by Dani Atkins
‘I loved your grandad,’ she repeated, as though I might be about to dispute that fact. ‘But I was never in love with him.’
I went as still as a shop window mannequin, unsure what the appropriate response was here. My grandfather had been gone for five years, so it was a little late to suggest relationship counselling. I had no idea why, after all these years, this was something she’d felt the need to share.
There was a strange feeling of finality in the way Gran carefully replaced the photograph on the shelf.
‘I have found someone, Mandy. Someone special.’
Okay, this time I really didn’t know what to say. She was waiting for me to speak, and the silence was stretching on and on, soon to grow from awkward into uncomfortable. I must have considered and dismissed at least half a dozen comments, and still couldn’t find the right one.
‘Oh.’ I imagine we were both disappointed that that was the best I’d been able to come up with. ‘Do you mean you’ve found someone you like, in the same way you liked grandad?’ I asked tentatively.
Gran’s smile suddenly made her look at least twenty years younger, and I knew in that moment that the person she was thinking of was the one who’d put that look on her face. For a crazy split second, I felt jealous of losing her love to some unknown gentleman friend – ‘boyfriend’ was going to be too much of a stretch, even for me.
‘No, sweetheart, not in the same way that I felt about your grandfather,’ Gran corrected gently. ‘About a thousand times more.’
I sat back in my chair, the air leaving my lungs in one long exhaled whoosh. This was big; it was a lot to take in. I could accept that maybe we’d all been wrong, and that my grandparents hadn’t had the idyllic relationship we’d always thought they’d enjoyed. But it was much harder to get my head around the fact that at the grand old age of seventy-six my grandmother had fallen head over heels in love with someone else. It was the biggest revelation I’d ever had to deal with in all of my seventeen years. Or so I thought.
‘So who is this person?’ I asked. ‘Have I met them? Do they live here in Sunnymede?’ I was a frequent enough visitor to recognise practically all of the elderly residents. And one thing I knew for certain was that the women here outnumbered the men by about three to one. ‘We’re all tough old biddies,’ Gran had once said, winking broadly. ‘We’ve a longer sell-by than the men.’
I felt certain I’d already know Gran’s new man friend, and began scrolling through the elderly gentlemen residents in my head. There were a few who Gran played cards with each week, whose names I was still struggling to remember, when unbelievably I saw my grandmother begin to blush.
‘Josie,’ she said, looking at that moment more like a teenager than I did. It was like one of those freaky Hollywood movies, where somehow two people switch bodies.
‘Pardon?’
‘It’s Josie,’ repeated Gran, and the curve of her bent spine seemed suddenly to straighten with those words. ‘Josie is the one I’m in love with. And…’ That blush was back now, at maximum wattage. ‘… and I’m very happy to say that she loves me too.’
*
I hit my pillow with a clenched fist, as though the feathers and down within were the reason I was still lying there, wide awake at two o’clock in the morning. I had to get some sleep. I had a history test in the morning, and coursework to hand in later; those were the kind of worries I was used to dealing with. But they’d been totally eclipsed by the revelation from my grandmother, who’d bravely come out to me that afternoon and entrusted me with the biggest secret I’d ever been told. The only problem was, I had absolutely no idea what to do with it.
22
‘How did Gran seem to you yesterday?’
The spoonful of muesli I’d just popped into my mouth suddenly seemed to turn to sawdust, making swallowing virtually impossible. I reached for my glass of juice, buying myself a few extra seconds by taking an enormous gulp of Del Monte’s finest.
‘Same as normal, really. Why do you ask?’
I turned my head, addressing my question to the prime minister who was dominating the front cover of the newspaper, behind which my father sat. Mum had given up trying to get him to interact with his own family instead of a broadsheet columnist years ago. To be honest, mornings weren’t his most approachable time, so it was odd that today – of all days – he’d decided to engage me in a conversation about Gran. Or perhaps it wasn’t odd at all. Perhaps he already knew. I dismissed that thought almost as soon as it popped into my head. If my father knew what I knew, there was no way he’d be sitting there calmly munching his way through slices of toast and marmalade. I wasn’t sure how he’d react when Gran eventually shared her secret with him. The only thing I did know was that it would be bad. Very, very bad.
