The TV in the ‘parlour’ is blasting out Homes Under the Hammer.
‘Look at this garden,’ says Dad. ‘Your granddad would have a heart attack.’
‘He did, didn’t he – twice?’
‘Maybe it’s just as well,’ says Dad, unlocking the French windows. ‘According to him, the whole world was going to the dogs.’
‘I know. He told me – more than once.’
‘Are you coming in then?’
‘Maybe I’ll wait out here for a bit. She might not want to see me.’
‘Of course she will. You read her letter.’
The question is, do I want to see her? ‘You’d better make sure she hasn’t changed her mind.’
‘Fair enough.’
I circle the garden (round and round like a teddy bear) and try to get my head together.
Back in the house, Dad is screaming at Grandma.
‘About an hour and a half, Mum … No, Mum, I was very careful, I always am … No, don’t get up, I’ll make it.’ It’s weird how his voice changes when he starts talking about me. ‘She’s outside … Yes … Yes, I … think so, much better … Of course she wants to see you, why wouldn’t she?’
Five laps later, Dad appears at the French windows looking like a surly schoolboy. ‘I’m going to tidy up out here. Why don’t you pop inside for a chat?’
‘… Okay.’
Dad steps into the fresh air; I step into the 1970s. At least it still smells nice – cherry cake and wood polish, not decaying old people.
The parlour door is open. I glimpse the white of Grandma’s perm sitting in front of a pointlessly deafening subtitled telly. A surge of affection does battle with a tsunami of rage.
I take a deep breath before I step out in front of her. ‘Hello, Grandma.’
‘Is that you … Lauren?’
At least she remembered my name. ‘Yes, Grandma.’
‘Hang on a minute, I can’t hear a thing,’ she says, aiming the remote at a property developer. ‘Bloody rubbish anyway. He paid eight thousand pounds for that kitchen and there was nothing wrong with the old one.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Now, let’s have a look at you.’
I thought about wearing my shortest skirt just to freak her out, but I’ve opted for jeans and my Trust Me, I’m The Doctor T-shirt instead. ‘Hello, Grandma.’
Her glasses are about an inch thick. What big eyes she’s got!
‘Quite the young lady, aren’t we?’
‘Uh-huh.’
It already feels like one of those phone conversations where the sound keeps dropping out.
‘So, how are you … Lauren?’
‘How are you, Grandma?’
‘Oh, you know, sitting up and taking punishment.’
‘Right.’
More dead air.
‘You’d better be Mother,’ she says, nodding at the beanie-hatted teapot on the tray. ‘I’m a bit shaky these days.’
I slip into the empty chair beside her and reach for the strainer.
‘Milk first. You haven’t forgotten, have you?’
‘No, Grandma. I haven’t forgotten.’
‘Have a biscuit.’ Four bleeding hearts lie in wait for me on a bone china plate. ‘I got you your favourites – Jammie Dodgers.’
(Yeah, about ten years ago.) ‘No thanks.’
‘Looking after your figure, eh?’
‘Uh-huh.’
The clink of cup on saucer and the ominous banging from the bottom of the garden can’t disguise another gaping hole in the conversation. I check the room for elephants. At first it looks clean. There are photos of me and Tilda everywhere – on the beach, playing French cricket with Granddad, that year they took us on the Easter egg hunt. It’s only when you look closer that the uncomfortable truth starts to emerge. Because whereas Tilda turns into the stroppy teenager we all know and love, it’s like I never made it to puberty.
And that’s when I lose it, jumping out of Granddad’s favourite armchair and prowling the room like a claustrophobic alley cat. ‘What am I even doing here?’
More tinkling teacups. ‘I thought we could try to —’
‘And why did you ask me in the first place? You’re obviously regretting it.’
‘Of course I’m not.’
‘Yeah, right, that’s why you’ve spent the last two years avoiding me.’
