The Switch(20)

There is a long silence.

‘Well. Can I at least have a hug goodbye?’ Mum asks eventually.

I hesitate for a moment, then open my arms. She feels fragile, her shoulder blades too sharp. The hug isn’t quite right – it’s not a real hug, it’s an arrangement of limbs, a formality.

Outside, I find myself breathing hard, as if I was holding my breath in there. I walk back to Grandma’s house fast, faster, then I run, past her front door and out along the A-road. At last I feel that inky anger subsiding and the misery, the pity, that eases too.

It’s only when I get back to the house that I realise my mother has slipped the moonstone in the pocket of my jacket. You’ve got to give it to her – when she’s made her mind up about something, when she’s decided that’s the right way, she doesn’t give up. I get that from her.

I suppose that’s part of the problem.

*

Normally, when I’m feeling like this, I’d do some work. Top choice would be something data-heavy: numbers are just better for clearing your head than words. It’s the crispness of them, like fine pencil versus charcoal.

In the absence of any work to do, I have taken to Grandma’s list as a solution. I am trying gardening.

So far, I’m not a fan.

It’s so … endless. I filled two bags with ivy and then I realised it was all around the other side of Grandma’s shed too, and up the trees, and running its nasty dark green tendrils underneath the shed, and now I’ve discovered that there is actually more ivy than shed, so if I remove it, what will be left?

I rub my shoulder, looking out at the hills behind the old stone wall at the end of the garden; the clouds are a very ominous shade of grey. What an excellent excuse to stop confronting the enormity of this task.

I head back inside. It’s strange being at Clearwater Cottage without Grandma, making tea in her patterned china mugs, moving around like it’s my place. But Ethan will be coming up to stay at the weekends, so that’ll stop it ever getting too lonely. I actually think this trip is going to be the perfect thing for us after such a tough year – weekends together, cosying by the fire, talking about sweet nothings, and never mentioning Selmount …

Gah, Selmount. Banned word. All thoughts of Selmount are to be left at the door of Clearwater Cottage; they cannot pass the threshold. Like vampires. And Arnold, according to Grandma’s notes.

There’s a knock – definitely the front door this time, not the kitchen window. I glance down at myself. My favourite Buffy sweatshirt is covered in soil and bits of … whatever this is, dead leafy foliage stuff. I’m not really in a state for visitors. I consider pretending not to be in, but this is Hamleigh – whoever it is has probably had a call from Arnold confirming I’m out in the garden. I shake the worst of the debris out of my hair and head to the door.

The person on the other side is the sort of elderly lady who turns out to be an alien in a Doctor Who episode. Just way too perfectly old-lady-ish. Permed grey-white hair, neat little neck scarf, glasses on a chain, handbag clutched in front of her in both hands. I remember her being part of the gaggle of old people who’d come to see Grandma off at Daredale station, and I’m sure I saw her around at Grandma’s and Grandpa’s when I was little. Betsy, I think?

‘Hello, dear,’ she says. ‘How are you getting on without Eileen?’

I blink. ‘Well, umm,’ I say, ‘it’s been one day, so … I’ve been fine. Thanks.’

‘Managing all her projects, are you?’

‘Yes, yes, I think I’m on top of everything. If Grandma can do it, I’m sure I can cope.’

Betsy looks at me very seriously. ‘There’s nobody quite like Eileen.’

‘No, of course not. I just mean … Oh!’

Somehow, without me really moving aside, Betsy is in the hallway and heading quite determinedly for the living room. I watch her go for a moment, puzzled, before I remember my manners.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I say, shutting the door behind us.

‘Black, two sugars!’ says Betsy, settling herself down in an armchair.

I shake my head as I go into the kitchen. Imagine one of my neighbours inviting herself into my flat in London like that. I might genuinely call the police.

Once Betsy and I are both sitting down with our teas, silence descends. She looks expectantly at me, but I haven’t a clue what I’m meant to talk about. It’s easy talking to Grandma, she’s Grandma, but actually I don’t really know what chitchat with elderly people entails otherwise. The only other old person I know is Grandpa Wade, and he’s an arse, so I mostly just ignored him.

I try to imagine this is a new client meeting and reach around for the small-talk skills I usually manage to conjure up in times of dire necessity, but Betsy gets there first.

‘How are you then, Leena, dear?’ she asks, taking a sip of her tea.

‘Oh, I’m very well, thanks,’ I say.

‘No, really,’ she asks, and she pins me there with those watery blue eyes, all earnest and intent.

I shift in my seat. ‘I really am fine.’

‘It’s been … gosh, over a year, now, hasn’t it, since you lost Carla?’

I hate that phrase, lost Carla. Like we didn’t take enough care of her and let her get away. We don’t have any good words for talking about death – they’re all too small.