by Ruth Eastham
They were landscapes, the Kent countryside at the back of our house, places from our walks together. People in the village bought loads of them. The lighthouse overlooking the beach, the white cliffs, the grassy tracks along their tops … And there were his close-ups. A leaf caught on tree bark, the edge of a butterfly’s wing, an ammonite fossil with its snail shell swirl.
I’d once asked Grandad why he never had people in his photos and he’d shrugged. He’d taken photographs of people during the Second World War, that was all I knew, but they’d got lost somehow. He never spoke about it. Said stuff like: “Some things are best forgotten.”
Yeah, I told myself, best forgotten. Like last night.
“Right, that’s those done.” I listened to Grandad’s rasping breaths and the clacking of the timer as he wound it up. “Just need to develop one or two more.”
I thought we had plenty of photos to sell already, but I said nothing. Maybe Grandad was trying to impress Mum by doing a few extras. I supposed there was time.
“Remember to kill the light, Alex,” said Grandad.
I remembered last night. How he’d nearly killed us all.
I pulled down the blinds, changing the room into darkness. Outside were the sounds of birdsong, the faint chugging of a tractor. I wondered again, did he even know what he’d done? Somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to remind him. Maybe it was better he didn’t remember. Ignorance is bliss, he liked to say. Ignorance is bliss.
I heard a switch click and Grandad was lit up red as he stooped over the bench. His lined face gave nothing away.
I used tongs to lay a fresh piece of printing paper in the developing tray and then Grandad tipped the tray, letting the liquid slide over the surface. I stared at his hands, at their criss-cross scars. I always wondered how they got there, but that was something else Grandad never spoke about. Something else he wanted to forget.
An image appeared in the tray, surfacing from the red skin of liquid like a memory coming back.
“Do you think they know, Alex?” Grandad said suddenly.
I froze. Pretended not to understand.
Grandad hung his head. I saw his hands tremble. His breathing came out in bursts, like little sobs. “I don’t know what’s happening to me, Alex.”
I stood there. I wanted to put my arm round him, but it felt like stone.
Grandad rocked the tray so liquid splashed out on to the bench. “Why’s an old fool like me staying where I’m not wanted. I know what they all think of me. Your dad hates my guts.”
My voice was gravel. The words seemed nothing to what I felt. “I want you, Grandad.”
Grandad held the tray still. “I know, lad. I know.” He swatted at his forehead. “Whatever happens, I’ll never forget you!” He said it as if it were a challenge to himself. An angry challenge. I heard his fear. I knew how to recognize fear.
“They’ll put me in a ruddy home,” he said. “For the virtually dead and buried. I don’t want to leave this house, Alex. This house, well, it’s …” I hardly caught what he said next. It came out in a kind of whisper. “This place is my life, Alex. Do you see? It’s my life.”
His voice grew louder. “It’s got all my memories in it … It’s where I lived with our Freda, your grandma … Where me and my brother Tommie grew up …” He put down the tray and gripped me.
“Promise me you’ll not let them take me away.” His hands were hurting my arm now. “Promise me.”
He was so fierce, so sad. I wanted to cry out, but I couldn’t. It was as if there was water in my mouth.
“I promise,” I managed to splutter. “I promise.”
Then Grandad was calm again, shifting the developing tray like he was one of those blokes panning for specks of gold in a riverbed.
I stared miserably into the tray. How could I hope to keep a promise like that? Dad probably couldn’t wait to get Grandad bundled off somewhere nice and caring and out-of-sight. If he found out what had happened last night … I couldn’t cover up for Grandad for ever, could I?
Slowly, slowly, the image in the tray became clearer. It was a view of our back garden. There were Mum’s wicker chairs in the foreground, an edge of perfect flower bed, the group of weeping willows beyond … That’s when I thought I saw a figure, half-hidden between the tree trunks.
