upright – five-feet tall now – to give me a hug. I pull her to me and her bones are as light as a chicken’s. She smells of Pears soap, beer and something musty like riverbeds.
‘How are you, Nanny?’ I say.
‘Did you remember to order next week’s groceries on the line? Did you bring the extra Guinness? I’m getting a bit low.’
I start to empty the bag: beer, biscuits, cake, fruit, chocolate. She grabs my hand. Hers is thin-skinned – purple veins and brown blotches.
‘Oh, you’re my good girl, Georgina.’
‘Cup of tea, Nan?’
‘A Guinness’d be better, love.’
‘You drink too much, Nan.’
‘So the doctor says. But it keeps me company. Besides, Guinness is good for you. They say so on the telly.’
I bustle about and notice the photos on her mantelpiece either side of the loud clock need dusting. Taking a tissue from the box beside her chair, I pick each one up carefully and wipe the glass. There’s a black-and-white photo, all smiles: Nanny and her husband, Wilf Basham, who was my mum’s elder brother. She’s my aunt but everyone calls her nan, never Aunty Anne or even Aunty Nan any more. A few years older than my mum would’ve been, she’s eighty-eight, but made of stronger stuff than either her husband, who died five years ago, or my poor mother, who never made it close to sixty. There are two photos of her wedding in a time when fashions were puffy dresses with petticoats under ballooning skirts. Uncle Wilf has the slicked-back hair of a Teddy boy and a long jacket, his face as serious as an undertaker’s.
I pick up another photo of Nan with my mum, Josie, my dad, Kenny and Wilf. Mum’s dark-haired, like Bonnie, although Mum’s is cut short and backcombed, 1960s style; Dad is fair like me, same straight nose and a too-wide grin. They’re laughing, enjoying the caravan holiday Nan is always reminiscing about in North Wales, smiles stuck to their faces as if it were their happiest moment.
I turn back to Nanny Basham. She has froth on her upper lip and is grinning at her Guinness, her eyes shining like a naughty child’s behind thick-lensed glasses.
‘Your shopping will be here tomorrow first thing, Nan. The supermarket man will bring it in for you but you’ll have to put the frozen stuff in the big freezer immediately. And sort out the fridge stuff. I’ll put everything else away on Tuesday. And I brought you a Sunday dinner, the ones in the box with the Yorkshires. You like those, don’t you? Shall I put it in the oven now?’
She nods and slurps again. ‘Put the telly on, Georgina, will you, love? There’s a football game on in a bit. My Wilf always loved to watch the Reds on a Sunday afternoon. I like to see all those lads running about in their little shorts with their skinny legs.’
She settles in her chair and I set to making her lunch. The screen rattles in the background and Nan giggles, poised like a queen, waving the remote like a sceptre.
An hour passes quickly, plates clanging and Nan sucking gravy and demanding another Guinness. I glance at the phone screen as I clear away her lunch and wipe up the dishes. There’s still nothing from my sister or my daughter. Nanny’s performing one of her monologues in the next room, reminiscing, leaving me a split second to answer after each rant. She’s still in the armchair, in front of the television, a steaming cup of tea in her hands, warming her fingers.
‘Your mother wouldn’t have liked it, Georgina. I mean, Josie’s not here to see it but, God bless her, she’d have spoken her mind, that’s for sure.’
‘I know, Nan—’
‘In our day, we thought marriage was for life.’
‘Like a sentence for murder?’ I shout from the little kitchen. She doesn’t hear.
‘All this chopping and changing partners. Like a bloody barn dance. At least Bonnie’s stuck with her man.’
I mutter, ‘He’s sticking his arms round other women. She’s stuck it for over twenty-five years. It’s time they became unstuck, Nan.’ Again, she doesn’t hear.
‘Mind you, I don’t like that Adie Carrick. I liked Terry Wood, though. He was a nice lad. Your Jade’s just like him, you know.’
I’d been fond of him, too. I breathe out and glance at my phone again. ‘Unreliable, you mean?’ No texts, no messages.
I dry my hands and go back to the lounge. She’s calling to me, her eyes on the television.
‘Good-looking, both of them, father and daughter. Fit, well made. She’s the image of him. Same violet eyes. You should have hung on to him, Georgina.’
I sit down and shrug. ‘He took off with another woman, Nan. Remember? Alison with the little rabbity face. Seriously, she even dresses like Jessica Rabbit. Tight outfits, silly posh voice. She thinks she’s sex on legs. He thinks so, too.’
‘Where did he move to?’
‘Ealing. Where the comedies come from.’
I’m looking at the back of her head. She’s still staring at the television.
‘He has a little lad now?’ she asks.
‘You know he does. He must be four years old or thereabouts.’
She turns to me and frowns.
‘He’s called Arran. Like the sweater.’
She nods and drains her tea, puts the cup back on the table and inspects the empty Guinness glass.
‘You’ll come over on Tuesday then, Georgina?’
‘Like always, Nan. I’ll bring you a few extra things.’
‘I’d like some of those double-chocolate biscuits with the white bits in them.’
‘All right, Nan.’
‘And …’ She raises the empty bottle.
‘All right, Nan.’
‘It’s the second half now. We’re playing the blue ones and they’re losing by a goal. The ones in blue are from London. There’s a nice little one though, very cute. Dark hair in a knot on top of his head. He’s about to hit the bar. Watch a minute.’
I lean on her chair and stare at the screen. After some nifty footwork, an earnest-looking little man in a blue jersey with his hair pulled back from his face cracks a shot against the post. The ball slams hard and the wood snaps like it might split. The little footballer puts his hands to his head and gazes up at the sky.
‘How did you know that was about to happen?’
She grins, her lips wet with the last of the Guinness. ‘It’s yesterday’s game. It’s a repeat. They’re showing it again. Cheap telly. You off now?’
‘Yes, Nan.’
‘I’ll see you on Tuesday, will I, Georgina? Let yourself out.’
‘Righto, Nan.’ I
