Patrick
BOLTON
JUNE 2012
What the hell am I supposed to do with this? A new granny? It’s not exactly what I need right now. It’s hardly on my dreams-come-true list. Especially bearing in mind she’s the mother of my dad and, well, let’s face it, he’s never been my favorite person. Not after what he did to my mum.
I stomp back upstairs, screw up the letter and chuck it over toward the bin. It misses and bounces onto the floor next to the heap of dirty washing. There’s no washing machine here. I’m going to have to get myself sorted and find a launderette sooner or later.
I’ve recorded some old Top Gear episodes, so I watch them and then one or two of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? I like trivia. There’s no point gawping at all these programs about death and depression and murder. It’s not going to help you in life if you’re just going to sit there getting heavy about stuff, is it?
I’ve successfully used up a third of the day without thinking about Lynette much, so that’s got to be good. I stand up, stretch and go over to the window. The view from here is mostly stained brickwork and drainpipes. There’s one tree, but it’s kind of bedraggled and nondescript. The sky is hanging murkily over the rooftops. After its brief appearance this morning, the sun seems to have gone on strike again.
Weedledum and Weedledee are doing fine. There are some lovely little shoots just aching to be picked and dried and smoked. It’s a beautiful thing. The plants smile at me temptingly.
“No, no, stop it. Not yet,” I tell them. I cross the room and pick up the crumpled letter on the floor instead. I uncrumple it slowly and read again.
The woman’s barking mad. What century does she think she’s living in? I have obviously questioned the veracity of this information . . . no longer in the first flush of youth. Is she having a laugh? Can it be true that she’s my actual grandmother? She seems to have done her research.
I’ve never made any attempt to find my dad. He’s not worth the effort. I can’t remember anything about him, but I do know he didn’t give a monkey’s bum-hair about myself and my mother. Poor Mum. That nightmare . . . It sickens me and drags me down all the time.
I stand like an idiot staring at the letter from Veronica McCreedy. Family, you know; it’s supposed to be a good thing, isn’t it? But complicated. I’m already a mess. And at twenty-seven, suddenly to be granted an incredibly formal and quite likely addle-headed granny—is it seriously going to help that much? I imagine not.
Still, I’m a tad curious. And you know what it’s like with curiosity. It’s like this worm that keeps nibbling away at you. It just keeps nibbling and nibbling until you can’t help but give way.
What’s the worst that can happen?
Veronica McCreedy hasn’t thought to give me an e-mail address or phone number, so if I reply I’ll have to send it snail mail. I haven’t got writing paper, but there’s a jotter pad somewhere, I think. Yes, it’s by the pile of books and mags, with a screwdriver on top of it. I put the screwdriver in my jacket pocket, then grab a pen and write a note. Brief and to the point:
OK. When do you want to meet? I’m free next week. Any day but Monday.
I add my new address and phone number at the top. If she’s fully with it she’ll notice. If not, who cares, really?
I know it’s rude to write to her like that, but I’m actually pretty peed off with the woman. It would have been nice if she’d contacted me a bit sooner in life when I was, like, six years old and in desperate need of an adult to look after me. It might have saved a lot of people a lot of aggro.
I’ll go out, get this reply in the post then pop to The Harp and reward myself with a beer. Maybe I’ll give Gav a call. He could meet me there. I think I owe him one. His mum died a few months ago and one of his kids is ill and he’s got me as an employee. He definitely could do with a pint or two.
The thought of a pint or two puts a spring in my step. I hurtle down the stairs again, the letter in my jeans back pocket. Outside the air feels damp and gray. I jog down the street. Traffic booms past. I’m not thinking of much apart from beer as I go, but no sooner have I put the note through the postbox than I start to feel bad about being so blunt to Granny Veronica. She’s an old woman, after all. She’s probably fragile. It wasn’t cool of me to come on all terse like that, even if her letter was bizarre.
I wonder if she’ll respond. Part of me reckons she will. Part of me reckons she won’t.
I start thinking (OK, maybe hoping) that Granny Veronica might be a sweet old biddy. I can picture her, all plump and rosy cheeked and vanilla scented. She’ll have a glint in her eye and a bright, girlish laugh. Maybe she’ll speak with a soft Scottish lilt. She’ll bring me a homemade apple cake wrapped in a checked cloth.
As I stand at the bar of The Harp with my first beer (I’ll call Gav in a mo), I’m getting into the idea. I’m even hatching a plan. I know what I’ll do: I’ll make a cake when Granny Veronica comes. Cake is cool. I can totally do cake. Cake making could be the thing Granny and I have in common. We can bond over it. We’ll compare recipes. And she’ll tell me I’ve inherited her eyes and nose and her fondness for almond essence. And I’ll confide in her about Lynette. And she’ll be all sweet and sympathetic and grandmotherly. Sorted.
Granny’s going to totally adore me.