The prime minister twitched and then folded in on himself as my father laid down the newspaper. ‘Because she’s my mother, and it’s only natural to ask if she’s okay.’
‘She seemed fine, Dad,’ I reassured him. ‘Although obviously we weren’t able to chat that much during the concert yesterday.’ That wasn’t quite a lie, but it was teetering dangerously on the edge of one. But at least I hadn’t betrayed Gran’s confidences.
‘Hmm…’ said my father as he drained his second black coffee of the morning. That was his limit. In a minute he’d get to his feet, look down at his watch – his father’s, which he’d worn every day for the last five years – and declare he had to leave now to beat the traffic. He’d drop a couple of absent-minded kisses – one on my mother’s cheek and the other on the top of my head – before disappearing off to do whatever it is that senior accountants do all day. My father was a creature of habit. But weirdly, this morning he was veering off piste. He paused after picking up his briefcase, his fingers restless as they clasped its leather handle. ‘I’ve been a bit concerned about her recently. She’s seemed kind of preoccupied on our last few visits. Not quite “with us”, if you know what I mean.’
My mother was busy slotting dishes into the dishwasher, but she straightened up and turned to face her husband. ‘Your mum is seventy-six, Gerald,’ she said sympathetically. ‘I know you hate thinking about her getting older, but it’s not entirely unexpected for someone her age to start getting a little… forgetful.’
Mum had picked her words carefully. Dementia was my dad’s greatest fear. It had stalked his own father from the shadows for the last few years of his life, and he was secretly convinced it was coming back to claim his mother too.
‘I certainly hope it’s not that,’ he declared sorrowfully, his head shaking from side to side as though in time to a distant tolling bell.
I couldn’t help it. The words seemed to burst from me of their own volition. ‘Gran doesn’t have dementia. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with her mind. She’s as sharp now as she ever was.’
My father crossed the kitchen and laid one big bear paw of a hand on my shoulder. ‘I hope you’re right, sweetheart. I know how fond you are of her.’ He gave a small troubled sigh. ‘But still, there’s something about her lately that I can’t quite put my finger on…’
‘You’re going to be late, Gerald,’ warned my mother, even though he still had plenty of time to reach his office.
I waited until I heard the muted roar of his car starting up before turning to my mother, who’d been eyeing me perceptively since I’d jumped to the defence of my grandmother.
‘Dad does love Gran, doesn’t he? I mean, I know how close he was to Grandad, but he does love her too, doesn’t he?’
A small furrow deepened between my mother’s brows. She was doing her best to keep those lines at bay with a range of Boots’ miracle creams, but they were still visible whenever she looked concerned. I could see them now.
‘Of course he does. What a strange question, Mandy. Why do you ask?’
I fidgeted on my chair, already regretting that I’d mentioned anything. ‘No reason.’
I got quickly to my feet, before I got tangled up in a lie I w
ouldn’t be able to wriggle out of. I paused at the door, where I’d left my bulging tote bag. ‘I might be a little late back this evening. I’m going to pop in and see Gran again.’
My comment set off a silent alarm in my mother’s head, just as I’d feared it might.
‘Again? But you were only there yesterday.’
‘I know, but I think I must have left my history textbook in her room and I’m going to need it for my coursework.’
Mum was going to have to invest in a pot of even more potent cream to get rid of the lines my explanation had created. Her eyes dropped meaningfully down to my open bag, from which protruded a large hardback with Oliver Cromwell on the cover.
‘Isn’t that it, right there?’
I could feel a warmth creeping into my cheeks, and it was simply too much to hope that my observant mother didn’t spot that too.
‘Er no, it’s another book – a different one – that I left at Sunnymede.’
She let it go. But that didn’t mean she believed me. Gran was right. Not much gets past my mother.
