The Grasshopper's Child

by Gwyneth Jones

  The terraces by the Cement Works, two concentric curves of ugly pebbledash cottages called Upper and Lower Hillside, were the low-rent area of Mehilhoc. What they lacked in roses, wisteria and thatched eaves they made up for in fly-tipping, whole families who hadn’t been in work for generations, and scary teenage thugs of both sexes, who’d never seen the inside of a Learning Centre. At least the scary teens were all gone now.

  Daffodil Dyson opened the front door of number 17 Upper Hillside, and greeted Brooklyn with the bared teeth of a human tigress, prepared to defend her young. She was dressed, as usual, incredibly inappropriately, in a puff-sleeved micro-skirted party frock, the bodice straining over her large breasts, and white lacy tights. She wouldn’t catch cold, however. She kept the house near to boiling, on her dad’s Disabled Energy Allowance.

  ‘Are you going to let me in?’

  ‘Of course, Brook. Daddy’s expecting you.’

  Mrs Dyson was dead. The other Dyson children had married and/or fled. Daffodil, fifty-something, jobless and single, was savagely devoted to her old dad. A succession of besotted boyfriends had failed to break the spell. Everyone in Mehilhoc was amazed at the way she racked-up those boyfriends, but it was always Daffodil who broke it off.

  Mr Eric Dyson sat in the stifling front room, a tartan rug over his knees.

  ‘Take off yer hat,’ he suggested. ‘It’s rude to wear a hat indoors.’

  ‘I don’t want to, thank you.’

  The old man cackled, displaying shrunken gums and tombstone grey teeth, all his own.

  ‘You’ve got that alopecia.’

  ‘No I haven’t.’

  ‘Everyone knows. Y’er bald as a billiard ball, from the drugs and yer nerves. How bad are you now? I heard they gave you six months, last check up.’

  ‘You heard wrong. I’m doing well. How long have you got, Mr Dyson?’

  ‘Heh heh. I’ll see you out, young lady. You don’t look very well to me.’

  Brooklyn took off her coat, scarf and gloves, but not her hat. Daffodil perched on the arm of her father’s chair, fluffy mauve mules dangling from her white lace toes. The only other chair was piled with ironing. Graciously, Daffodil indicated a footstool on the hearth rug.

  ‘Go on, Brook. Take a seat.’

  ‘Aren’t you going out? This is your respite time.’

  ‘In this weather? Anyhow, why would I want to be anywhere but with my daddy?’

  ‘Okay, fine. I’ll do your shopping for you.’

  ‘We don’t need anything.’

  ‘Then I’ll do the ironing. You could go upstairs and have a rest.’

  ‘I don’t like anybody to touch my things. I’m not being awkward, am I?’

  Mr Dyson chuckled, delighted to have the ladies fighting over him. He tugged his side-table closer and set out the Cribbage. ‘We’ll play for matches. All right, Brook?’

  One more time, she thought, hunched on the footstool, dealing the cards under loony Daffodil’s ferocious eye. And then I’m quitting. Never again. Don’t care what Tanya says. This is ridiculous.

  She could feel the mean old man’s mean old willpower shoving at her as he peered over his cards. He was wishing her dead, for no reason except the pride of having outlived one person more. Her own will rose up, and shoved right back. Don’t wear yourself out, you old bully. I’m stronger than you are.

  Challon had swum her sixty lengths, done an hour’s work in the gym and another in the dance studio, before eight thirty. As always, she left the leisure suite in Knowells Farm basement with her coat over her gym kit; and without taking a shower. You never know who might be hanging around, Mum always said. Better just hurry home.

  Challon had been dancing to her mum’s old videos since she could toddle. Making up songs, and picking them out on her little guitar, before she could read or write. She’d always known what she wanted, and the day had come when her mum —who had once been “Missy Anak”, a popstar herself— had stopped saying no. Okay, you have a talent, maybe a big talent, but that’s not all you need. Let’s see what we can do.

  Challon’s dad was a businessman back in Malaysia, with another family: that was all Mum had ever told her. There’d be no help from him. Mum’s fabric company just about made ends meet, with three employees and a small order book. No spare cash there, either. So Mum had gone to the Carron-Knowells, and they had paid for Challon’s coaching.

