They didn’t speak. They just stared. White hands riddled with green and blue veins and blotched with dark spots gripped their chair arms. Their skin looked like cheap tissue paper, like it would dissolve in the rain. Jon’s grandma rocked backwards and forwards in her seat like she was trying to push her chair closer to me. His granddad held his chin high in the air and to the left, keeping his fierce watery gaze trained on me. Either he nodded at me or his old head wobbled of its own accord. I couldn’t be sure and I didn’t want to stare, so I offered a quick nod in his direction. I didn’t really want to look at either of them at all so I ended up looking at my feet. I hadn’t done that for years. Nobody spoke. A confident cat rubbed up against the back of my legs and I wanted to run. Jon wasn’t any help; he remained silent and I had no idea what to do. Thankfully, eventually, Jon started to walk out of the room and I followed, closer than his shadow. We turned left and walked further down the hallway, stepping over piles of clothes and rubbish and through into the kitchen. Plates were piled high in and around the sink and I couldn’t work out if there were more cats here or if the cats from the other room had followed us. Something fast and black darted across the floor and out of sight in a second. I was tired and hot and wanted to escape but there was no clear route to a door. The sweet rotten smell hung heavily in the air and my stomach lurched. I pushed through past the mess and clutter, flung the back door open just in time and was sick.
We hunched down at the bottom of the back garden. It was still hot, but a relief to be outside. Jon asked if I wanted that drink but I said no thanks, I was all right now. My mouth was dry and I could taste sick when I swallowed but I wouldn’t be able to drink from anything in that house. I had a lot of questions to ask but I knew to take my time. If it wasn’t general knowledge learnt from a book you couldn’t rush Jon.
I slowly asked my questions, and slowly got some answers. They had been offered help many times and his grandparents had been threatened with care homes for years. He had been threatened with being taken into care himself a few times. They had dealt with it by not opening the door or reading any post. ‘Like my dad,’ I told him. That was why it had taken so long for Jon to answer the door: he wasn’t supposed to. Jon did his bit, always turning up at school and keeping out of trouble, keeping his head down and doing his work. I asked what they did for money and Jon said they had some from when his grandparents sold their land when they retired from farming. He was given a few pounds each week for food and made it stretch. He looked worried. He said he thought it was starting to get low. He tore up a clump of grass and and let it fall back to the ground.
‘We get on, you know, it’s not always been like this.’ He pointed at the house. ‘I mean, they’ve not always been so old and ill. They took me in when my mum died and for years they’ve looked after me. It’s just been these last couple of years that they’ve got so bad.’
‘Don’t you want any help though?’ I asked. ‘Me and Dad could make things easier I’m sure we could.’
Jon shook his head quickly. ‘They’ve changed these last couple of years. They’ve got scared somehow. They don’t like outsiders, they don’t like the council, they don’t like anybody coming round. You can’t come back and you can’t bring your dad here.’
He was agitated, blinking fast and one hand scratching the top of other. The skin was red and breaking. I reached across and pulled his hands apart. I was sorry I had come. I didn’t want to make it worse. I told him not to worry, I wouldn’t come back. ‘Why have you stopped coming to see us though?’ He looked to the track that approached the house.
‘They’ve been back again.’