Read Online Swallowing Grandma by Kate Long - Free Book Online
Authors: Kate Long
Tags: General Fiction
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knife, I saw, so there was also blood on some of the buns. I snatched a clean one and focused my attention back on the TV.
‘If you’ve been affected by the issues raised in this programme, then you can ring our helpline, or visit our Web site at www.talkinghelps.co.uk.’ Even though you couldn’t see him, the presenter’s voice was full of concern. I could imagine lonely women all over the country rushing to the phone to ask him how to sort out their lives. Then the credits finished and his tone changed to something more upbeat. ‘Have you experienced a holiday romance? Did you meet your other half on exotic shores? Or did your sloe-eyed lover turn out to be nothing but a foreign cheat? If you’re interested in appearing on a future show about long-distance love-affairs, why not contact us . . . ’
‘Bloody beltin’, these,’ Dogman mumbled. I tried not to look but I could see the mashed-up bun and butter in his mouth.
‘Bloody being the operative word.’
‘I sometimes reckon you’ve swallowed a dictionary,’ he quipped, spitting bun on me as he passed.
‘In that case you must have swallowed Spot the Dog ,’ I snapped. ‘You’ve the vocabulary of a four-year-old.’
He grinned and showed more gluey bun.
‘Watch your mouth, you,’ said Poll. ‘Dickie’s never had your advantages. His dad used t’ beat him if he saw him reading so much as a comic. He never had a bedroom of his own, neither, used t’ have to sleep on t’ landing, didn’t you?’ Dogman nodded tragically. ‘So. Think on. And shift up. He’s come to watch the racing.’
Time to move.
‘I’m off to the library, then. I’m not taking Winston either, he can go in the back. I’ve revision to do.’
Poll didn’t think much of libraries. ‘Waste of a good building,’ was her verdict. Apparently when she was young, the school library was a seven-foot cupboard that opened right out, and it served the whole village too. ‘It was plenty big enough for a place like this,’ she told me many times; usually as I was putting my coat on, books ready by the door. ‘I don’t know what you want to keep trailing all the way up there for. It’s good telly tonight.’
Since its days as a cupboard, Bank Top Library’s come a long way. The front elevation is modern smoked glass and breezeblock while inside it’s cosy with its orange carpets and blue beanbag chairs, a fish tank, posters, funky mobiles. Best of all, in the far corner, there are three computer screens, because Bank Top Library is at last hooked up to the Internet.
‘Let me know if it cuts you off,’ said Miss Dragon, peering at the home page suspiciously. ‘It’s been misbehaving. I’m going to have to ring up. See how you go on, and come and get me if it disconnects itself.’
I watched her stride off. I almost love Miss Dragon, Miss Stockley to her face. She’s a stone-faced woman, traditional, solid. Everything about her says, I’m not here to be liked, I’m here to run a good library. Large-print Western, drugged-up political rant, historical passion; Miss Dragon knows instantly where to locate it. She stands behind the front desk and frowns as punters rifle through the books with their grubby fingers. She wears her grey hair bobbed, and always a print blouse under a long knitted waistcoat. You’d think she was a right old misery, but you’d be wrong.
The time blind Poll knocked Pride and Prejudice into a full washing-up bowl, she was lovely with me. ‘It’s the sort of thing I do myself,’ she said when I explained I’d had it propped open behind the taps because I couldn’t bear to put it down. She said it was nice to come across a youngster who appreciated the classics, and had I read any Dickens? I told her I’d once started David Copperfield and given up, and she led me to the D shelf and found me Bleak House instead. She said, ‘I shall ask you what you thought of this next time you come in.’ I was back in three days.
‘Well?’ she
‘If you’ve been affected by the issues raised in this programme, then you can ring our helpline, or visit our Web site at www.talkinghelps.co.uk.’ Even though you couldn’t see him, the presenter’s voice was full of concern. I could imagine lonely women all over the country rushing to the phone to ask him how to sort out their lives. Then the credits finished and his tone changed to something more upbeat. ‘Have you experienced a holiday romance? Did you meet your other half on exotic shores? Or did your sloe-eyed lover turn out to be nothing but a foreign cheat? If you’re interested in appearing on a future show about long-distance love-affairs, why not contact us . . . ’
‘Bloody beltin’, these,’ Dogman mumbled. I tried not to look but I could see the mashed-up bun and butter in his mouth.
‘Bloody being the operative word.’
‘I sometimes reckon you’ve swallowed a dictionary,’ he quipped, spitting bun on me as he passed.
‘In that case you must have swallowed Spot the Dog ,’ I snapped. ‘You’ve the vocabulary of a four-year-old.’
He grinned and showed more gluey bun.
‘Watch your mouth, you,’ said Poll. ‘Dickie’s never had your advantages. His dad used t’ beat him if he saw him reading so much as a comic. He never had a bedroom of his own, neither, used t’ have to sleep on t’ landing, didn’t you?’ Dogman nodded tragically. ‘So. Think on. And shift up. He’s come to watch the racing.’
Time to move.
‘I’m off to the library, then. I’m not taking Winston either, he can go in the back. I’ve revision to do.’
Poll didn’t think much of libraries. ‘Waste of a good building,’ was her verdict. Apparently when she was young, the school library was a seven-foot cupboard that opened right out, and it served the whole village too. ‘It was plenty big enough for a place like this,’ she told me many times; usually as I was putting my coat on, books ready by the door. ‘I don’t know what you want to keep trailing all the way up there for. It’s good telly tonight.’
Since its days as a cupboard, Bank Top Library’s come a long way. The front elevation is modern smoked glass and breezeblock while inside it’s cosy with its orange carpets and blue beanbag chairs, a fish tank, posters, funky mobiles. Best of all, in the far corner, there are three computer screens, because Bank Top Library is at last hooked up to the Internet.
‘Let me know if it cuts you off,’ said Miss Dragon, peering at the home page suspiciously. ‘It’s been misbehaving. I’m going to have to ring up. See how you go on, and come and get me if it disconnects itself.’
I watched her stride off. I almost love Miss Dragon, Miss Stockley to her face. She’s a stone-faced woman, traditional, solid. Everything about her says, I’m not here to be liked, I’m here to run a good library. Large-print Western, drugged-up political rant, historical passion; Miss Dragon knows instantly where to locate it. She stands behind the front desk and frowns as punters rifle through the books with their grubby fingers. She wears her grey hair bobbed, and always a print blouse under a long knitted waistcoat. You’d think she was a right old misery, but you’d be wrong.
The time blind Poll knocked Pride and Prejudice into a full washing-up bowl, she was lovely with me. ‘It’s the sort of thing I do myself,’ she said when I explained I’d had it propped open behind the taps because I couldn’t bear to put it down. She said it was nice to come across a youngster who appreciated the classics, and had I read any Dickens? I told her I’d once started David Copperfield and given up, and she led me to the D shelf and found me Bleak House instead. She said, ‘I shall ask you what you thought of this next time you come in.’ I was back in three days.
‘Well?’ she
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