss over him, fuss over Gran. And Gran would hate it. So would he.
He kept listening for movement overhead. When ten minutes had gone by, he started to worry and went upstairs.
Gran wasn’t in her room.
He tried the bathroom door, but it was locked.
‘Gran?’ he said. ‘Gran, are you OK?’
There was no reply. Jake rattled the door. Still no answer. He began to panic.
‘Gran!’ he shouted. ‘Gran, what’s wrong?’
She didn’t answer, but he heard a faint noise. There was a groan.
Oh God, what am I going to do if she’s collapsed on the floor and can’t get up?
‘GRAN!’
Again, a moan.
‘Gran. Please say something. What’s wrong?’
Silence.
Jake stood outside the bathroom door, frozen with indecision. Should he wait for her to come out? But she sounded bad. If he left her, she might get worse.
He rattled the door again and shouted as loudly as he could. ‘GRAN!!’
Nothing.
I must do something.
He bounded down the stairs and along the passage to the front door. He flung it open and raced down the path, through the gate, then in through Irene’s gate and up to her door.
He pounded on the door and pressed the bell at the same time.
Oh God, let her be in. Please let her be there.
But no one answered.
P’raps she’s in the garden at the back. P’raps she can’t hear the bell.
As he raced round the side of the house, he saw Irene and slithered to a stop. She was hanging out the washing on the line and Kenny was beside her, his big face a picture of concentration, handing her the damp clothes from a basket.
Their garden was neat and tidy; plants and flowers in regimented lines, grass recently mown. They both looked up in surprise, Kenny holding a large T-shirt, Irene, a peg in her mouth.
For a second they all stared at each other, and then Jake spoke.
‘It’s Gran,’ he said. His voice sounded strange.
Irene took the peg from her
mouth and came over. She put an awkward arm round his shoulder. ‘What’s happened, love?’
I wish she wouldn’t touch me. Why do I have to tell her? Why do I have to admit it?
‘It’s probably nothing,’ he mumbled, fighting to get control of his voice and trying to sound casual. ‘It’s just that she’s locked in the bathroom and she won’t answer. And . . . well, I’m not sure what to do.’
‘Do you want me to come round?’
Of course I do, you stupid woman. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t, would I?
Jake nodded. ‘Please.’
Irene turned to Kenny. ‘See if you can peg the rest of the washing on the line for me, Kenny,’ she said. ‘I’m just going next door to help Jake. I won’t be long.’
Kenny stood transfixed, staring at them both.
‘Go on, dear,’ said Irene gently. ‘Peg out the washing for me.’
Still Kenny didn’t move, so Irene went back to him and showed him what to do. ‘See, like this. Just peg all the washing on the line for me.’
Suddenly Kenny seemed to get it. He draped the T-shirt he was holding onto the washing line and fumbled around for a peg to attach it.
‘Good boy. That’s it. Keep going. I’ll only be next door. I won’t be long.’
As Jake and Irene reached the pavement, Irene looked back. ‘I hope he’ll be all right,’ she muttered.
Stop fussing about Kenny. What about Gran, for God’s sake?
Jake led the way upstairs.
Please let her be OK. Let her be back in her room and OK, and then Irene can go home.
But the bathroom door was still locked. Jake rattled the door knob again. ‘Gran,’ he said softly.
There was a shuffling noise from the other side of the door and Jake’s shoulders slumped with relief.
‘Gran?’ he said again.
‘What?’
Irene looked at Jake. ‘Sounds as though she’s all right,’ she whispered.
Jake nodded. Then he tried again. ‘Gran, please open the door.’
‘Go AWAY.’
‘Perhaps she’ll open it if we leave her alone,’ whispered Irene.
‘Who’s that? Who’s that talking?’
Jake didn’t answer. If he told her it was Irene, she’d never come out.
‘Who IS it?’
‘No one, Gran, it doesn’t matter.’
There was silence for a moment, then, ‘Is it Verity?’
If she thinks it’s Verity, maybe she’ll come out.
‘Yes Gran, it’s Verity.’
Irene nudged Jake. ‘Who’s Verity?’
Jake stared at her. She must have seen Verity in the garden when she kept peering over the fence to check that Kenny was OK. He shrugged. Whatever.
‘No one,’ he said shortly.
They could hear Gran shuffling towards the door. Jake and Irene stood aside and waited. They heard her fumbling with the lock, muttering to herself, then slowly the handle turned and the door opened.
Jake couldn’t help it. He threw himself into her arms, giddy with relief. ‘Gran,’ he said, his voice beginning to break, ‘I thought you’d had a turn. I was scared.’
Absently she stroked his hair. ‘I’m all right, Jakey love,’ she said.
She’s remembered my name, for once.
As he drew back from her, he saw at once what had happened. He could smell it.
Oh God. She didn’t make it to the toilet.
Irene was hovering to one side of the door and when Gran saw her, something of her old hostility returned.
‘Who’s she?’
‘She’s come to help, Gran.’
‘That’s not Verity!’
‘No. But she’s going to help you.’
‘Huh!’
Jake looked over at Irene. ‘She’s messed herself,’ he whispered.
‘It’s OK, Jake,’ Irene said quietly. ‘I’ll see to her.’
‘But. . .’
‘Go on, Jake. You go back to Kenny and I’ll get your gran cleaned up.’
Still he hesitated, so Irene came forward and firmly took hold of Gran’s arm.
