Perfectly Ordinary People(56)

It was a perfect autumn day – sunny and crisp – and the journey down to Brighton went without a hitch. Watching the countryside slide past felt like a form of meditation, and I arrived feeling optimistic and relaxed.

I was early, so I strolled along the seafront for a while before turning back up through the Lanes until I stumbled upon her groovy café: Roots.

I’m not sure what surprised me so much about how trendy the place was, but surprise me it did. I guess it just comes down to my own misconceptions about the kind of business a seventy-year-old might be running and the kind of person that a seventy-year-old might be. Plus there’s the simple fact that our family doesn’t really ‘do’ alternative. We tend to be pretty mainstream and, if anything, a bit old school. Still, I suppose that’s what living in Brighton will do to you – or rather for you.

Anyway, Roots was dead funky and I liked the place instantly. It was vegetarian and organic and furnished with a beautifully curated selection of mismatched vintage furniture. To top it all, the art on the walls was quirky, bordering on crazy.

The woman behind the counter was, I suspected, the girl I’d seen at Grandma Genny’s funeral, though she’d aged a bit and sprouted a few extra nose rings in the intervening years. In addition to the fact that I was happy to see a vaguely familiar face, the idea she’d been working here so long seemed to say something reassuring about the nature of the business my grandmother and Ethel had built. That’s if it was indeed her, as she didn’t recognise me. Anyway, the girl I may or may not have met before took my order for a cappuccino and a cookie, and at the end, as I was paying, I asked her whether Ethel was around.

‘She usually comes in around eleven,’ she said, and as she handed me my change we both glanced at the huge station clock on the wall. It was just after ten thirty.

‘That’s fine,’ I said. ‘I can wait.’

‘But it can be as late as twelve sometimes,’ the girl said.

‘We, um, arranged to meet here at ten thirty,’ I told her. ‘So do you think I should call her, or . . . ?’

‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. I forgot. You’re Genny’s daughter, aren’t you? Of course you are.’

‘Granddaughter,’ I corrected her, trying not to feel – but above all not to appear – offended.

‘Right!’ she said, firing an imaginary gun at her temple. ‘You’re clearly way too young to be her daughter.’

‘Clearly,’ I said, with a little laugh.

‘I shouldn’t have taken your money,’ she said. ‘Ethel’s going to be annoyed about that. ’Cos you’re her guest and everything. And family.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘We won’t tell her.’

‘If you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘Because cancelling the receipt is a right kerfuffle. It’s a new till . . . But the next one’ll be on the house, I promise. And if you’ve arranged to meet her, then she’ll be here. She’s good about that sort of thing. So I’d just take a seat and enjoy your coffee.’

I glanced around the room as I tried to decide where to sit. Only two seats were occupied, one by a hipster with a beaded beard and the other by a suited man reading the Guardian.

I’d just chosen to sit on the long seat they’d installed under the window when Ethel strode up to the door.

To say that she also looked hipper than I’d expected would be an understatement. She was wearing a faded red linen dress with a thick wraparound grey cardigan over the top, accessorised with an orange hessian bag and Jackie O sunglasses. Of course, the only time I’d seen her in recent years had been at a funeral, but I suppose even then she’d been wearing a flowery dress. Maybe she truly was hip.

‘I’m late,’ she said, once she’d closed the street door behind her. ‘Am I late?’

We all glanced at the clock again.

‘Two minutes,’ she said, as I replied, simultaneously, ‘No, you’re exactly on time. I was early.’

‘Can’t stand being late,’ she muttered, as she crossed the room.

Because of my mother’s tendency to hug everyone, I expected that Ethel would too, so I opened my arms. That was awkward because instead she just patted my shoulder and turned towards the counter. ‘Morning, Janine,’ she said. ‘My usual, please.’ And then to me, ‘Come. We can sit over here by the radiator. I’m frozen. Severely underdressed, as it turns out. I see sunshine out of the window and my brain says summer!’

I followed her to a little corner table and she eased herself gingerly into her seat.

‘Are you OK?’ I asked.

She let out a suppressed gasp as she completed the movement, and then looked momentarily confused before saying, ‘Oh . . . yes. It’s my bones, they’re rubbish.’

‘Rubbish bones,’ I said. ‘That sounds inconvenient.’

‘Osteoporosis and arthritis. It’s a nightmare, to be honest. I’m basically falling apart as we speak. If we talk for too long, you may need to stick some bit of me back on.’

‘Oh, gosh,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

She shrugged. ‘Still the last one standing, I suppose.’

‘After losing Genny and Christophe?’ I said. ‘Yes, that must be hard.’