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Authors: Lucy Robinson
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with her glasses perched on the end of her nose. There would be a tumbler of Scotch nearby and probably a dramatic Dvořák symphony playing quietly from her gramophone. Imagining her in that very familiar setting I felt suddenly comforted. ‘Well?’ she prompted, when I failed to respond. ‘Are you splashing around in the pond of self-pity?’
I considered lying but thirty-two years of experience
with Granny Helen convinced me otherwise. ‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘But, Granny Helen, you can hardly blame me …’
‘Nonsense!’ she snapped. ‘When those boys started coming back from the war they had broken bones in places where there weren’t any bones, Charlotte. They didn’t just break their legs in three places like you, they broke them in twenty! But they were still limping around on sticks, getting on with it. Where’s your wartime spirit?’
‘It’s 2012,’ I replied. ‘I went for a picnic, not to fight the Germans. Allow me a little bit of frustration.’ I knew, of course, that she wouldn’t.
‘No,’ she replied crisply. ‘No, Charlotte, I shall not. I’m going to ask Christian to bring me to the hospital tomorrow and by then I want you to have brushed yourself down and stopped sulking. Good heavens above, girl! You’ll be right as rain in a few weeks! Think how much worse it could be!’
There was a silence: sullen from my end; ferocious from hers.
‘Now listen, Charlotte,’ she continued after a few seconds. Her voice was fractionally less scary. ‘Have a think about what will keep you occupied while you recuperate and tell me what that thing is tomorrow. There’s got to be something you can do. I personally recommend model-making. Your grandfather loved it. Kept that busy mind of his ticking over.’
‘OK,’ I replied automatically, knowing that there was no such thing. Nothing would make me happy until I could get up and get back to work.
‘Excellent. Now sleep,’ she ordered, as if I hadn’t been trying to do that before.
‘Bye, Granny Helen.’ I replaced the receiver. I switched on my little reading lamp and stared glumly at the pile of magazines and books by my bed, wondering if Granny Helen had any understanding of what my life was like. What single activity did she think was going to replace all the things I did every day?
Trying not to pout or scowl – I often felt Granny Helen watching me long after we’d had a conversation – I pulled out a newspaper from halfway up the pile and scanned the open page blankly, as if this might help.
And, to my surprise, it did.
‘Oh, my God!’ I whispered. I’d had a brainwave. ‘That’s the solution!’
‘Shove yer solution up yer arse,’ muttered the caveman from next door.
I froze until his oaf-like snores recommenced, then opened a notebook. Hope was coursing through my veins once more. Granny Helen had been right, as usual. All I needed was a hobby to keep me sane. And I had just the thing.
Chapter Four
12 September 2012, ten weeks later
I had to leave my desk I was laughing so much, Iain wrote.
Why the hell have I been searching slutty bars for a girl like you?
Any chance we can meet tonight?
‘Ha ha!’ I giggled. ‘Twonk!’
Sam looked round from the cooker. ‘Eh?’
‘Oh, nothing. Just a guy who’s fallen for one of my clients. He’s jizzing his pants trying to meet up with her. I LOVE it, Sam!’
Sam came over, stirring the wreckage of the world’s worst omelette around a pan.
‘Oh, my love,’ I said, looking at the mess inside. ‘Yvonne is a lucky girl marrying a talented chef like you.’
He grinned. ‘Fair fucks, Chas. But it’s got protein and vegetables, just like you said. And, look, I’ve made some mashed potato for your healthy carbs or whatever it was,’ he added, pointing towards a bowl of white purée flecked with shreds of potato skin.
I suddenly felt a great big surge of love for Sam, followed quickly by a surge of irritation that I couldn’t just jump up and hug him. He had
I considered lying but thirty-two years of experience
with Granny Helen convinced me otherwise. ‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘But, Granny Helen, you can hardly blame me …’
‘Nonsense!’ she snapped. ‘When those boys started coming back from the war they had broken bones in places where there weren’t any bones, Charlotte. They didn’t just break their legs in three places like you, they broke them in twenty! But they were still limping around on sticks, getting on with it. Where’s your wartime spirit?’
‘It’s 2012,’ I replied. ‘I went for a picnic, not to fight the Germans. Allow me a little bit of frustration.’ I knew, of course, that she wouldn’t.
‘No,’ she replied crisply. ‘No, Charlotte, I shall not. I’m going to ask Christian to bring me to the hospital tomorrow and by then I want you to have brushed yourself down and stopped sulking. Good heavens above, girl! You’ll be right as rain in a few weeks! Think how much worse it could be!’
There was a silence: sullen from my end; ferocious from hers.
‘Now listen, Charlotte,’ she continued after a few seconds. Her voice was fractionally less scary. ‘Have a think about what will keep you occupied while you recuperate and tell me what that thing is tomorrow. There’s got to be something you can do. I personally recommend model-making. Your grandfather loved it. Kept that busy mind of his ticking over.’
‘OK,’ I replied automatically, knowing that there was no such thing. Nothing would make me happy until I could get up and get back to work.
‘Excellent. Now sleep,’ she ordered, as if I hadn’t been trying to do that before.
‘Bye, Granny Helen.’ I replaced the receiver. I switched on my little reading lamp and stared glumly at the pile of magazines and books by my bed, wondering if Granny Helen had any understanding of what my life was like. What single activity did she think was going to replace all the things I did every day?
Trying not to pout or scowl – I often felt Granny Helen watching me long after we’d had a conversation – I pulled out a newspaper from halfway up the pile and scanned the open page blankly, as if this might help.
And, to my surprise, it did.
‘Oh, my God!’ I whispered. I’d had a brainwave. ‘That’s the solution!’
‘Shove yer solution up yer arse,’ muttered the caveman from next door.
I froze until his oaf-like snores recommenced, then opened a notebook. Hope was coursing through my veins once more. Granny Helen had been right, as usual. All I needed was a hobby to keep me sane. And I had just the thing.
Chapter Four
12 September 2012, ten weeks later
I had to leave my desk I was laughing so much, Iain wrote.
Why the hell have I been searching slutty bars for a girl like you?
Any chance we can meet tonight?
‘Ha ha!’ I giggled. ‘Twonk!’
Sam looked round from the cooker. ‘Eh?’
‘Oh, nothing. Just a guy who’s fallen for one of my clients. He’s jizzing his pants trying to meet up with her. I LOVE it, Sam!’
Sam came over, stirring the wreckage of the world’s worst omelette around a pan.
‘Oh, my love,’ I said, looking at the mess inside. ‘Yvonne is a lucky girl marrying a talented chef like you.’
He grinned. ‘Fair fucks, Chas. But it’s got protein and vegetables, just like you said. And, look, I’ve made some mashed potato for your healthy carbs or whatever it was,’ he added, pointing towards a bowl of white purée flecked with shreds of potato skin.
I suddenly felt a great big surge of love for Sam, followed quickly by a surge of irritation that I couldn’t just jump up and hug him. He had
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