Granny (8 page)

“I hate children because they're so healthy,” Granny Anne went on. “They're always shouting and playing and having fun and running about. I haven't run anywhere since 1958 and that was only for a bus.”

“I hate them because of everything they've got,” Granny Adams muttered. “We never had computers and rock music and T-shirts and mountain bikes. But they have. I fought in two world wars but nobody ever gave me a skate-board. Oh no!”

“Children smell,” Granny Lee announced. “They're too small and they make too much noise. Why can't they be more like us?”

“Yes. With arthritis!”

“And swollen knees.”

“Hard of hearing!”

“What?”

“And wrinkly.”

“Horrid! Horrid! Horrid! Horrid! Horrid!” All five grannies were chorusing together now and pounding their fists on the table at the same time. Joe couldn't believe what he was seeing. It seemed that the five old ladies had gone totally crazy.

At last Granny stopped them.

“But we can at least get our revenge,” she said. “There are so many ways to upset a grandchild.”

“Oh yes!” Granny Adams giggled. Her glasses jumped up and down on her nose. “When I see my grandchildren, I always poke them a lot. I do find that children hate being poked.”

“I don't just poke them,” the little granny said. “I pat them on their heads and fiddle with their clothes. It does annoy them so, although of course they're not allowed to complain.”

“And don't forget the kiss!” Granny Smith said. “The wet kiss on the cheek makes them squirm like frogs in a pond!”

“What about presents?” Granny asked. “Presents are a marvelous way of spoiling any child's day.”

“Oh yes! A boring book!”

“Talcum powder!”

“Something you know they've already got!”

“What I do,” Granny said, “is buy them something that's too young for them. Something that will make them feel babyish. They feel so ashamed. It's hilarious.”

(At the door, Joe remembered the toy robot and found that his face was burning once again. But this time it wasn't with embarrassment. It was anger.)

“I have a much better idea,” Granny Lee said. “I buy my grandchildren hideously unsuitable clothes. I've managed to find some of the most ghastly sweaters in the world.”

“I knit them myself,” Granny Anne muttered.

“The children
have
to wear them,” Granny Lee went on. “And you should see them! I always take them out to eat and watch their faces as they walk out in their horrible, huge, brightly colored sweaters…”

“I've got a much better idea,” Granny Adams interjected. “My grandchildren are a little overweight. So guess what I buy them—chocolates! I get them a whole box and of course they eat them and that just makes them fatter, and when they go back to school, they're terribly teased and all thanks to me. You should try the chocolate wheeze! The little brats can never resist a chocolate.”

“It seems to me that you should combine the two ideas,” Granny said. “Give them the chocolates. And give them a shirt that's a little too small. Then, when their tummies are bulging, it will really show.”

The other four grannies thought about this and then all shrieked with laughter. More glasses of whiskey were poured. More beer cans were popped open. The fat granny was laughing so much that her whole body was convulsing and her face had gone bright red.

Joe couldn't bear any more. He took three steps away from the door, shrinking into the shadows of the hall. But even as he went he heard his name once again being bounced around the card table.

“So you're going to take the boy?”

“Oh yes. He's coming. I've had my eye on him for a long time.”

“Which eye, dear? The real one or the glass one?”

“Have you spoken to…Elsie Bucket?” This was Granny Lee's voice. She had spoken the name with awe.

“Oh yes. I spoke to Elsie. She's delighted.”

“Delighted!”

“Excited!”

“Enzymes!”

“Hee-hee-hee…”

The five of them were like witches. Add a cauldron and a few frogs and there would have been no difference. Joe turned and tiptoed back the way he had come. The voices followed him as he made his way back to bed.

“
P
ack your bags, Judas. We're going on vacation.”

It was breakfast the following day and Joe had just come downstairs to find Granny tucking into a plate of eggs, bacon, sausage, tomatoes, fried bread, and black pudding. She had prepared a half grapefruit topped with a small amount of cream cheese for him.

“Where are we going?” Joe asked. He knew she was always getting his name wrong on purpose and decided not to correct her.

“To Bideford in Devonshire. It's a delightful town. I spent many happy years there in the war.”

“The Crimean War, Granny?”

“There's no need to be rude, dear.” Granny lashed out with a curiously powerful fist. If Joe hadn't ducked at the last moment, she would have broken his chin. Even so, he felt the air as it punched past him. “It was the Second World War. Ah, what happy days those were. Rationing and bombs and dried eggs for breakfast. Your grandfather got blown to smithereens in the Second World War. Such happy days!”

“I don't want to go to Bideford,” Joe said, sitting on the edge of his chair in case he had to duck a second blow.

“I'm sure you don't, dear,” Granny simpered. “But you're twelve and I'm ninety-four. So you don't really have any choice.”