I was sure there was someone, standing there, watching, a staring, blurred face between the leaves, a figure all kind of hunched up. One shoulder looked lower than the other. It gave me the creeps, but before I could get a proper look, Grandad whipped the photo away and he was dipping it in the next tray and I was having to work the timer and check the temperatures of the chemicals, and then he was rinsing the photo under the tap and pegging it on the drying line at the far end of the darkroom. The paper quivered, dripping water on to the bench like spots of blood.
“Grandad,” I began. “Who …”
He tugged at a blackout blind and it swept upwards with a snap. The room was drowned in sunshine and for a few seconds I was blinded. I blinked hard. Dust hovered in the bars of light like flies. The memories of last night came buzzing into my head again and my question died in my throat.
Grandad thumped open a window. I smelt the sharp, salty smell of the sea. The church bell clanged. I looked at my watch. Quarter to ten.
“We’d better get going, Grandad.”
He turned to me blankly for a second; then realization spread over his face. He picked up the pile of photographs. “Your mum’ll be doing her nut.”
I nodded, faking a grin. I followed him out, remembering to kill the red light on my way past. The safelight, it was called. But nothing felt safe any more.
– CHAPTER 3 –
THE FORBIDDEN WORD
The church lawns. 9:55 a.m. Doing my nut.
I knew I had to find Leonard. Fast.
I also knew Mum would kill me if Grandad’s photographs weren’t in on time. So we followed the sound of the brass band and the strings of multicoloured ribbons and dropped the photos off in one of the big white marquee tents pegged on to the church lawn. A notice over the entrance said “Art Sale” in dripping gold letters.
I waited while the Women’s Institute woman counted them and set them out on a table. She was taking for ever.
“They’re extremely good, Mr Smith, as always,” she said. “We’re most obliged to you.”
“Call that art?” Grandad said loudly, peering at a painting of sheep hung on a display board. “Kent Downs Flock? More like ruddy dishcloths with legs!”
I smiled at the WI woman, who had paused in her work with a frown.
“You can’t tell their heads from their backsides!” Grandad announced.
I decided it was time to get out of there. “Thanks very much,” I said quickly to the woman, steering Grandad to the exit.
We joined the stream of people moving in the direction of the stalls. Now and again he would mumble something about being watched, but I was too busy looking out for Leonard to pay much attention. He had to be around here somewhere.
“Alex! Mr Smith!”
I saw Lia waving at us from behind her dad’s stall, which was piled up with antiques. Suddenly I felt a bit better, seeing her.
“Got the vases your pa ordered,” Lia’s dad boomed, saluting me from behind a chamber pot. He was wearing a World War Two RAF uniform, a flying jacket, and goggles. “Tell him he can pick them up from the shop.”
Lia came towards us in her wheelchair.
“Ophelia!” her dad sang after her. “Come back soon, my darling!”
“How embarrassing is that?” she said, rolling her eyes at her dad. “I told my father he looked ridiculous. Do you really have to dress up for the fête this year? I said to him. But does he ever listen to me?”
Grandad ambled over to Mr Barker’s stall.
Lia tugged at my arm. “Hey, I found something you might be interested in, Alex. Over there.”
She was heading off already and I had to run to keep up. As if I didn’t have eno
ugh to deal with, finding Leonard. The trouble is, once Lia got an idea into her head, there was no stopping her.
“Here, Alex!” She pointed triumphantly at a table with a banner sellotaped across the front. It said Raffle in Aid of Alzheimer’s Awareness.
I stopped dead. Alzheimer’s. That’s what Grandad had. We all knew it. The whole family. It was some terrible swear word we could never say. Like that other word. Incurable.
Grandad’s words came crashing back into my mind.
Promise me you’ll not let them take me away.
Lia must have seen the look on my face. She gave my arm a squeeze.
“It’s OK,” she said. “There’s information and stuff. You can look and …”
I shrugged her off. Lia was always trying to get me to talk about things I didn’t want to. I suddenly wished she’d leave me alone so I could get on with finding Leonard.
“Hello, Alex. Hello, Lia.” Miss Kirby smiled up at us from behind the table.
I liked Miss Kirby. She worked in the village library, and would always help you out with school projects and stuff, but at that moment I was too uptight to be very friendly.
