What Milo Saw

by Virginia MacGregor

  Gran walked over to her door, clutching onto bits of furniture on the way: the back of a chair, a chest of drawers. She reached up onto her tiptoes and pulled her woolly scarf off the hook, the one she’d knitted when her hands still worked. She made one for Milo too, in bright orange, which was his favourite colour. Gran wound it round her neck so tight Milo worried she’d strangle herself.

  He walked up to her and put his hand on hers; they were cold too.

  ‘Gran, why don’t you sit down?’

  She stared at him for a second as though she’d never seen him before. He felt a hollow thud in his chest. Maybe Nurse Thornhill had forgotten to give her the untangling pill.

  ‘Gran, it’s Milo.’

  Her eyes were still pale and far away and she twisted her engagement ring round and round on her finger.

  She shook off his hand, reached for her coat, struggled with the sleeves and then gave up and opened the door, the coat half hanging off her body.

  Milo felt a throb in his forehead. She hadn’t been like this in months.

  He reached for her arm but she yanked him off again, harder this time.

  Gran was tiny and stooped with no bit of fat on her and her bones weighed less than Hamlet’s when he first arrived; Milo didn’t understand where she got her strength.

  At home, he’d know what to do: he’d put her small radio on to distract her and lock the door so she couldn’t get out and fall down the stairs or walk out into the traffic. And he’d give her Great-Gramps’s bagpipes and ask her to give him a lesson and Hamlet would squeak along, because he loved music, and that would make Gran laugh and then she’d be fine again.

  Milo was the only one who knew about how Gran disappeared into herself. He’d kept it from Mum, who wouldn’t understand. Mum already called Gran a handful, and he bet she said even worse things when she was talking to Gina in the shed.

  Gran kept shuffling along. He had to find someone to help him steer her back to her room.

  It would take her a while to get to the front door, so Milo risked leaving her for a few minutes.

  He speed-walked through the white corridors looking for someone official who could help, but everyone had disappeared. He heard the sound of television programmes weaving into each other from room to room: the Emmerdale theme tune and someone selling a gold necklace on the Shopping Channel and the voice of that presenter from the holiday programme Mum watched all the time, Honeymoon Hideaways. In another room someone was yelling like a toddler that she wanted rice and in another one a loud football-match voice called out Got ’em, the little buggers! and from a third room a small, tired voice pleading: You can’t… can’t… can’t make me have a bath.

  Milo had hoped that when you got old, people would stop making you do things.

  Mrs Moseley, the lady who pottered around with her tape player listening to reggae music, walked past.

  ‘Do you need some help?’ she called over her tape player.

  Black hairs sprouted above her lip and on her chin, like the ones Gran sometimes got, which Milo yanked out with Mum’s tweezers. Typical, Gran would write, years of trying to grow a beard to impress those fishermen at Inverary, and now that I’m landlocked, the stubble sets in.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ said Milo.

  It was kind of Mrs Moseley to offer to help but he was worried she’d confuse Gran even more. He smelt wee wafting from her nightdress and considered suggesting she get some of those granny nappies he’d seen in Boots, but maybe Mrs Moseley didn’t realise that she smelt of wee and then she’d get offended.

  He went and knocked on the door that Nurse Thornhill had pointed out on their first visit when she said, I’m available night and day.

  No one answered.

  He banged harder, and then he noticed that it was on a latch. He pushed the door and looked in.

  The first thing he felt was a blast of heat. It was warmer in here than in the whole of Forget Me Not put together. And then he noticed the deep plum wallpaper with swirly bits that felt velvety against his fingertips.

  On the wall hung a picture of Harrods in London. In June Dad had taken Milo to the pet department to find a collar for Hamlet. The Tart came along and it turned out she was really good at picking out collars and she chose a black velvet one, which she said was appropriate for Hamlet and that it went with the black bits of his fur and made him look elegant. Milo knew he was meant to hate The Tart, but most of the time she was quite nice, especially when she talked to him about Hamlet, which Mum only did when she had something to complain about. Dad said not to mention that The Tart came along on their trips and that it was probably a good idea to keep acting like he hated her, because liking The Tart would make Mum more upset.

  Next to the picture of Harrods hung a newspaper article with a picture of a young man, with dates underneath, which meant he must have died, and next to him a picture of – could it be, Nurse Thornhill? Much younger, but she had the same square forehead and she wore a nurse’s uniform, though it looked all dirty, not like the starched white one she wore at Forget Me Not.

  Her smile looked different too, less stuck on.

  Milo looked closer. Saturday 17th December 1983. IRA Bombs Harrods.

  Then Milo’s attention was drawn up to a massive chandelier like the ones you saw in films hanging from the ceiling, splitting the light into a million diamonds. At the end of the hallway, he spotted a bottle of champagne lying on its side.

  ‘Nurse Thornhill!’ he called out.

  No one answered.

