It was while we were clearing out Grandma’s house that I came across her old shoes. Mum had always told me that, in her younger days, Gran had been quite a tearaway. The locals had called her the ‘Wicked Witch of the West’.
To me she was just a sweet old lady, who smelled a little of old mothballs and lavender soap. I smiled, as I remembered sitting on her lap, listening to her tales of strange lands and winged monkeys.
My thoughts were interrupted when mum shouted, “Dorothy, dear, have you finished in there? It’s time we were going.”
“I’m telling you Jimmy, she’s old and it’s about time she died.” I looked over at Grandma and it struck me that Billy might just be right. She had no idea who we were. Every time we came to see her she’d just sit in that chair, a blanket tucked around her legs, staring vacantly out of the window. She’d been like this for years and, according to the staff here, could carry on like it for years to come. I was about to answer when Grandma’s hand suddenly clutched my arm and she whispered, “Don’t even think about it.”
It was the day Trevor’s grandmother exploded. It was a Tuesday. That’s Trevor’s night at the Red Lion. Darts night. He never misses. Come hell or high water Trevor will be there. So Tuesday night is my night. I’ve got myself another bloke. He’s teaching me yoga. His name’s Michael. A lovely man. Such gentle hands. He was just helping me get to grips with the ’side plank pose’ when the urn on the mantelpiece exploded. Bits of Trevor’s gran everywhere. She never could keep her nose out of my affairs. Going to take hours putting her back together again.