Her eyes flicked towards Mr Barker’s stall, where Grandad was shaking his head at Mr Barker’s RAF jacket. “Get out your money, kids,” she said. She leaned towards me. “If you buy a couple of my raffle tickets, Alex, I’ll call it quits with the fine on your grandad’s overdue library books.”
I gave her a bit of a grin and fished around for some coins.
“That’s what we’re raising money for.” Miss Kirby gestured at leaflets fanned out on the table. Lia took a couple and held one out to me. I handed over my money and took the leaflet with my ticket stubs, shoving everything into the back pocket of my jeans.
“Aren’t you going to read it?” Lia sounded disappointed.
“Not now,” I said.
“It has a telephone helpline and a website on the back,” Lia went on. “You can …”
“Not now!”
Lia opened her mouth to speak, but just then Victoria appeared with Sophie, looking totally peeved.
“I always get landed with babysitting Sophie. It’s not fair.”
“Lia!” Sophie sprang up on to her lap. “Fast! Now!”
I looked over at Grandad. He was laughing, probably at some joke Lia’s dad had told. You could hear Mr Barker’s rumbling laugh from where we were standing. Grandad’s shoulders were hunched and his whole body was shaking, and I remember thinking how frail he looked right then, next to big Mr Barker, like he might fall over any minute. Laugh himself to death.
Suddenly I wanted to get back to him, to be next to him, to take hold of his arm …
I edged away from the Alzheimer’s stall. Lia was talking loudly to Miss Kirby, with Sophie still on her knee and emptying out the margarine tub of raffle-ticket stubs. Victoria was nowhere to be seen.
I edged away some more.
“You two make a lovely couple,” sneered a voice beside me.
Leonard’s.
“You and Lia. Two freaks together.”
I pulled Leonard round a screen of tarpaulin on a neighbouring stall and got right to the point. “You can’t tell Dad about last night.”
“Thought you’d come begging,” said Leonard. “Grandad could have burnt the whole house down. The sooner he gets put away, the better.”
“What are you so against Grandad for? What’s he ever done to you?”
“Hey, I’ve got an idea.” Leonard ignored my questions and rammed a pointed finger into my chest, smirking. “What if I say you did it?”
I pushed him away. “I’d never …”
“But what if I say it was you? What if I say you’ve been trying to get Grandad into trouble?”
I couldn’t believe what he was saying. “Why would I want to do that?”
Leonard tapped me hard on the head with his palm. “Who knows what goes on in that warped mind of yours. You can’t help yourself, can you, Bosnia Boy? You’re always trying to get attention. You know Grandad’ll get blamed if anyone finds out, so you’re not bothered. You’re always trying to break our family up.”
I felt a stab of anger. What was he on about?
He gave me a shove. “Maybe the old idiot did it. Maybe you did it. It’s my word against yours. I’ll say I saw you fiddling about with Grandad’s pipe.”
I wanted to punch him. But what if he did go running to tell Dad? My promise slammed about inside my head. I couldn’t let Grandad get in trouble. Would he even remember what he’d done? I’d have to tell Dad Leonard was right. I’d have to say it was me.
Leonard patted my head. “Dad and Mum will probably send you away too. They’ve always regretted adopting you.”
“They can’t do that!” I said, panic pricking at me. Could they? I’d been theirs for six years. Course they couldn’t. Could they?
“Better start packing, Charity Case.”
“Look, Leonard,” I said. “You know Grandad was smoking in bed and fell asleep …”
Leonard thumped me hard in the chest.
I stumbled back. “He’s been doing dangerous stuff for months!” I gasped. “You know it’s his mind. He’s …”
“You’re the one with mental problems, Bosnia Boy!” Leonard landed a vicious kick on my shins. “You know why they shot your Daddy Babo, don’t you? Cos he was mental like you. You know why they shot your Mummy Mama? Cos she was too ugly to …”
I stood there, bent over, gaping at him. I felt my chest heave. The ground seemed to be tilting, like a boat going over.
Leonard stared hard at me, a flash of red across his cheeks.