  Milo wondered whether there’d ever been a Mr Thornhill or baby Thornhills, though when he tried to create a picture of Nurse Thornhill with a family in his head, it didn’t work.

  He strained his ears but didn’t detect any movement in the flat, so he closed the door and walked on.

  An old man with a yellow corduroy cap sat on the carpet fixing the hinge of the door to the main lounge. Milo hesitated but the man didn’t look like the sort of person who’d know what to do, so he kept going.

  Then he remembered their first visit, what Gran had seen through those doors.

  He darted to the kitchen.

  The guy was singing again in that hiccupy language Milo didn’t understand and peeling potatoes to the rhythm of his song.

  Milo pushed through the door and walked over to him.

  ‘Excuse me?’ He tapped the cook on the back.

  The cook turned round.

  ‘My gran…’ said Milo, out of breath. ‘She’s… she’s not well.’

  The cook put down the peeler and wiped his hands on his apron.

  ‘Show me,’ he said.

  Milo guided him out through the swing doors and back down all those winding corridors towards Gran’s room. The cook smelt weird, thought Milo, not dirty like BO dirty, more like the garden after it rained.

  They found Gran standing outside the lounge, staring at a painting of a tiny fishing boat being tossed about on massive foamy waves. It made Milo think of Gran’s picture back home of the fishing boat she used to take out to make a living. The old man with the screwdriver and the yellow cap was there too, looking at the picture with her.

  ‘Gran?’ asked Milo. ‘Are you okay, Gran?’

  The man stepped in front of the pinhole like he knew about Milo’s eyes. He smelt of fake lemons, like the juice that came out of those plastic squeezy lemons Mum bought because they were cheaper than the fresh ones. And the cuffs of his shirt were frayed.

  ‘I was just telling this lady about the picture.’ He sounded foreign, like the cook, but his words were curlier.

  He must have helped Gran out with her coat because it wasn’t hanging off her any more.

  Gran turned round and faced Milo; the blue light had come back into her eyes. She looked back at the painting.

  ‘When I moved in, I brought my paintings with me,’ said the man. ‘I asked if I could put this one up and they never gave me an answer, so I hung it myself.’ He adjusted the tilt of the frame. ‘It was m
y wife’s favourite.’ He traced the movement of the waves with his oil-smudged finger.

  Gran looked at the man like he’d said something really interesting.

  The man turned round and held out a large, tanned hand to Milo. ‘I’m Petros.’

  ‘I’m Milo,’ Milo said, and for a moment it felt like they were at a party, introducing themselves and getting to know each other, rather than in this cold, white nursing home.

  But Milo didn’t want to seem too keen to get to know Petros. Although he was grateful for the help, he wanted to make clear that it wasn’t Petros’s job to look after Gran, so Milo steered her away from the painting. Petros must have got the hint because he went back to fixing his door.

  As Tripi held Gran’s arm on the other side he hummed and that made Gran’s face go soft. Milo didn’t mind Tripi helping.

  They settled her back into her chair by the window and then Milo went to look in Gran’s washbag for her pills. He tipped them out into his palms and counted them. He was right, she hadn’t had one since she left home. He poured some water into her toothbrush goblet and brought her the pill.

  ‘You need to remember to take these, Gran,’ he said as he watched her take little birdlike sips from the goblet. ‘One every day.’

  Gran nodded but Milo knew that he had to find a better way to make sure she took them. Mum used to take little round pills and she had them labelled M, Tu, W, Th, F, Sa, Su so that she never forgot to take one. Maybe he could make Gran a box with a little hole for each day of the week.

  The cook walked towards the door.

  ‘Thank you for your help,’ said Milo and he wondered whether he should bow, like you do with Chinese people, though Tripi looked a different kind of foreign from Chinese.

  Tripi smiled and then his eyes narrowed and he focused on something past Milo’s shoulder. He looked at the sleeping bag and the two backpacks, the blue one and the red one and his brown skin went dark brown to beige, like those caramel lattes Mum liked.

  ‘I found them…’ Milo started. ‘By the canal.’

  Tripi went straight to the red bag. He zipped it open, peered inside and then sighed with relief and closed it again.

  ‘What’s going on in here?’ Nurse Thornhill strode into the room. ‘Tahir, why aren’t you in the kitchen?’

  ‘I looked for you in your flat, but I couldn’t find you.’ Milo said. She definitely looked nicer in her younger version in the Harrods photo.

  Nurse Thornhill stared at Milo. ‘You did what?’

  ‘The door was open.’

  ‘You never go into my private residence.’ Her voice rumbled. ‘Do you understand?’

  Nurse Thornhill’s face went purple like her furry wallpaper.

  ‘But you said you were available —’

  Nurse Thornhill wasn’t listening. She’d turned away from Milo and was shouting at Tripi.

  ‘You’re not to interfere with the clients. Go back to work.’ She pointed at the door.