She’s going to yell and scream at her, she’ll scratch her eyes out.
But Gran just looked at Irene and frowned. ‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘Did Verity send you?’
Irene nodded – and then Gran sighed and let herself be led back into the bathroom.
Irene looked back over her shoulder at Jake. ‘It’ll be fine, Jake. But Kenny needs someone with him, too.’
Reluctantly, Jake walked away and left them to it.
Kenny.
He’d never really thought much about Kenny. He was just the loony son of busybody, sticky-beak Irene.
Irene and Kenny had only lived next door for about a year. The family who had lived there before had been great. Jake and their children had grown up together, played together, been in and out of each other’s houses all the time. It had been like having his own brother and sister. But then their dad got a new job in another part of the country and they’d had to move away. Jake still missed them. And who did they get next door – bloody Irene and Kenny. He’d hated the thought of anyone moving in there. It would never be the same again. If only it had been a normal family. But Irene! She’d irritated them all – even Mum and Dad – right from the start with her silly chatter, her prying and her desperation to be friends.
Slowly, Jake made his way back to be with Kenny.
I really don’t want to do this.
When Kenny saw him, he looked nervous.
Jake felt a prick of guilt. He’d never tried to be nice to Kenny. He’d always laughed at him and he and Tom had goaded each other on, lobbing stuff over the fence at him and then ducking down out of sight and stifling their giggles when Kenny turned round to see where it came from.
‘Hi, Kenny,’ said Jake.
Kenny stood still, his eyes bulging, staring at Jake. Jake went closer. He looked at the clothes line and he couldn’t help smiling. Kenny hadn’t got far with hanging out the washing, and the clothes he had managed to put on the line were all on top of each other in a heap.
‘OK, mate, let’s get these clothes hung out for your mum, shall we?’
Still Kenny stared, unmoving.
Jake spread out the damp clothes. ‘You hand me the pegs, Kenny, and I’ll put the clothes on the line.’
But Kenny looked confused. He hung his head and stood rooted to the spot, his big hands swinging by his side.
Then Jake remembered how Irene had done it. ‘Tell you what. You take the clothes from the basket and I’ll peg them out.’ He bent down and picked up a handful of pegs and stood waiting.
Suddenly, Kenny’s face lit up. He took a large pair of pants from the washing basket and handed them carefully to Jake.
‘That’s right, mate. Now, something else. How about that tea towel there?’ And slowly, one bit of washing at a time, they managed to finish the job.
My God, you need the patience of a saint.
Kenny stood back to admire the line full of washing, grinning with pleasure.
It doesn’t take much to make him happy, poor chap.
‘Shall we take the basket back into the house now, Kenny?’
It was obviously a routine Kenny understood, because he picked up the basket and stomped up the garden and in through the back door.
Jake followed him into the kitchen. Kenny put the basket carefully on top of the washing machine and then sat down at the kitchen table. He let out a noisy sigh. Jake hovered uncertainly. The kitchen was familiar to him (he’d always been in it when the other family lived here) but yet unfamiliar, with Irene’s stamp on it.
What do I do now?
Kenny was looking up expectantly.
‘Do you want a drink or something, Kenny?’
Kenny made a grunt.
Is that a yes or a no?
Jake went to the fridge. Everything was neatly stacked, and Jake thought of the time he’d opened his own fridge and found it stuf
fed full of nothing but milk.
Poor Gran.
He took out a carton of juice and showed it to Kenny. ‘This OK?’
No reaction.
Oh well, we’ll give it a go.
Jake found a glass, poured out the juice and put it in front of Kenny. Kenny stared at it but he didn’t pick it up.
Jake sat down at the table opposite. He found himself feeling sorry for Irene.
Can’t be a bundle of laughs living with Kenny.
‘You going to drink up, Kenny?’
Suddenly, Kenny pushed the glass, quite deliberately, off the edge of the table and watched as it shattered into shards all over the tiled floor in a pool of sticky orange juice. He didn’t move, but just sat staring at the mess.
Jake’s first impulse was to yell, ‘Bloody hell, Kenny, why did you do that?’ But as soon as he’d done it, he realised his mistake. Kenny immediately started whimpering, holding his hands over his ears and rocking to and fro in his chair.
‘Kenny, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout at you. Look, it’s no big deal. It doesn’t matter.’
Kenny continued to sit there rocking, while Jake found things to clear up the mess. The glass had spread everywhere: there were shards under the kitchen units, by the door, under the table. Jake cut his finger on one and swore under his breath.
He had nearly finished clearing up when Irene came back. She was looking flustered and anxious.
‘I’m sorry, Jake, I should have warned you – he doesn’t like juice,’ she said, as she took over the clearing up.
Jake was still sucking his cut finger. ‘My fault,’ he said. ‘I told him to drink up.’
Irene squatted down on the floor and started mopping at the last of the puddle with a paper towel, then looked up at him and smiled.
‘You weren’t to know, dear. You’ve done well.’
When she straightened up, she looked out at the washing flapping in the summer breeze.
‘Good boy, Kenny,’ she said. ‘You’ve hung out the washing really well.’
Kenny gazed at her adoringly.
‘Is Gran OK?’ asked Jake.
Irene nodded. ‘I’ve rinsed through the soiled stuff and put it in to wash,’ she said. ‘But I think you’d better get back to her. She’s a bit upset.’
I bet she is!
Loose Connections Page 8