*
I’d hoped that once I stepped through the school gates I’d be able to push thoughts of my grandmother from my mind, at least until later that day. But she was right there with me every minute of the morning, as I jostled through crowded corridors between lessons, and stared with unseeing eyes at the test paper in front of me. I wasn’t pleased with the way I’d reacted yesterday. And the more I’d thought about it during the long, lonely, middle-of-the-night hours, the more convinced I became that I’d somehow let her down. Gran had taken a huge leap of faith in telling me about Josie, and I should have been far more supportive and far less shocked. That was why I needed to go back and see her again.
I don’t remember filling in the answers on my history test, which meant I could very well be about to get my first ever F. Strangely, I didn’t even care. At break I slipped quietly away from my usual group of friends, who were heading for the cafeteria, to find a quiet spot in the common room. Turning my back on the noisy ribaldry of the roomful of teenagers, I pulled out my phone and fired off a message. It was brief, and I had no idea if he’d even get a chance to read it until later.
Any chance of meeting up at lunchtime?
I must have timed it just right, for Jamie’s response was practically instant. I’d flaked on our arrangements the night before because my head had been all over the place, so I imagine he thought I wanted to apologise in person. And I did. But surprisingly the need to see him outstripped my desire to do so. I wasn’t in love with Jamie, or so I’d told my grandmother. I still believed I was much too young to understand what that emotion even felt like. And yet in a crisis he was the first person – the only person – I wanted to talk to.
Sure. Park gates at one o’clock?
*
He was there before me, leaning against the wrought-iron railings with two dripping ice cream cornets in hand. I leant up for a kiss before relieving him of one of the melting 99s. Being allowed off school premises during the lunch hour was a sixth-form perk, and yet whenever I signed out to meet Jamie it was hard to shake the feeling that I was doing something clandestine or illicit. It was as though we were having a secret affair, or something. Perhaps if I was bold enough to tell my parents that, despite their disapproval, we were still seeing each other, they might change their minds about the boy who treated me better than anyone had ever done. Was I just as guilty as Gran was of hiding important things from the people I loved? The thought made me uncomfortable, so I pushed it away.
What I liked best about Jamie, after the broad shoulders, beachy tousled hair, and his slightly dangerous ‘edgy’ look, was that he was a really excellent listener. The ice creams were long finished and we’d walked halfway around the park’s boating lake before he spoke.
‘Okaaaay,’ he said, when I finally finished sharing my grandmother’s revelation. At some point during our walk he’d reached for my hand and was still holding on to it tightly. ‘Now I understand why you bailed on me last night.’
‘Sorry about that,’ I said, leaning into his shoulder and welcoming its solid, rock-like quality beneath my cheek. He felt like an anchor in a sea full of shifting currents.
‘It’s kind of weird thinking of someone your gran’s age getting together with anyone – either a man or a woman,’ Jamie said eventually. ‘I guess you always think it’s only people our age who fall madly in love.’
In the six months we’d been dating, this was the first time the L-word had entered our vocabulary, and I already knew I was going to spend a great deal of time later forensically deciphering that sentence to see if he was referring to our own feelings in any way. But for now my grandmother and her relationship was the priority.
‘I just feel so bad for her, knowing that she hadn’t been blissfully happy with my grandad for all those years, and not being able to tell anyone about it. That’s more of a shock to me than how she feels about Josie, to be honest.’
‘Hmm… somehow I don’t think that’s the way your dad’s going to take it,’ Jamie observed, his lips twisting wryly. As someone who’d already been on the receiving end of my father’s disapproval, he probably knew – better than anyone – what he was talking about. ‘For him it’s going to be a double whammy. He won’t like the idea of your gran being with anyone new. Perhaps it’ll be better that she’s fallen in love with a woman rather than replacing your grandfather with another man?’
I stopped on the path and stared up at my boyfriend, who was looking ridiculously attractive in the dappled lunchtime sunshine. ‘Er, hello? Have you met my father?’
