Just a Family Affair by Veronica Henry Page B

was a strong smell of burning. Mayday rushed over to the Aga, where the kettle had boiled itself dry. She stuck her hand in an oven glove and pulled it off.
    ‘Gran! What happened?’
    ‘I must have fallen asleep.’ Elsie blinked. Her eyes were unnaturally pink. Mayday peered at her.
    ‘Have you been crying?’
    ‘No, no. It’s . . .’ Elsie cast round for an excuse, but was still too groggy to think of one. Mayday pressed her lips together.
    ‘Mum’s been here, hasn’t she?’ Her mother was the only person on the planet who could upset Elsie. And who chose to upset her. ‘What did she say?’
    For a moment, Elsie considered saying nothing. She didn’t like stirring up trouble between her daughter and granddaughter. But she wanted reassurance that Angela’s suggestion was outrageous, because the more she thought about it the more sense it seemed to make. After all, how could she carry on the way she was? At Coppice House, she would be fed and waited on, there would be somebody on hand to help if she couldn’t reach something, or open something. Even now, she had to resort to shapeless tops and elasticated skirts to avoid fiddly zips and buttons. Elsie was no fashion plate, but she liked a nice crisp cotton blouse. And shoelaces - who would have thought that shoe laces would become a luxury? She suddenly loathed the cushioned slip-on shoes she’d bought from Marks and Spencer.
    She decided she would retain as neutral a tone as possible when mooting Angela’s idea to Mayday.
    ‘Your mother thinks I should move into Coppice House.’
    Mayday’s response was immediate, as she dumped the cool box on the table and put her hands on her hips, tossing back her black hair in a gesture of indignation.
    ‘What? Is she mad?’
    Elsie immediately felt mollified. The idea was preposterous.
    ‘That dump?’ Mayday went on. ‘You’d be better off in one of Mum’s dog kennels, which is really saying something. Joyce Hardiment is only interested in one thing and that’s profit. Not the welfare of her patients. If it was up to her they would lie on a plastic mattress wallowing in their own wee all day, being fed on a drip so she didn’t have to pay any staff. They’ve had E-coli there three times, it’s so filthy.’ Mayday pulled off the lid of the cool box and took out a plate of chicken casserole, going over to the range and sliding it into the top oven to reheat. ‘No, Gran. If you want to go into a home, we’ll find you somewhere nice. Not somewhere run by a money-grabbing old cow.’
    Elsie looked down at her hands folded in her lap. So it was Coppice House that Mayday objected to, not the idea of a home. She blinked hard to stop the tears of self-pity betraying her. For the first time since he died she thought perhaps Bill had had a lucky, if premature, escape. At least he hadn’t undergone the indignity of being a crippled nuisance, packed off to an institution for the elderly and infirm. That’s what she was: elderly and infirm.
    ‘I expect Joyce is short of takers or something.’ Mayday was busying herself round the kitchen, refilling the kettle. ‘I hope you told Mum where to shove it.’
    She picked up the teabag box, and Elsie watched in envy as she peeled away the cellophane in one easy movement, then lifted down the brown teapot from its place on the shelf.
    ‘Tell you what.’ Mayday lifted the kettle, which had by now reboiled, and poured the hot water in a steady stream. ‘Why don’t I do your hair? You deserve a bit of pampering. Have your tea, then we’ll give you a shampoo and set. You won’t know yourself.’
    ‘Lovely,’ said Elsie, and obediently ate her chicken.
    She couldn’t quite pluck up the courage to ask Mayday to help her with her bed. Mayday had only changed the sheets on Friday. But last night Elsie had woken in the early hours desperate for a wee. The pain in her knees had been so excruciating, she couldn’t face getting up. She’d tried to ignore the persistence in