Don't You Forget About Me Part 20

'Huh?' There's a lot of thumping around and Fiona appears, bleary-eyed, hair all mussed up, wearing her animal slippers and coffee-stained dressing gown. I swear, it never ceases to amaze me how she can go from looking like this in the morning which I call 'normal Fiona' to the kimono-clad, blow-dried, lip-glossed version known as 'man-spent-the-night' Fiona. It's as though they're two completely different people.

Letting out a giant yawn, normal Fiona looks at me, then at the kitchen floor.

'Oh s.h.i.+t.'

'Exactly,' I nod, pleased that she took the words right out of my mouth and now I don't have to explain.

Tallulah, it appears, isn't yet toilet-trained and has had an accident in the night. In fact, several, I notice, looking at the piles dotted across the lino as if there's been a mole in here.

'Where is she?'

'Hmm, judging by the trail, I think she must have gone that way.' I gesture behind the sofa.

Sleepily she starts shuffling across the kitchen, when suddenly I notice 'Watch out!' a hidden pile behind the yucca plant.

It's too late.

'f.u.c.k!' she curses, as her furry animal slipper steps right in it. 'That f.u.c.king dog!'

'I thought you said to Pippa she was super-cute?' I reply, my mouth twitching with amus.e.m.e.nt.

Standing in a pile of dog s.h.i.+t, Fiona's jaw clenches. I can see her loyalties wavering, and for a moment I think she's finally had enough of Pippa. That she's finally seen what she's really like. But then, 'Well yes, Tallulah is super-cute, of course,' she says, doing a U-turn and forcing her grimace into a smile. 'Tallulah, sweetie . . .' she calls out, balancing on one leg whilst gingerly trying to slide her other foot out of the offending slipper. 'Come to Mummy's friend.'

There's the sound of scuffling, then a loud meow, and Tallulah scuttles out from underneath the sofa, chased by Flea who also seems to have mistaken her for a tiny rat. 'Aww, look, she's so sweet,' coos Fiona, picking her up. She holds her awkwardly out at arm's length as Tallulah growls and bares her teeth. Fiona is not what you'd call an animal person. She's nervous around them. Not surprising, considering that at school she killed not one, not two, but three cla.s.s gerbils by over-feeding them, until fearing she would soon have a gerbil ma.s.sacre on her hands, Miss Douglas, the teacher, had to ban her from being the Gerbil Monitor. Of course it wasn't intentional; I think she was overcompensating for the fact that she was constantly hungry herself.

Still, let's just hope Pippa's puppy doesn't suffer the same fate as Flopsy, Topsy or Mitzy, I think, looking at her with a beat of worry as she feeds her a treat.

'See, she likes me,' she continues, throwing me a see-I'm-not-totally-useless-with-animals look.

'Um, yes, I can see that . . .' I gesture downwards.

Fiona looks at me blankly, then follows my gaze. 'Oh c.r.a.p!' she wails.

'No, not this time.' I can't help laughing, and together we both watch helplessly as Tallulah pees all over her dressing gown.

Afterwards I feel a bit bad for laughing and offer to help clear up, but Fiona makes a big deal of 'showing me the hand' to silence me. 'Pippa is my friend, and Tallulah is my responsibility,' she says, sniffily. 'And by the way, Flopsy, Topsy and Mitzy were an accident,' she adds defensively. 'How was I to know they couldn't eat pizza? I was only eight.'

I leave her liberally squirting the kitchen with an expensive bottle of designer perfume she's been sent to review in her column it was her turn to buy air-freshener and as usual she's forgotten and we've run out and quickly go and get ready. Gramps called yesterday, all excited, to tell me he'd found the perfect b.u.t.tons for the bag I'm making and I promised I'd go and visit him today. What with work and Seb, I haven't seen him all week.

But first I want to pop into the charity shop where I found the material I'm using.

'Oh, I remember you,' greets the woman behind the counter as I walk inside, 'you bought that old flour sack, didn't you?'

'Yes, that's me,' I smile.

'Thought so. I never forget a face. I remember thinking how funny it was you only wanted that and not any of the clothes that were inside it,' she laughs heartily, causing the gla.s.ses that are hanging on a chain around her neck to bounce up and down on her mohair chest. 'So what can I do for you?'

'I wondered if you had any more?' I ask hopefully.

'Well, it's funny you should ask, but the old lady just came by to drop off some more things,' she beams delightedly. 'You just missed her. She's lovely, from France you know . . .'

d.a.m.n, I would have liked to have met this mysterious French lady, I muse, glancing towards the pile of cardboard boxes she's left.

'Apparently her husband died not so long ago and she's having a clear-out.'