“Loser,” he grunted. “Don’t come crawling to me for sympathy. Nobody asked me if I wanted to share the house with you. I’ve had to put up with it all these years, you trying to take my place. Six years! The truth is I don’t give a toss about Grandad and I don’t give a toss about you.”
He let out an unhappy laugh. “Don’t think you can get Grandad on your side. He’s getting more and more braindead by the day.”
I flung my fist forward, catching Leonard on the jaw. He staggered back, blood on his lip. He dabbed at his mouth and looked at the red on his fingertips as if he thought it was a funny joke.
“Well done, Bosnia Boy,” he said, walking away from me, rubbing the blood between his fingers. “Good one. Just what I need to show Dad what’s really in that psycho head of yours.”
– CHAPTER 4 –
MIND GAMES
The church lawns. 10:25 a.m. Using mind over matter.
I struggled to steady my breath. I thought of going after Leonard, trying to reason with him again, but I knew it was no good.
I lifted the tarpaulin a bit and looked back at Miss Kirby’s stall. Lia was still talking to her. Sophie was still jumping about wildly on Lia’s knee.
I stood, trying to block out what Leonard said. His words, like bullets, stuck inside me. I squeezed my eyes shut and imagined skin growing over the holes, little by little, stretching to hide the dark circles until it looked like nothing was wrong. The ground swayed a bit more, and then went still.
I walked back to the stall and pulled out the leaflet, more to try and forget about what had just happened with Leonard than anything else.
“Alzheimer’s Disease affects 700,000 people in the UK alone …” said the heading.
I caught Miss Kirby’s eye, but she said nothing.
I scanned the rest. There were lots of science bits I didn’t get – brain scans, nerve cell connections, tangles and plaques …
“Their memory loss can lead to confusion, fear or anger …”
Then some other stuff about how you could spend time with someone with Alzheimer’s, like listening to music together, or making a scrapbook, or looking at old photos, or keeping a diary, or going for walks, and a chunk at the end asking for donations for research.
“Come on, Ophelia, love!” Mr Barker boomed. “I’m sweating cobs here! Need you to hold the fort while I
get my Victorian paraphernalia sorted.”
“I told him not to call me that!” Lia muttered. “But does he ever listen to me?” She sighed. “Parents!”
I saw Grandad wandering off from Mr Barker’s stall.
Memory loss.
If only Grandad’s memory was better, I thought. If only he didn’t forget things, he wouldn’t keep doing dangerous stuff, and he’d seem normal again and Mum and Dad would see he was OK and then they wouldn’t have to think so much about care homes and sending Grandad away.
I shoved the leaflet into the front pocket of my jeans and went back to Miss Kirby’s stall.
“Get down now, Sophie,” I said. I still couldn’t see Victoria anywhere. She’d managed to get out of her little babysitting job nicely. “We’ve to go with Grandad.”
“Want to stay here!” she demanded, hooking her arms around Lia’s waist and losing her fairy tiara in the process.
Lia giggled. “I’ll look after you for a bit, Sophie-kins. You can come on my daddy’s stall with me, would you like that?”
Sophie clapped her hands with excitement.
“She’ll be a pain,” I said.
“Who isn’t?” said Lia with a grin, already moving off. “Bye, Miss Kirby! See you later, in your grandad’s Den, Alex. About five, right?”
I nodded. “If you get fed up with Sophie, my mum’s on the tombola. You’ll need to check when the fancy dress competition starts too.”
“No problem.”
I caught up with Grandad by the entrance to another white marquee with an open front and lots of people milling about. I latched on to his arm.
“Much too sour,” snapped a familiar, high-pitched voice from inside.
“Look who’s talking,” Grandad muttered. He sidled into the tent and I got pulled in with him, right into the middle of jam judging.
The vicar, Reverend Posselthwaite, was there, writing on a clipboard while a large lady with a knobbly walking stick leaned over a table laid with glass jars and small silver spoons. From the sound of it, our Great-Aunt Mildred had nothing good to say about any of the entries. But then she never had anything good to say about anything or anybody, especially not Grandad.