  At thirteen she’d aced the Virtual Brit trials. She’d been working her way up, non-stop, ever since, and everything she needed was provided. The pool, the gym, the dance and singing lessons. The costumes, the hair, the make-up. Standards were high and competition was tough, and it all cost money. George Carron (senior) sometimes said she could pay him back when she was famous. Then he’d laugh and tell her he was joking. Challon didn’t owe him a penny. She paid him back by winning. By being a star and making Mehilhoc proud.

  It wasn’t easy. Every step towards the light came at the price of the competitions she hated, and nerves that made her vomit (every time) before she went on stage. But she hadn’t faltered yet. Every time Mum asked her, are you still sure? the answer was yes.

  She caned it home, swishing through the soft fresh snow: showered, scoffed a bowl of muesli and sped off again to the New Almshouses; caning it carefully. Snow was okay but it could hide ice, and bring the bike down. Challon couldn’t afford a twisted ankle.

  She didn’t resent Sharing The Care, but it was stressful. It was a performance, and she had to do well. Every time she walked into the Almshouses her body started to thrum, and she felt sick. What would she do, if anything went wrong? The responsibility was awful.

  ‘She’s up and dressed,’ said Melinda the Lone Ranger: the Rural Geriatric Community Nurse, whose days were spent rushing from one Home Care Elder to the next: supervising Exempt Teens, wrangling emergencies, and attending to personal and medical needs.

  ‘She’s had breakfast, she’s got her concentrator. She’s fine. You’ll be all right love?’

  ‘Of course I will. I’m sorry I’m late.’

  ‘You’re not late. I’m just in a hurry, because of the snow.’

  Mrs Lane had emphysema. Her lungs were giving out, after a long life of heavy smoking. She had no surviving relatives. She was very small and very old, engulfed in a gold brocade armchair: a vivid lipstick smile puckered in wrinkles, two fine dark brows, carefully applied; two rosy cheeks, thin white hair combed over her ears; tobacco brown fingertips. A pair of clear tubes disappeared up her nostrils. The black lump that was the oxygen concentrator, on the table at her elbow, hummed gently. Local cable tv played a cookery programme.

  ‘Hello dear!’ said Patsy Lane, holding up her withered little hands with a beaming smile.

  ‘Hiya, Pat. How are you?’

  ‘All the better for seeing you, sweetheart. There’s tea in the pot. Sit down, let’s have a chat. Melinda’s left you a cup. How’s the new numbers coming on? How’s Mum?’

  Challon poured herself a cup of tepid tea and sat on a matching gold chair, eternally wrapped in plastic to preserve the upholstery: it creaked under her bum.

  ‘Mum’s fine.’

  ‘Working hard?’

  ‘Not bad. We’ve got some new orders, curtains and spreads, the Chinese peach pattern’s doing well, and those rainbow ikat lengths—’

  ‘The Malaysian Traditional style eh? I said that would appeal! It’s all the rage!’

  ‘So orders are okay, for a change. But despatch is a nightmare—’

  ‘It’s the same the world over. What about you, love?’

  Patsy Lane had been on the stage herself, a hoofer, but only in the chorus. Used to do a little tap, she’d say. A little of everything, really; except I couldn’t sing.

  ‘Sometimes it was a very little, deary—!’

  She’d wink and chuckle as she repeated that favourite joke, and listen to Challon’s account of herself, intensely interested. Then she’d catch her breath, and point to the dresser where she kept her
albums. They would sit together, poring over old photographs. Pat’s eyes were so bright, and her scarlet smile so cheeky, Challon never had trouble picking her out in the rows of long ago pretty girls; until the old lady suddenly fell asleep, holding Challon’s hand.

  Then Challon would watch daytime cable, waiting for Pat to drift back to her.

  They’d go on like this until it was time for lunch. After lunch, Challon would check in with Melinda by phone: report that all was well, and leave. There was another resident of the New Almshouses, a spry and youthful ninety-something, who popped in, in the afternoons.

  Nothing to it.

  Challon heated a mug of soup, and cut an eggy sandwich into fingers. She was spooning out yoghurt with fruit compote, when she heard something in the next room. She rushed back.

  ‘Pat? Are you all right?’

  Pat wheezed and gestured helplessly, her bright eyes fixed in fierce concentration. Her little chicken-chest heaved.

  ‘Are you all right Mrs Lane? ’

  ‘Ah, can’t seem to get—’

  The old lady’s tiny head fell back.