  Tripi glanced at the sleeping bag and the backpack and at Milo and then lowered his head and left. Milo shifted his gaze and watched Tripi walk down the corridor with his heavy, clumsy steps.

  ‘He was helping,’ said Milo.

  Nurse Thornhill ignored Milo. She wedged her fists into her skinny waist, looked down at Gran and said: ‘If you need help, use the button.’ She pointed at a red switch on the wall by Gran’s chair. ‘I’ve shown you before.’ She grabbed Gran’s hand, pulled out her forefinger, walked her over to the switch and made her press on the button until it lit up. ‘There,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to have to tell you again.’

  Her grumbling voice reminded Milo of Mrs Harris when she caught the class island-hopping between their desks at breaktime.

  Milo knew that sometimes you had to show Gran things several times until she remembered how they worked, but he didn’t like how Nurse Thornhill grasped Gran’s finger, or the white grip mark she left behind.

  Milo stayed with Gran until she fell asleep, which didn’t take long. When Gran disappeared into herself like that, all the energy got zapped out of her.

  The heating didn’t seem to be working in the room, so Milo put a blanket on Gran’s knees, kissed her cheek and then picked up his school bag and the sleeping bag and the two backpacks.

  ‘Bye, Gran,’ he whispered. ‘Next time, I’ll bring Hamlet. He’ll keep you warm.’

  14

  TRIPI

  As he heated up the cubes of lamb in the big, stainless steel pot, Tripi threw in some cloves of garlic that he’d bought at the little market shop in the high street. Garlic was good for old people, it strengthened their immune system. And it would make this pale, tinned lamb taste of something other than the grey English clouds. Tripi listened out for Nurse Thornhill’s footsteps going back to the office. Then he put down his wooden spoon and went to stand by the front door to wait for Mrs Moon’s grandson.

  As the small boy walked towards him, Tripi saw that he had the same build as Mrs Moon: tiny bones, like the sparrows that pecked at the crumbs outside the hotel in Damascus.

  Although the boy stared straight ahead of him, his blue eyes stretched open, he didn’t seem to notice that Tripi was there.

  Tripi waved. ‘Milo?’

  Milo shifted his head and blinked.

  ‘Are these your things?’ asked Milo, holding out Ayishah’s backpack.

  Tripi nodded.

  ‘I wasn’t going to steal them, I just thought someone had left them behind. I found them under the bench by the canal.’

  Tripi nodded again. ‘My home.’

  He’d never told anyone that he lived outside, that he slept on park benches, by canals, in buses. But he trusted this little boy – he liked how he held Mrs Moon’s hand as she sat in her chair.

  Milo’s eyes went wide. ‘You live by the canal?’

  Tripi pressed his finger to his lips. ‘It’s a secret.’ He nudged his head towards the nurses’ station.

  Milo nodded hard, then he whispered back, ‘Don’t you get cold?’

  Tripi shrugged. ‘A bit.’ He coughed into his hand and then pointed to his throat. ‘The wind tickles here,’ he said, wiggling his fingers by his Adam’s apple. ‘And here,’ he pointed to his ears. With every movement, the boy adjusted his head.

  ‘Why don’t you live in a proper home?’

  ‘What do they say in England? It is a long story.’ Tripi looked at the kitchen doors. ‘I’d better get back to work. More potatoes, always potatoes!’

  Milo nodded and placed the sleeping bag and the backpacks in a heap on the floor.

  ‘Could you put them back for me?’ asked Tripi. ‘I can’t have them here.’

  ‘Under the bench?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Okay.’ Milo picked the things up again. And then he looked up at Tripi and frowned. ‘Are you from the Middle East? That’s what Mrs Harris told us it’s called if you come from bits of the world that are hot and sandy and where people walk around wearing sheets.’

  Tripi smiled. It was the kindest way he had been referred to since he had arrived in England. ‘Yes – I am from Syria.’

  ‘I don’t want to interfere but I wouldn’t carry around too many backpacks if I were you.’

  Tripi had heard about this: Arabs + Backpacks = Terrorists.

  ‘They could lock you up.’

  ‘Thank you, Milo. I will bear that in mind.’

  The squeak of clogs sounded behind them. Tripi looked over Milo’s shoulder at Nurse Thornhill heading down the corridor.

  If I find you out of the kitchen once more, you’ll be on a warning. That’s what she’d said when she came to see him after she found him with Mrs Moon and Little Milo. She hadn’t explained what A Warning was but it didn’t sound good. Tripi had to keep this job, it was his only chance of getting a home and applying for asylum and finding Ayishah.

  ‘You’d better go,’ whispered Milo. ‘Before you get in trouble.’

  Tripi nodded and stumbled away down the c
orridor.

  ‘Thank you,’ Milo called after him. ‘Thank you for helping my gran.’

  15

  SANDY