dressed in a thin nightie,and there are goosebumps on her scrawny arms.
Now I knock, to warn her that I’m here. ‘Hey, Grandma. It’s me, Ashley.’ She looks at me, but there’s no sign of recognition. I’m used to this, have learned that so long as I don’t frighten her it’s okay to stay. Sometimes, though it’s really rare, she’ll suddenly say my name and smile like she remembers me — that’s such a buzz.
I unhook her tatty candlewick dressing gown from the back of her door and help her put it on. It’s just like helping Mikey dress when he was small: stiff, awkward arms not quite knowing what to do. Next I show her the camellias. Place them in her lap so she can touch them. Her hands are thin, like wrinkly claws, her fingernails ridged and horny — though, to give the nurses credit, they’re filed and clean. She pulls a petal from a bud and goes to put it in her mouth. I take her hand. ‘No, Grandma, they’re not for eating.’
Her gaze slides to my face, and she gently traces my features with her fingers. Just like Mikey at the morgue with Dad. It makes me want to cry.
‘Handsome,’ she says, and pats my cheek. Then she wags her spindly index finger at me. ‘You naughty man.’ She giggles like a flirty girl.
There are dead flowers in the vase on her windowsill, no doubt brought by Dad, so I chuck them in the bin and try to arrange the camellias. Dad came here twice a week, even though she’s not his mum. He said she had nobody else, that he would never let her die alone. I always thought it was sweet the way he stuck with Grandma despite Mum’s death. Now it makes me wonder: if Mum is alive, what the hell is she doing leaving Dad to cope? To pay? Jeezus. It’s not just me andMikey who she turned her back on, but Grandma too.
‘Dad’s dead, Grandma,’ I blurt.
Her forehead wrinkles into deep-etched waves. ‘Dead?’
‘The UPR planted a bomb and blew him up.’ It’s stupid, I know she can’t understand this, but I have to tell her anyway — the words are boiling up inside. ‘And now they’ve hit the railway station and they’re training troops.’
‘Have you seen Archie?’ Her eyes are so faded they’re barely blue. ‘He told me he was going to the shop.’
She always asks this, it’s on a loop inside her head. She loved my Grandad heaps — the kind of love I always thought existed between Mum and Dad.
‘He’ll be back soon,’ I reassure her. It’s not really a lie: sometimes she talks to him like he’s still here.
‘Gracie’s gone.’
‘Where to, Grandma?’ Hell, it’s worth a try.
‘She’s very sick.’
‘With what?’
Grandma paws at her nightie, scraping at something that isn’t there. ‘She’s somewhere very dark. It’s not like her at all.’
I squat down beside her and take her hand. ‘Never mind. Mikey and I are still here.’ It’s not the words that matter, just a soothing voice.
With more strength than I’d have expected, she pulls me into a bony embrace. ‘Poor child. My husband’s dead as well.’
The kindness in her voice nearly does me in. Could she understand about Dad after all? I have to gulp down air to hold myself together, clinging to her fragile frame like it’s a raft.
When her stomach rumbles and mine answers I trek down to the kitchen to find her something to eat. Gina, the lovely Samoan cook, is there already and insists on giving me a sympathetic hug. I take Grandma back a big bowl of porridge and help her eat — she’s forgotten how to get the spoon into her mouth. When she says she’s had enough, I bolt down the rest.
There’s a book lying on Grandma’s bedside table — The Collected Poems of Walter de la Mare, one of her favourites. It’s the book Jiao had too, the first time we met. I don’t suppose I should think anything’s weird any more, but it’s a bizarre, unsettling coincidence.
I begin to read it aloud: ‘ O, make no compact with the sun, / No compact with the moon! / Night falls
Now I knock, to warn her that I’m here. ‘Hey, Grandma. It’s me, Ashley.’ She looks at me, but there’s no sign of recognition. I’m used to this, have learned that so long as I don’t frighten her it’s okay to stay. Sometimes, though it’s really rare, she’ll suddenly say my name and smile like she remembers me — that’s such a buzz.
I unhook her tatty candlewick dressing gown from the back of her door and help her put it on. It’s just like helping Mikey dress when he was small: stiff, awkward arms not quite knowing what to do. Next I show her the camellias. Place them in her lap so she can touch them. Her hands are thin, like wrinkly claws, her fingernails ridged and horny — though, to give the nurses credit, they’re filed and clean. She pulls a petal from a bud and goes to put it in her mouth. I take her hand. ‘No, Grandma, they’re not for eating.’
Her gaze slides to my face, and she gently traces my features with her fingers. Just like Mikey at the morgue with Dad. It makes me want to cry.
‘Handsome,’ she says, and pats my cheek. Then she wags her spindly index finger at me. ‘You naughty man.’ She giggles like a flirty girl.
There are dead flowers in the vase on her windowsill, no doubt brought by Dad, so I chuck them in the bin and try to arrange the camellias. Dad came here twice a week, even though she’s not his mum. He said she had nobody else, that he would never let her die alone. I always thought it was sweet the way he stuck with Grandma despite Mum’s death. Now it makes me wonder: if Mum is alive, what the hell is she doing leaving Dad to cope? To pay? Jeezus. It’s not just me andMikey who she turned her back on, but Grandma too.
‘Dad’s dead, Grandma,’ I blurt.
Her forehead wrinkles into deep-etched waves. ‘Dead?’
‘The UPR planted a bomb and blew him up.’ It’s stupid, I know she can’t understand this, but I have to tell her anyway — the words are boiling up inside. ‘And now they’ve hit the railway station and they’re training troops.’
‘Have you seen Archie?’ Her eyes are so faded they’re barely blue. ‘He told me he was going to the shop.’
She always asks this, it’s on a loop inside her head. She loved my Grandad heaps — the kind of love I always thought existed between Mum and Dad.
‘He’ll be back soon,’ I reassure her. It’s not really a lie: sometimes she talks to him like he’s still here.
‘Gracie’s gone.’
‘Where to, Grandma?’ Hell, it’s worth a try.
‘She’s very sick.’
‘With what?’
Grandma paws at her nightie, scraping at something that isn’t there. ‘She’s somewhere very dark. It’s not like her at all.’
I squat down beside her and take her hand. ‘Never mind. Mikey and I are still here.’ It’s not the words that matter, just a soothing voice.
With more strength than I’d have expected, she pulls me into a bony embrace. ‘Poor child. My husband’s dead as well.’
The kindness in her voice nearly does me in. Could she understand about Dad after all? I have to gulp down air to hold myself together, clinging to her fragile frame like it’s a raft.
When her stomach rumbles and mine answers I trek down to the kitchen to find her something to eat. Gina, the lovely Samoan cook, is there already and insists on giving me a sympathetic hug. I take Grandma back a big bowl of porridge and help her eat — she’s forgotten how to get the spoon into her mouth. When she says she’s had enough, I bolt down the rest.
There’s a book lying on Grandma’s bedside table — The Collected Poems of Walter de la Mare, one of her favourites. It’s the book Jiao had too, the first time we met. I don’t suppose I should think anything’s weird any more, but it’s a bizarre, unsettling coincidence.
I begin to read it aloud: ‘ O, make no compact with the sun, / No compact with the moon! / Night falls
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