For the next fifteen minutes I rummage through the belongings of someone else's life: plates that someone has eaten dinners from with family and friends; a vase that's held flowers given by loved ones; a red silk dress no doubt bought for a special occasion, a party maybe . . . I imagine the old French lady wearing this when she was much younger, her husband twirling her around the dance floor in some wonderful hotel in Paris with a chandelier and a band playing, telling her how beautiful she looked . . .

My mind drifts off. That's the wonderful thing about charity shops: everything has a history; everything has a past and memories attached; everything has a story. It's fascinating to imagine what it was, to think about the stranger you're never going to meet, but how their life has touched yours simply through a vase that once belonged to them and is now sitting on your shelf, filled with spring flowers.

I end up finding a couple more brightly patterned flour sacks and, removing the contents, quickly buy them, along with a pair of old dungarees with leather braces. Then, leaving my number in case the old French lady should drop by again, I go outside and jump on the bus.

For once there's hardly any traffic and, arriving at Hemmingway House, I walk into reception, where I spot Miss Temple talking to another member of staff. Lowering my head, I try to skulk by without her seeing me.

'Ah, Miss Connelly . . .'

But of course it's hopeless. Getting by Miss Temple is how I imagine getting through Checkpoint Charlie used to be. I look over and try to pin on a nonchalant smile.

'Miss Temple,' I nod.

'About your grandfather . . .'

Oh no, what now?

'Could you please remind him that the games room is meant for quiet relax-'

But I don't get to hear the rest of her sentence as it's drowned out by a loud commotion that blasts out from the double doors with the force of an explosion.

Two old ladies, making their way through reception, look startled and cling onto each other.

Oh s.h.i.+te. This time Gramps is going to be in big trouble.

'I'll tell him right away!' I yell, trying to make myself heard above the din and, leaving Miss Temple trying to calm down the old ladies who are saying something about the Blitz, I hurry towards the games room.

Once through the double doors the noise amplifies. And to think I used to a.s.sume retirement homes were filled with people quietly embroidering in b.u.t.ton-back chairs, I think, heading towards the crowd cl.u.s.tered around a large table in the far corner of the room. As I approach, I can hear an argument going on.

'You can't have that!'

'Yes I b.l.o.o.d.y well can!'

'But it's disgusting!'

'So what? It's a word, isn't it?'

'Gramps?'

Excusing my way past a bald-headed man on a mobility scooter, I catch sight of Phyllis shouting at my granddad, who's thumping his fist on the table. Hearing my voice, he looks up and peers through his half-moon spectacles, his bright blue eyes flicking across faces until he finally spots mine. 'Tess, darling!' he booms, his face lighting up. 'What brings you here?'

'We spoke yesterday and I arranged to come and see you. We were going to work on my bag, remember?' I smile, trying to ignore the worrying thought that his memory seems to be getting even worse. 'Did you forget?'

'Not at all, not at all,' he protests cheerfully. 'I was just playing a game of Scrabble until you arrived.'

Scrabble? It's only then that I notice a Scrabble board on the table.

'This is what all the arguing's about?' I ask, in disbelief.

Forgive me, but there was me thinking Scrabble was a quiet, una.s.suming board game, and the nearest you got to any kind of excitement was getting a seven-letter word. Not the cause of a near riot.

'He used a rude word,' accuses Phyllis, from across the table.

'Gramps!' I say, shocked.

'It's not a rude word, it's-'

'Don't you repeat that again, Sidney Archibald Connelly,' warns Phyllis, stabbing a bony finger in his direction. 'Or I'll have your guts for garters.'

Crikey. I didn't realise Phyllis could be so scary. There was me thinking she was the nice old lady with the shortbread fingers and a crush on Gramps.

'Maybe we should go now,' I suggest tactfully, raising an eyebrow at him.

'What do you want to bet it's in the dictionary?' he demands, ignoring me and reaching for the thick red-leather-bound volume in the middle of the table.

That's the problem with Gramps. He can be so pig-headedly stubborn.

'Gramps,' I hiss, glaring at him.

'Aye go on, look it up,' jeers the bald-headed man on the scooter, and there's a ripple of dissent from the gathered crowd.

Oh Christ. It's fast turning into a mob mentality. At this rate he's definitely going to be kicked out. Miss Temple is on the warpath and he's on his last warning.

Taking a deep breath, I step into the fray. 'OK, that's it,' I say, doing my best to sound authoritative. 'Game over.' And reaching for the Scrabble board, I fold it firmly in half.

'Awwww.' There's a loud groan of disappointment.

'Sorry,' I say to the other players. 'But if you can't play quietly . . .'

I suddenly realise I'm sounding just like my mother when she used to tell me and my brother off. Which is OK when it's children and you're their parent, but slightly more embarra.s.sing when they're adults with an average age of eighty.