Jamie’s laughter was so loud that several birds flew in a startled cloud of feathers from the surrounding trees. He had indeed met my dad, on two memorable and frankly quite disastrous occasions. It hadn’t gone well, and I’d never shared with Jamie the conversations we’d had after he’d dropped me off from those dates. The words ‘dropout’ and ‘tattooed petrol-head’ had featured, and while all were technically accurate, they’d been used as weapons and not as adjectives. Suffice to say that shortly after that we’d taken our relationship ‘underground’, where it had happily flourished in its new subterranean environment. I only hoped that my dad would act in a more generous and liberal-minded way with his elderly mother. But I had my doubts.
‘All you can do is be there for her,’ Jamie advised reasonably. ‘Your dad’s old-fashioned, but he’s not a bigot.’ I bit my lip, and said nothing. ‘He’s probably just going to need some time adjusting to the idea that your gran has found someone else.’
I shook my head, trying and failing to imagine a time when my dad would ever be able to accept such a major change in my grandmother’s life. ‘Seriously, I’m worried Gran won’t live long enough to see that kind of acceptance from my dad. It’ll happen right after pigs start sprouting wings.’
Jamie laughed again, and then picked up my wrist to examine my watch. ‘Sorry, babe, I have to go. They’re going to let me change my first ever clutch this afternoon.’ The dancing light in his eyes told me that for a boy who lived and breathed cars the way he did, this was indeed a big deal.
‘Yay. You go… fit that clutch!’ I said, welcoming the warmth of his lips on mine as they kissed me goodbye.
‘And you go fix that gran,’ he batted back in reply.
*
Gran had a mobile phone, albeit one that was practically out of the Dark Ages. I’d usually text her on it when I was planning on visiting after school, but today I sent no such message. It was only as I crunched my way up Sunnymede’s deep gravelled driveway that it occurred to me she might actually be out on one of the many excursions the home regularly organised.
There was no one at the reception desk to ask, so I signed myself in and wandered down the familiar corridors looking for her. The lounge was empty apart from two elderly gentlemen residents who were snoring loudly from opposite ends of the room, apparently in some sort of competition with each other. My money was on th
e guy in the wheelchair.
There was no reply at Gran’s suite, so I headed for her second favourite room, the conservatory. It was a large and airy addition to the main building, with oversized pots housing tall ferns and palms that provided many private nooks and crannies from which to admire the well-kept gardens.
I saw them straight away. They were sitting side by side on a chintz-covered two-seater, a depleted tea tray in front of them, happily watching the birds taking off and landing on a feeding table outside the French windows. Their heads were close together. Until yesterday, my only thought would have been that it helped them to hear each other better. Today I knew differently. Their obvious affection for each other made me smile, as I watched them unseen from the doorway. Josie’s hair was a flyaway crown of steel grey curls, while Gran’s was pure white and angora soft. As I child I’d loved to run my fingers through it, playing hairdresser and probably ruining a style she’d spent ages in a salon to achieve. And yet she’d never stopped me. An unexpected lump formed in my throat as I realised just how much I loved this woman, who’d shaped my life in so many ways.
Josie’s hearing wasn’t as sharp as Gran’s. She jumped, obviously startled, as I called out a cheerful hello and walked towards them. Gran’s smile was a mixture of warmth and surprise.
‘Mandy,’ she cried, and it was only as I bent down to kiss the velvet folds of her cheek that I noticed she and Josie had been holding hands as they watched the birds in the garden. Josie, looking embarrassed, had quickly pulled her hand away as though she’d been caught shoplifting. I felt an ache of sadness for the woman who’d stolen my grandmother’s heart. I couldn’t imagine how hard it must be, feeling guilty for something so natural, as though you’d done something wrong. I knew almost nothing about Josie’s past – Gran had never mentioned it – but that one action told me more than a hundred conversations ever could.
‘Well, this is a wonderful surprise, Mandy dear. I had no idea you were popping in again today.’
