The Switch(13)

‘There!’ Grandma even hops the last bit of the drop, brushing her hands on her thighs. ‘If you want something done well, do it yourself,’ she tells me. ‘I’ve been waiting for the tree man to come for months.’

I look her over. She seems unscathed. Actually she looks well, if a little tired – there’s some colour in her cheeks, and her brown eyes are bright behind her green-rimmed glasses. I reach forward to pull a leaf out of her hair, and smooth it back into its usual loose, wavy bob. She takes my hand and squeezes it.

‘Hello, love,’ she says, face melting into a smile. ‘Hot chocolate?’

*

Grandma makes hot chocolate the proper way: on the hob, with cream and real chocolate. It’s pure decadence in a mug. Carla used to say that if you have more than one you won’t have room for meals for the rest of the day, and it is my absolute favourite thing.

I make myself useful, putting away the dishes from the drainer by the sink as Grandma stirs the chocolate. It’s been months since I’ve been here – I came up last when Grandpa Wade left, at the end of last year – but everything still looks exactly the same. That orange wood of the skirting boards and kitchen units, the faded, patterned rugs, the wonky family photos in frames on the walls.

You can’t even tell that Grandpa Wade has gone – or, rather, that he was ever here. I don’t think he took anything with him except clothes. Clearwater Cottage has always felt like Grandma’s house, not his. Grandpa just used to occupy an armchair in the corner of the living room, listening to talk radio and ignoring everyone. It was such a shock when he left with that ballroom dance teacher – not because I’d thought he loved Grandma, just because I’d never imagined he had it in him to run off with anybody. He’s the sort of person who likes to have something to complain about, but never actually does anything. I could only conclude that the dance instructor did most of the legwork on the seduction front.

‘I’m so glad you’re here, love,’ Grandma says, looking over her shoulder at me as she stirs the hot chocolate in its special pan.

‘I’m sorry. I should have been back sooner.’ I fiddle with the magnets on the fridge.

‘I don’t blame you for staying in London,’ Grandma says. ‘I’d have done the same at your age, if I could have.’

I glance up at her. Grandma doesn’t often talk about the past – she always says she prefers to look forwards than backwards. I do know she’d had a job lined up in London before she met Grandpa, when she was in her twenties. Then they got married, and they settled here, and that was that. That’s how she’s always put it: that was that.

Though it occurs to me now that didn’t have to be that.

‘You could still go to London,’ I tell her. ‘You could even move there, if you wanted to, now Grandpa’s not here to hold you back.’

Grandma pours the hot chocolate into mugs. ‘Oh, don’t be daft,’ she says. ‘I can’t be jetting off to London, not when your mother needs me.’

I wince. ‘She’d cope, Grandma. She’s not as fragile as you think she is.’

Grandma gives me a look at that, as if to say, And you’d know, would you?

I turn away and spot Grandma’s project diary open on the table. This project diary goes everywhere with her – she treats it the way I treat my phone, always horrified if she discovers it’s not in her handbag, even if she’s just nipping out for some milk from the shop.

‘What’s on today’s to-do list, then?’ I ask, then frown. ‘Own teeth?’ I gasp. ‘Likely to be dull in bed What is this?’

Grandma snatches up the diary. ‘Nothing!’

‘Are you blushing?’ I don’t think I’ve ever seen my grandmother blush before.

Her hand flies to her cheek. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she says. ‘We did away with blushing in the 1960s.’

I laugh and reach to take her hand from her cheek. ‘Nope, definite rosy hue,’ I inform her. ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on? Is this some new project? They’re not usually this weird.’

She presses her lips together, her peachy lipstick gathering in the folds.

‘Oh, God, sorry, Grandma.’ I lead her over to sit down at the table. ‘Is this something important, and I’m being an idiot?’

‘No, no,’ Grandma says, very unconvincingly.

I attempt to prise the diary from her hand; after a moment, reluctantly, she lets go.

I skim over the list she’s made. It’s pretty obvious what it is, now. My heart goes a gooey, bittersweet sort of warm just reading it, because as well as being lovely, as well as being so very Grandma, this list is also kind of sad.

Grandma’s shoulders are tensed; she’s watching me warily, and I kick myself for being so insensitive.

‘Well,’ I say, ‘this won’t do at all.’ I look back down at the list. ‘Basil’s the one with the moustache and the Britain First sticker on his bumper, isn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ Grandma says, still looking wary.

‘Do you like him?’

‘Well, I …’ Grandma trails off. ‘Not really,’ she confesses. ‘He’s a bit of a bigot.’

I reach for a pen and cross Basil off the list.