She looks about four sizes smaller these days, as if she’s shrunk in the wash. ‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘The stupid thing is I believed them at first.’
‘Believed what?’
‘All those pathetic excuses: Granddad wasn’t up to visitors; you’d decided to spend Christmas in a hotel that year; it was too far on the train. But it didn’t take me long to figure it out.’
‘I’m sorry, Tiger.’
‘Don’t you dare call me that.’
‘At least let me try and explain, pet.’
‘You couldn’t even be bothered to write.’
‘I didn’t know what to say.’
‘Well, that’s a first.’
Her sad smile is a mixture of black holes and yellowness.
‘I thought you loved me.’
‘I’ll always love you,’ she says angrily. ‘I’ve loved you since the day your dad told me I was going to be a grandmother.’
‘So why did you cut me off like that? How do you think that made me feel?’
Her swollen fingers contract round the arms of her chair. ‘I didn’t want to. Really I didn’t.’
‘Then why?’
‘It was Don,’ she whispers.
‘Granddad?’
‘You know what he was like. He was old-fashioned, even in 1957. He just couldn’t understand what you’d done.’
‘Okay, so if it was all down to Granddad, why did you ban me from his funeral?’
‘I didn’t … Not really.’
‘You told Mum and Dad not to bring me.’
‘I’m sorry, Lauren, I —’
‘Tilda was there.’
‘We thought she’d cope better. You’d had a lot on your mind.’
‘That is bollocks and you know it.’
I’ve often wondered what it would feel like swearing at her: not half as good as I expected.
‘Please, Lauren. Sit down and drink your tea.’
‘Even people in prison get let out for funerals.’
She dabs her cheek with a tissue, wiping away a gobbet of moisture, not tears but that gooey stuff from her glaucoma treatment. ‘I’m sorry, Lauren. That was your granddad too. He told me he didn’t want you there.’
‘But you could have talked to him, couldn’t you? And then afterwards, when he was dead, you could have invited me, anyway?’
‘There was no talking to Donald. Once he’d made his mind up about something he was like the Rock of Gibraltar. Even in the hospital, after his second do, he still kept on about it.’
‘I thought Granddad loved me too.’
‘He did. You meant the world to him. But he could never see beyond the —’
‘You mean he had nothing better to do on his deathbed than plan the guest list for his funeral?’
‘He was thinking of Auntie Dolly and his friends from the photography club.’
‘What?’
‘And you.’
‘Eh?’
‘He didn’t want you turning into some kind of sideshow.’
There’s a brief moment of calm followed by an after-surge of anger. ‘You still didn’t have to go along with it.’
‘I know. But it’s what I signed up for. Love, honour and obey. That’s how it was back then.’
‘You’re joking, aren’t you? Mum thought that was the funniest line in the whole wedding ceremony.’
‘Maybe things are different these days. A young woman starting out now has so much more control of her life.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘When I first met Don, I was working in a dress shop – assistant man
ageress. I loved that job. But as soon as we were married he made me hand in my notice. He didn’t want the neighbours thinking he couldn’t support me.’
‘That is so messed up.’
‘Don didn’t see it that way. No one did. And he was a good man, Lauren. Like that advert, he did what it said on the tin. I’d made him a promise and I couldn’t go back on it. But maybe I should have been stronger. Like you, Tiger.’
And this time they’re real tears roller-coastering down her bumpy old face. ‘Oh, my darling, I’ve been so worried about you. But your dad says things are looking better for you these days.’
‘Yes, much better, thanks.’ I perch on the side of her armchair, squeezing her hand and drinking in the comforting smell of oranges and her eau de cologne
‘I’m sorry, Lauren. I’ve been about as much use as a chocolate teapot. I just wish I’d tried harder to understand.’
‘It is kind of complicated.’
‘So why don’t you tell me everything? Please, Lauren. I’d really like to know.’
I start at the very beginning, when Tilda was a baby, figuring that if I take things slowly, it might just make sense. ‘You remember how angry I used to get sometimes?’
