Grandma’s secret

Handwritten page of a diary dated October 2nd, 1972

pogged after a big fish and chips takeaway and Nan called me to her room and wanted some company while she ate her dinner. I laid on her bed and tried to think of things we could talk about while she sat in her tiny chair with her tiny table in front of her. Even in that little chair, she doesn’t take up much room.

Having a chat with her once in a while is the least I can do since we all invaded her house and now this bedroom is the only place she can have things her way.

She ate a bite of hotpot and then looked up at the picture of her late husband. Then she took a sip of tea and took another look at him.

About that time I realized my new Sex Pistols album was still playing and my bedroom is right next to hers and now I know she hears it, but she hasn’t complained. So I said I’d be right back and I went to turn it off and came back into her room.

I was lying there on her counterpane for a while again thinking this room smelled like roses, and she came out and told me that even though I’m a lad, she thinks I’m the only one in this family with a sensitive nature, so she trusts me to help her with something important. I sat up. She reached into her pocket and got a folded piece of paper, asked me to deliver it. She looked up at Grandad’s picture again and then said there was a man I needed to find. According to Nan’s friend Violet, this man has been walking in the little park on Spauldham Lane every day around tea-time. I said of course, I’d find him, but how would I recognise him? She said not to worry, I couldn’t miss him because he’s tall — freakishly tall.

I told her she could count on me, and now I’m back in my room with the note. It only has a sliver of sellotape holding it shut, and it would be easy to read it and tape it back up again. I want to. But I won’t. She trusts me.


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Published in: on February 25, 2010 at 9:45 am  Leave a Comment