listen to me, James,” she’d said to my dad, shaking his shoulders hard, “and make sure you come home safe, see. There’ll be big trouble if you don’t, do you hear me? I’ve lost too many people in my life to be doing with losing you.”
“Don’t you worry, Ma,” he said, folding her paper-thin body into his arms. “I’ll be back.”
I creep upstairs, wrap myself in a towel, then go back down and watch Granny from the doorway. She blows and sips hot tea. Thought bubbles float over her head. I like spying on people when they don’t know I’m looking. People act differently when they think they’re on their own.
“Hello, pet,” she says. “You startled me. You’re up early. Do you want some tea?”
I don’t really like tea, but I like chatting with Granny. I nod and climb on the chair next to hers.
“I heard Dad,” I say, “and needed another hug. I wish he didn’t have to go.”
“I know, pet,” she says, pouring my tea. “You’ll get used to it soon enough. It was the same with your grandpa; he was always off here and there and everywhere. All over the place he was. That’s army life for you, see.”
“I don’t like it,” I say. “I wish he had a normal job. What happens if we need him, Granny? Do you think he’d come back home if one of us got really ill, or the house burned down or someone died?”
“If something really bad happened, Mima,” she says, patting my hand, “then they’d send him home. You can be sure of that. But I promise you we won’t need him. We’ll manage and it’ll be fun with the baby coming.” She sighs. “Army life is in his bones, pet. He wouldn’t settle to a normal job. And people have to do what’s in their bones.”
“Well, I wish he had something else in his bones,’ I sigh. “He could do anything else except this.”
“You’ll understand it one day,” says Granny. “You’ll get an itch in your bones and you’ll be off out in the world doing what you love.”
“I won’t,” I say. “I’m never leaving home. It’s too scary and I can’t even decide what to do my end of term presentation on, let alone know what I want to do when I grow up. And I hate presentations, Granny. They’re so pointless and I’m so rubbish at them. My voice always goes all wobbly and I end up looking like a stupid red beetroot. I wish school couldn’t make you do stuff you hate.”
“Ooh!” says Granny, leaping up. “I just remembered. I’ve got something for you that might help.”
She creaks her granny bones upstairs to her room and comes down with a dusty old box in her hands.
“Here,” she says. “I found this when I was clearing out my things ready to move into my new flat. I thought you might be interested. You know, family history and all. Maybe you’ll find something in there to inspire you for your presentation.”
I rummage through Granny’s dusty box. There are some really old letters, some faded photographs and a million old-fashioned stamps that have been carefully torn from envelopes. There are some documents that look like they should be on display in a museum and odd bits of ribbon and spare buttons and all sorts of random stuff that’s made this box its home. The envelopes have black handwriting on them where spiders with inky feet have danced. I love the photos. They’re so funny and black and white and old.
“It’s all interesting, Granny,” I say, sifting through the things, “but how do I turn a box of stuff into a presentation?”
“Give it a bit of thought and something’ll come to you, I’m sure. Oh, look,” she says, pointing to a photo of a little girl in a white dress standing next to a big black dog. “That’s me and my dog, Buster; I must only have been about three years old.”
I turn the photo over. The spider has written, Dorothy and Buster, 1934 – Bognor Regis. Then I find another of Granny holding a baby in her arms, which says, Dorothy and Joan, 1937.
“Who’s Joan?” I ask.
Granny wipes a tear from her pale watery eyes. “She was my baby sister,” she says. “She died in the Blitz along with the rest of them. She was only three. She was a beauty, she was; she stole my heart right away, the moment she was born.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“It’s too painful to talk about, Mima. It was 1940 and I was nine years old. The Blitz began and I lost my whole world in a day. My home, my family and a very dear friend.”
“How come?”
“Bombs,” she says, getting up. She fusses with the cups. “The whole house was destroyed in the blast. The entire street. Gone!”
Her hands tremble at the kitchen sink. Her china cup chinks against the tap.
“But what happened to you, Granny?” I ask. “Weren’t you scared, being left all alone?”
“Leave it, pet,” she sighs. “There’s a good girl.”
“But Granny…”
“I said leave it, pet. It still upsets me, see, even after all these years.”
“But I can’t just stand up in class and say, ‘Oh, well, this is my granny’s old box full of interesting stuff that I don’t know anything about. The End.’ Can I?”
“Just look at the bits and bobs, pet,” she says, “and get a bit inspired. I’ll tell you more when I’m ready.”
I look through the photos for clues. There are loads of photos of fat old women. They have sour faces. They’re wearing long dresses and heavy hats pulled right down over their eyebrows. There are some young men wearing stripy bathing suits and cheesy smiles, but there’s no sign of anything Blitz-ish. There’s a row of girls in matching black costumes with white swimming caps on and pegs on their noses, and another of a very old man with a beard so long it’s tucked in his belt. There’s one photo of two girls, one looks about twelve, like me, and the other a bit older. They’re wearing summer dresses and short white socks. They’re sitting on a shingly beach, laughing and eating delicate sandwiches and huge chunks of cake. On the back the spider has danced, Barbara and Sonia, 1938 – Bognor Regis.
There’s a photo of a young woman with dark curly hair like Dad’s and mine. She’s wearing a white wedding dress and standing next to a soldier with a quiff. They’re holding hands and their smiles are like sunshine lighting up their eyes. On the back the spider has scrawled, Kitty and James, 1917 – London.
I hold the photo up for Granny to see. But I’m careful not to ask questions in case I make her cry.
“My parents,” she says, peering at the photo. “Your great-grandparents. Their wedding day that was, pet, and look – you’ve got her hair. Same as your dad too.”
I fiddle with my curls. I twirl a dark lock round and round my finger. I press my thumb over my great-grandmother’s face and her curls bubble out at the sides.
I want to know what happened.
My tongue is itching to ask.
Tucked in one corner of the box is a little