  Oh, hell, whispered Challon.

  ‘Shall I get you a glass of water?’

  Shut up, she told herself, in terror. You sound like an idiot. Patsy’s eyes had closed, her cheeks were turning purple. She did not need a glass of water. Get help! Hammering number after number, Challon couldn’t get through. She left a message for Melinda. Her call to the Almshouses Warden went straight to voicemail. The lady who came in the afternoons didn’t reply, and nobody answered the phone at the Group Practice.

  So this was it, the dreaded unsupervised emergency.

  Then she checked the concentrator, and to her horror saw the red warning light. The unit had shut down. Pat hadn’t been getting any oxygen, and Challon hadn’t even noticed. Cold sweat burst out all over her body. This is not only happening! This is my fault!

  ‘Pat! Can you hear me? Your concentrator’s switched itself off. What do I do?’

  The old lady was breathing like a death rattle. Was her hand flapping at random? Or was she pointing to a cupboard? Challon flew, yanked open the cupboard door and stared madly at a heap of vacuum cleaner, ironing board, folding wheelchair, until she saw the Oxygen Cylinder, stashed in the tangle. Exempt Teens with First Stage Training must not handle medical equipment, they must get help: but there was no time. She hauled the cylinder out, her hands slippery with sweat. Oh, please don’t die, Pat. Please, please don’t die!

  I’m the most useless person alive. How’s your old dear getting on, Challon? Not too well. I’m afraid I made a little mistake and she is no more. She has popped her clogs. She’s kicked the bucket, she’s gone west, she’s an ex-old dear—

  Mrs Lane’s face was now chalky-blue, except for the grim patches of make-up. She hardly seemed to be breathing. Challon attacked her phone again, but nobody was coming to the rescue. Snow, no ambulance, no phones. Must not, above all, leave the patient alone.

  She knelt on the rug. The cylinder was covered in warnings. Explosive. Dangerous. Health Care Professionals Only. Her hands shook. Every nerve in her body felt scraped raw.

  This is sort-of dangerous, said a calm voice in her mind, like a light welling up. Because it’s pure oxygen and oxygen can explode. It’s not difficult, or how would people cope? Read the instructions. Be careful. It’ll be simple, it has to be. She read the instructions. She gently drew out the concentrator tubes and settled the Oxygen Cylinder’s mask over Mrs Lane’s mouth and nose, as if they were in a crashing plane. She opened the valve. The patient began to breathe, thirstily. Her colour returned.

  And then, finally, Challon spotted that the tv had gone dead. The concentrator was grid powered. It was supposed to switch to battery if the Local Distributed Grid cut out, but for some reason that hadn’t happened. The whole problem had just been a minor power-down.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’

  ‘What is it, Pat?’

  ‘I’ve wet meself, love. Could you help me to the toilet?

  ‘NO! You stay put. I’ll bring what you need.’

  Changing Mrs Lane was easy. She was so dignified, making no fuss. The power had returned to full strength by the time it was done. Challon opened the curtains, which she’d closed for Mrs Lane’s dignity. Patsy calmly shut off the oxygen valve, reinserted the tubes in her own nostrils, and started up the concentrator. She reached for Challon’s hands.

  ‘Chall, dear, you’re a proper good girl, your mum must be so proud. But it’s all right love. My number’s up. I know it. It won’t be long. I’m just grateful for each day, and your lovely company. So don’t you worry, eh? Don’t be frightened, don’t you stress.’

  A flow of pure life-force passed from the strengthless, trembling little hands into Challon’s soul. She would never, never forget this day. She and Pat had faced great peril together, and they had both come through.

  Clancy made a point of checking in with the local Exempt Teens group, if he stopped anywhere for a few days. It saved trouble in many ways. He’d never been handed a Share the Care assignment before, and it couldn’t be helped, but the Elder fate had thrown at him was a real challenge. He was wondering what the hell he could possibly do, as he approached Mrs Scott-Amberley’s front gate for the second time. It was one of the nicer houses in Mehilhoc; though appearances can be deceptive.

  Okay, she’s my real-life gran, he thought. This is my grandmother’s house, I’m home for the holidays. Here I am, walking up the dear old garden that I love. There’s the twisty chestnut tree, where Dad helped us build the tree-house. There’s the veg beds, can’t see them because of the snow, but I know where they are. There’s the raised bed for the strawberries, where I wreaked delicious havoc one summer, when I was little and naughty.