‘Do I ever,’ smiles Grandma.
‘I think that was because —’
‘Sorry, Mum, could I borrow Lauren for a second?’ Dad is standing in the doorway, every inch the insurance salesman masquerading as a handyman. ‘I’m going to have to sort out the shed roof. And I need someone to hold the stepladder for me.’
Later, when Dad popped upstairs to ‘fix’ the curtain rail, I finally got half an hour alone with her to try to explain. I’m not sure she’ll ever get her head around it, but at least I know she’s making an effort, because after tinned-salmon sandwiches, lemon drizzle cake and The Archers, she presents me with a small black box.
‘This is for you, Lauren.’
‘What is it?’
‘Have a look.’
Inside is a necklace with square pink stones separated by delicate white beads.
‘It’s art deco, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know about that,’ says Grandma. ‘And it’s only glass, my lovely. But my mother wore it on her wedding day so it’s part of the family history.’
‘Are you sure about this, Grandma? What about Tilda?’
‘You’re my eldest granddaughter, you should have it.’
‘Thank you, it’s lovely.’ And compared with the 1990s wedding dress that Mum is seriously expecting one of us to walk down the aisle in, it really is. But not half as lovely as hearing Grandma call me her eldest granddaughter and almost sounding like she’s proud.
‘Well, you might want it for dressing up.’
‘I don’t really do that any more, Grandma.’
‘No, of course not. You’re a lovely young woman now. So don’t forget to send me an up-to-date photo.’
‘I won’t, Grandma.’
I have to admit I’m still a bit misty-eyed later when she waves us off with her stick from the front door.
‘Cheerio, Mum,’ bellows Dad. ‘Take care of yourself. I’ll see you at Christmas.’
I wave and wave like a five-year-old.
Safely back in cruise mode, Dad sticks on a Rolling Stones CD and attempts some geriatric headbanging. ‘Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘And you’ll come again sometime, won’t you?’
‘Yes, yes, I think I will.’
I’ve always thought that forgiveness was just a word that people use to make themselves look good. So I’m not saying that things will ever be the same between us, but I’m starting to understand why Grandma acted the way she did.
And something else is clearer too. It doesn’t matter how much you love someone, you shouldn’t give them complete control of your life. Sooner or later, you’ve got to make some decisions for yourself. So I reach into my jeans pocket and take out my phone.
‘Who are you texting?’ asks Dad.
‘Just someone from school.’
The headbanging stops. ‘You are careful about who you give your number to, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah … course.’
‘And you do remember what I said about being too trusting?’
‘Yes, Dad. Look, there’s nothing to worry about, okay?’
Well, nothing apart from getting the words exactly right. It’s not too flirty, is it?
Want to do something tomorrow? Can I come round yours? Lauren X
21
HAPPY HARRY
Only an expert in parental paranoia, like I am, could detect the note of panic in her voice. She reminds me of a shopping channel presenter – well dressed and friendly on the heavily mascaraed face of it, but you sense the desperation inside. ‘Hello. You must be Lauren.’
‘Yes. Hi.’
‘Hurry up, Harry, your friend’s here.’
There are probably a hundred and one questions she’s dying to ask me. I’d put money on the top three involving sex, drugs and what my parents do for a living, but the rules of the game mean she has to play nice.
‘Harry’s just putting a clean shirt on. He won’t be a minute.’
I didn’t dress up, otherwise Mum would have been suspicious – although I did stop in the leisure centre toilets to slap on some concealer. Tilda gets to spend the whole day in Brighton with her new friends no questions asked; I get the third degree every time I leave the house.
‘You found us all right then?’
They live on the top floor of some three-storey apartments near the park. There’s a nasty prison-cell lift, but I took the stairs instead. ‘Yes, fine, thanks. I’ve got Google Maps on my phone.’ Why can’t I stop talking? ‘That’s a lovely view of the garden.’