Telling Granddad to 'say goodbye to your friends', I march him back to his room. 'Honestly Gramps,' I tut, plumping his cus.h.i.+ons and easing him down on to his leather sofa, 'you're going to get yourself into big trouble one day.'

'I know, I know,' he nods sheepishly, reaching for a bag of Jelly Babies and offering me one. 'It was fun though, wasn't it?' he adds, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

I try not to smile. 'Phyllis was very angry,' I scold, sitting down next to him and sticking my hand in the bag.

'Pah, Phyllis. She likes a good argument, gets the juices flowing.' He lets out a chuckle. 'Anyhow, it wasn't a rude word, it was-'

'I saw it on the Scrabble board,' I say quickly, cutting him off. Despite my resolve, a giggle rises up inside of me. That's the problem with Gramps: it's impossible to stay angry with him. 'You are terrible, you know,' I tease, elbowing him in the ribs.

He elbows me back, and we both look at each other and break out laughing.

'If Nan was alive she'd make you wash your mouth out with soap,' I giggle.

'She'd do more than that, all right,' he chuckles, but there's a glint of sadness in his eyes and he glances towards a black-and-white photograph on the side table. It's their wedding photograph, taken nearly fifty-seven years ago. They look so young her in a simple white dress and him in an old-fas.h.i.+oned suit and they're smiling excitedly at each other, their whole lives ahead of them.

'I do miss her, you know,' he says quietly.

'I know you do,' I nod, the understatement of his words causing a lump in my throat. Reaching out I clasp his worn hand in mine. 'We all do.'

For a moment we stay like that until, giving himself a little shake, as if to stir himself out of the past, he turns to me. 'Now then, young lady, about those b.u.t.tons . . .' Hoisting himself up from the sofa, he grabs his cane and walks over to his sewing machine table. 'I had a good look through all my old ones I've kept, and I found these . . .' He reaches into a drawer, then falls silent.

'Gramps?' I look across at him. He's just standing very still, a confused look on his face. 'What's wrong?'

'They've gone!' He shakes his head.

'Oh, I'm sure they haven't, they must be there somewhere, you must have misplaced them . . .'

But he doesn't reply, rummaging around in the drawer with increasing frustration.

'Hey, let me help you . . .' I jump up from the sofa and cross the room, but he's already emptying it, the contents scattering on the floor.

'Someone must have stolen them!' He looks up at me, his blue eyes filled with panic.

'Gramps, please, let me help.' His distress is obvious and I feel a clutch of anxiety. This is the behaviour the nurses have been talking about. This isn't just a bad memory. It's more than that. 'No one will have stolen them,' I say rea.s.suringly, trying to calm him down.

'It's not the first time, you know. Things keep going missing,' he accuses, turning back to the drawer.

'Here, are these them?' Out of the corner of my eye I suddenly spot a small bag of b.u.t.tons on the mantelpiece, and s.n.a.t.c.hing them up I hold them out.

Immediately he stops what he's doing and his face relaxes. 'That's them! You clever girl! Where were they? I didn't see them.'

'Oh . . . they'd fallen on the floor,' I fib. 'They must have slipped when you were emptying the drawer.' I don't want to tell him they were in a completely different place; it will only worry him and he's upset enough.

Or was. Because now he's found the b.u.t.tons, it's like the storm has pa.s.sed as quickly as it came, and his calm demeanour has returned. His old self is back and it's as if it never even happened. Like he's forgotten about it already.

'See, aren't they beauties?' he's saying now, emptying the bag's contents into his hand and holding them out for me to see. There, in the criss-crossed palm of his hand, are perfect flat discs. Made from mother-of-pearl that seems to glow and s.h.i.+mmer in the light.

'Gosh, they're perfect!' I break into a smile.

'Aren't they?' He nods, looking chuffed.

'And look, I found these . . .' Now it's my turn and, grabbing my carrier bag, I pull out my charity shop finds. 'Look, it's an old pair of men's dungarees, I thought we could use the leather braces as handles . . .'

'My, you're full of ideas, aren't you?' Taking them from me, Gramps turns them over in his hands, 'Aye, that might work, though we'll need to make sure the leather's st.i.tched firmly into the seam . . .'

'Oh, and I found more vintage flour sacks to make more bags!' I say excitedly.

'Wonderful,' he nods, the corners of his mouth curling up in amus.e.m.e.nt, 'but perhaps we should finish this one first, hmm?' He lays a steadying hand on my shoulder.

'Oh, yes, of course,' I say quickly, realising I'm getting completely carried away. Familiar doubts p.r.i.c.kle. Gramps is right, I need to finish this one first. After all, what if it doesn't work and ends up looking rubbish? Glancing across at my half-finished bag, I feel a sting of self-doubt. It's probably all a stupid idea in the first place anyway.