  What kind of gran is she? An apple-cheeked, round little old lady, with loving eyes behind her spectacles, so tiny I have to bend right down to hug her? Or is she younger, tall and stern and clever, with a heart of gold, and respects me as an equal? That would be okay. Maybe she’s beautifully dressed, stylish hairdo. Looks after herself, goes to the gym—

  No, I don’t fancy that kind.

  Irene Crace opened the door. She was beautifully dressed, she definitely looked after herself, and her dark hair was perfectly arranged. She had cold, steady, suspicious eyes.

  ‘Clancy, isn’t it? Goodness, another session already?’

  ‘That’s the idea,’ said Clancy. ‘I come every day if I can, for a couple of hours. You get time off. Mrs Scott-Amberley gets to see a different face.’

  ‘There’s no end to these schemes. I suppose I must comply. Lucy’s in the drawing room. You may sit with her there.’

  Mrs Scott-Amberley would have been at the end of the queue for teenage company, since she had a paid companion. That’s how she’d been landed with Clancy, obviously. Just as well Tanya didn’t know that he wasn’t trained. At his last charming school they’d taken the Sharing The Care funding, because money’s money. They hadn’t bothered with the actual course. No need, no parents were going to complain—

  She was in the same chair, sitting exactly the way she’d been sitting on his first visit. Back straight, head up: hands in her lap, feet together on the rug. Nicely turned out, though not so expensively as Irene. A proud little crumpled white face; the picture of a dignified sweet old lady, until you hit the look in her eyes. It must be the ‘where am I? look’ Running Girl had talked about, but where am I ? didn’t begin to cover it, in Clancy’s opinion. His old dear stared like a sleepwalker who has just woken surrounded by monsters. On the brink of a bottomless pit, no idea who she is or how she got there. He imagined the helpless despair, in her world without memory: waking like that over and over again. All day, every day. Horror made his voice shake.

  ‘Hello Mrs Scott-Amberley.’ He couldn’t convince himself to call her ‘Lucy’, it didn’t seem right. She didn’t respond. She’d forgotten her own name.

  ‘Here I am again. It’s been snowing,
’ he added cheerfully, sitting opposite. ‘Your garden looks very cute, like an iced cake. Do you like the snow?’

  Was there a change in that awful expression? Just a flicker?

  ‘You’re faced the wrong way. Would you like to look out of the window?’

  Maybe a slight flicker.

  ‘It’s kind of chilly in here. Would you like the fire on?’

  The dreadful eyes seemed to look at him, with a flash of understanding.

  ‘Is it cold?’ she whispered, in a precise, tiny little voice. ‘Irene would know.’

  Contact! Last time she hadn’t seemed to know he was in the room.

  ‘Would you like to see the snow in the garden?’

  ‘I can’t go out.’

  ‘I bet you can. I bet you’d enjoy a little walk. It says on your charge sheet you have no mobility problems. Exercise is recommended. Come on, give it a go. I’ll help you up. Let’s see if you can walk across the room.’

  It was reckless, but he was in a hurry. Soon the demon Crace would appear and he’d be back where he started. He stood in front of her, lifted her hands to his shoulders, waited til he felt her timid grip, took hold of her elbows and raised her gently until she was standing.

  She looked into his face in amazement, like a baby staring at a rattle.

  ‘See? You’re fine. I bet you do this every day,’ he said. ‘I bet you do the housework. You’re teasing me. Come on, look out of the window. I think I can see a robin.’

  They crossed the room. He was supporting her, his arm around her and tucked firmly under her elbow: but she was bearing her weight, and that was good news. Mrs Scott-Amberley looked out at her own snowy garden.

  ‘Snow,’ said the tiny voice. ‘Is it Christmas? I don’t know when I last saw the garden.’

  The door behind them opened. Irene came in, balancing a tray.

  ‘Lucy!’

  The tray landed swiftly and precisely in the centre of a small table. The demon Crace crossed the room and took Clancy out with the speed of a striking snake. Mrs Scott-Amberley had resumed the position more swiftly than the eye could follow. Feet together, back straight, hands in her lap: facing front with those terrible sleepwalker eyes.