‘We share it with the other flats, but sometimes in the summer the residents’ committee organises a barbecue and we all … Hurry up, Harry.’
I’m not very good at this – meeting the parent/s. Then again, I haven’t had much practice recently. ‘That sounds really …’
‘So anyway … I hear you and Harry are in the same English group.’
‘That’s right. And we’re both helping out with the fashion show.’
‘I expect you’re one of the models, aren’t you? I love those jeggings. They are jeggings, aren’t they?’
‘That’s right.’
It’s not fair really, because I still remember quite a bit about her. We haven’t actually met before, but I know Harry’s dad moved to Manchester with a kitchen designer, and unless his mum’s changed jobs in the last four years she’s a primary school teacher who really wanted to be a chef.
‘And how are you finding it up at St Thomas’s?’
‘It’s not too —’
‘She’s doing fine, aren’t you?’ says Harry, still buttoning his shirt as he comes to my rescue. ‘What’s with all the questions, Mum?’
‘We were just talking, weren’t we, Lauren?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Harry said you’re new to the area. Where did you live before?’
‘Give her a break, Mum, she’s only just arrived.’
‘And what about your parents, Lauren – how do they like it here? Bit quiet I expect.’
‘Tell you what, why don’t you make a list of questions and I’ll email them to her?’ says Harry.
‘Sorry, Lauren, I was only … Would you like a drink?’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
‘Right, we’re off to my room,’ says Harry. ‘To listen to music or something.’
‘Okay then,’ says his mum. ‘But are you sure you don’t want to watch telly in here? I’ll be catching up with some marking so I won’t disturb you.’
‘We’ll probably need the Xbox,’ says Harry.
‘Lauren doesn’t want to mess about on your Xbox, do you, Lauren?’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘Fair enough,’ she says, stealing another glance at Harry. I’ve seen that loo
k before. My mum does it all the time. It doesn’t matter how long ago it happened, or how well they’re doing now, if your kid’s life turns to shit for a while, you spend the next hundred years reassuring yourself that it’s not about to kick off again. ‘Good, good … Right, well, have a … great time and, er, nice to meet you, Lauren.’
‘Yes, you too.’
Harry leads me down the corridor. ‘That’s the bathroom, that’s Mum’s room and there’s a little office space next door. And this is me.’ Is the estate-agent patter supposed to be funny or is he as nervous as I am?
His bedroom is pleasingly lacking in the teenage boy smells I always do my best to avoid. And ridiculously tidy – a picture of all four Beatles on a clutter-free chest of drawers, an IKEA bookcase (books, CDs and Xbox games in alphabetical order), a lonely laptop on a pine desk and Blu-Tacked above it a revision timetable for the mocks.
‘I can’t believe you, Harry.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s like an IKEA showroom in here.’
‘Tidy bedroom, tidy mind.’ He smiles, screwing his index finger into the side of his head and drooling like a cartoon lunatic.
‘If you say so.’
‘Which reminds me, this is for you.’ He takes a plastic bag from the wardrobe and hands it to me.
‘What is it?
‘I was going to give it to you at school, but you might as well have it now.’
It’s the trainer I dropped at Izzy’s party. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I’m kind of disappointed. ‘Oh right, thanks.’
He flips open his laptop and brings up his Spotify playlist. ‘You can sit on the bed if you like. I’ll take the chair.’
‘Sure I won’t crease your lovely duvet?’
Harry grins. ‘No, you’re fine.’
At least his taste in music has improved. ‘Sorry about the other night, running off like that. My dad was waiting in the car.’
‘No worries,’ says Harry. ‘What made you change your mind?’
‘About what?’
‘About, you know, getting together now?’
‘Well, there’s no reason we can’t be friends, is there?’
‘You tell me, Lauren.’
‘Like you said, we can take things slowly and see what happens.’
Only We Know Page 8