Chapter 22

‘Now, today the plan was to go to Mousehole,’ said Mum at breakfast. ‘To . . .’ and her voice dropped to a whisper, ‘scatter the ashes. Do you think you’re up to it, Granny?’

Never mind Granny, thought Jess woefully. Am I up to it? She had spent a vile night of uneasy jealous dreams about Flora and Fred.

‘Of course I’m up to it!’ said Granny, and stuck her courageous little chin in the air. Her lip trembled slightly. ‘Are you up to it, Madeleine?’

‘Stiff upper lips all round!’ said Jess’s mum. It was going to take more than a stiff upper lip to restore Jess’s moral fibre. She desperately needed to have her spine encased in concrete.

Bernie approached the table, frisking and flirting in a way which would have been quite hard to take in a man half his size.

‘You’ve given up on my sausages, girls!’ he complained. ‘And, Madeleine, you haven’t touched your bacon.’

‘We’re all a little bit tense this morning,’ confessed Jess’s mum.

Don’t tell him, don’t tell him, thought Jess intently. Don’t mention anything to do with ashes or urns or dead grandpas, Mother, per-leease!

‘The thing is,’ her mum went on, ‘we’ve got rather a sad little duty to carry out today – to throw my father’s ashes into the sea at Mousehole.’

Bernie’s face dropped sympathetically at this news, and the family sitting at the next table hurriedly got to their feet and left the room.

‘Aw, bad luck. I didn’t know, I’m sorry,’ said Bernie, scratching his head in rather an embarrassed way and backing off slightly. ‘Well, I hope it goes OK.’ What more could you say?

Some people had joyful holidays involving sun, sea, sand and windsurfing, but Jess was beginning to feel that she belonged to a kind of British version of the Addams family: mooching around gloomily with their wretched urn. As they left the dining room and trooped back up to their rooms, it seemed as if a dark miasma of doom followed them upstairs.

Although Grandpa would have hated anything like that. He had been a jolly cuddly fellow with a deep north country voice and lovely big ears like an elephant. Jess felt a pang of sorrow that she would never again be able to sit on his knee and ransack his jacket pockets for chocolate drops. Although, come to think of it, she felt she had grown into such a porky teenager that for her to sit on any old man nowadays would be an act of the direst cruelty, and would probably result in a broken femur.

‘Don’t wear your black punky stuff today!’ hissed Mum, sticking her head round Jess’s door. ‘Wear something cheerful. It’s a celebration of Grandpa’s life, not a sad occasion. I’m going to read a poem about him.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Mum! We’ve already had the funeral and you read a poem out then.’

‘I’ve written a much better poem since then,’ said her mum, looking a bit furtive.

‘I don’t think it’s very easy for Granny when you drag everything out with these poems and things,’ said Jess. ‘And whenever you start reading out poetry I always start to feel sick. It’s nothing personal. Your poems are brilliant. But I just prefer to read them silently in my head. Otherwise it starts to feel like school assembly.’

‘It won’t take long,’ said Mum. ‘It’s a very short poem. Now hurry up! We leave in five minutes.’ And she disappeared.

Jess sighed. Could today get any worse? First there was the endless agony of Flora and Fred holding hands at Riverdene. Then on top of that was a layer of grief: having to say goodbye to Grandpa. Then there was the top layer: her mum, determined to turn it all into some kind of literary festival. The day was shaping up to be a lasagne of horror.

It wasn’t more than a few minutes’ drive from Penzance to Mousehole. They followed the coast road round a headland.

‘This is Newlyn,’ observed Mum, as they drove past a quayside where several fishing boats were moored. ‘Famous for its pilchard fleet and a very distinguished school of painting in the late nineteenth century.’

Jess made plans to get her mother an alternative career as a tour guide, and send her off with a busload of Japanese tourists to inflict all this education on them.

‘I remember John and I came to Newlyn for tea one day,’ said Granny. ‘The cafe was filthy, it was a disgrace, and the scones were at least three days old.’

Jess remembered the sort of things Grandpa used to say. Something made her reach deep inside herself and produce a comment in his gruff old voice.

‘I don’t rate these scones, Valerie,’ she boomed from the back seat. ‘Mine’s like a lump o’ blasted rock!’

Granny started to giggle: Mum shot her a very disapproving look in the rear-view mirror.

‘You’ve got him off to a T, Jess, love!’ said Granny. ‘Isn’t she clever, Madeleine? She should go on stage with a talent like that. It’d be a shame to waste it.’

‘I am going to be a stand-up comedian, remember, Granny,’ said Jess.

‘Well, I think you’ll be a wonderful one, dear. I only hope I live to see it.’

‘I’m going to drop you two off in the centre of Mousehole,’ said Mum, ‘then I’ll go off and find somewhere to park, and come and find you.’

Mousehole was just a village, with a small harbour almost completely enclosed by two curving sea walls, like arms cuddling the cluster of boats within. Right now the tide was out, though, and the boats sort of leaned over sideways, looking as if they couldn’t wait for the sea to come flooding back in and lift them up so they could bob and dance about again.

Jess and Granny got out right by the harbour, and Mum drove off. There was a little bench at the harbour’s edge and Jess and Granny sat on it.

‘Oh no!’ said Granny. ‘I forgot the blasted urn.’

‘Mum’ll bring it,’ said Jess.

There was a pause, during which a few seagulls flew over them, trying to see if they had any food which could be stolen with a quick swoop and wicked peck.

Suddenly Jess became aware that tears were running down Granny’s face. She was crying silently. This was terrible.

Jess put her arm round her. She couldn’t think of anything to say. She just wished Mum would come soon. There should be a law against grown-ups crying, especially in public. And Granny was usually so wacky and playful, it was particularly horrible to see her lip trembling and horrid little glittery bits in the bottom of her eyes.

‘Sorry, love,’ murmured Granny. ‘I believe this is what you young people call Losing It.’