“I could call Mum and Dad…”

“And drag them all the way back from France? I don't think they'd be very pleased. Anyway, I've already told them I'm taking you.” She smiled unpleasantly.

“Why are you doing this, Granny?” Joe demanded. “What do you want?”

Granny paused with her fork inches from her mouth. Egg white dangled greasily in front of her lips. Suddenly she was innocent again. “I want to look after you,” she said. “Just like any granny would.”

 

The taxi dropped them at Paddington Station and the driver scowled as Granny counted out the fare in pennies, nickels, and quarters. It took her ten minutes to pay, by which time the driver was covered in coins.

“Seven twenty,” she demanded. “There you are! That's seven twenty-one. Keep the change!”

Joe grabbed the suitcases and Granny grabbed Joe and together they made their way through the station concourse. As they walked, Joe saw something rather strange. A woman had gotten out of the taxi just behind them—he had noticed her out of the corner of his eye because he had thought he recognized her—and now she seemed to be following them. Nervously, he glanced over his shoulder. She was still there, her face almost completely hidden by a scarf over her mouth and a pair of dark glasses over her eyes. A lock of blond hair poked out from under a voluminous hat and she waked with a pronounced limp. Where had Joe seen her before?

But maybe he was imagining the whole thing. For when he looked around again a few moments later, the mysterious woman had gone.

Granny checked her ticket and pointed at a train. There was a guard standing beside it, leaning against it with one hand splayed out on the metal surface and the other hand in his pocket. The guard hadn't shaved that morning. There was a cigarette behind his ear.

“Excuse me…” Granny said.

The guard looked at her with a syrupy smile and almost at once Joe recognized the kind of man he was. He was just like his uncle David, the kind of man who believes that all old people are like children, that they don't understand anything except simple words spoken loudly. Joe had always hated that sort of behavior, but now his interest was aroused. How would Granny react?

“Yes, my love. How
are
you today?” The guard shouted out the words. He was leaning over Granny, nodding his head at her.

Granny's lips tightened. “Is this the train for Bideford?” she snapped.

“No, dear!” The guard was still shouting and he shook his head vigorously for good measure. “There's no
station
at Bideford, darling. There hasn't been for twenty years! You have to go to
Barnstaple
and get a bus!”

“Is this the train for Barnstaple?” Granny demanded.

“Yes!” Now he nodded like a thirsty duck. He was showing all his teeth (and several fillings) in a wide smile. “Can you get on all right, dear? Got a
ticket,
have you?”

“Of course I've got a ticket!”

“Good! Good! Now you change at
Exeter,
all right. Do you think you can remember that?”

“Yes.”

“That your grandson, is he?
He'll
look after you! Don't you worry, love. You'll be all right.”

The guard hadn't noticed, but Granny's cheeks had gone a dark red and her lips were so tight they could have been sewn together. She didn't say anything more but got on the train with Joe and found her seat. Then she looked at her watch.

“We've got ten minutes,” she muttered, as much to herself as him. “You wait here. I'll be right back…”

As soon as Granny had gone, Joe slipped out of his seat and went over to the open door. He was curious. What was she going to do? He saw her scuttling across the concourse to the news-stand and a minute later she came out clutching something in her hand. Now she was hovering, waiting for something. Joe followed her eyes and saw the guard, still leaning against the train with his palm flat on the surface. Suddenly making up her mind, Granny moved toward him. She was going to do something, Joe was sure of it. But then a crowd of tourists appeared, and for a minute, Joe's vision was blocked.

When he looked again, Granny was past the guard and walking back toward the train. The guard had been distracted by something, but now he took his cigarette out, lit it, and once again leaned against the train. Joe hurried back to his seat. He was sitting back with his eyes half closed when Granny joined him.

Three minutes later, the train left.

Granny had brought a magazine with her, but she didn't read it. She was smiling to herself with that odd, dangerous light in her eyes.

Joe glanced at her handbag, which lay half open on the seat beside her. There was a torn carton inside. What was it she had bought at the news-stand? Joe read one single word and shuddered.

SUPER GLUE.

They were delayed for one hour at Reading while they pried the guard off the train. He had run the whole way from Paddington, one hand glued to the side of the carriage. He was taken to a hospital by ambulance to be treated for exhaustion, multiple blisters, and shock. Granny watched through the window as the ambulance left.

“I hate being patronized,” she said.

“Yes, Granny.”

For the rest of the journey, Joe kept his mouth firmly shut.

 

Bideford was pretty enough, stretched out along a harbor with a few fishing boats moored on the other side of the parking meters. The taxi had brought Joe and Granny all the way from Barnstaple, and as it cruised along the main street he noticed two things. The first was that every single shop in the town sold Devonshire clotted cream. And the second was that there seemed to be an unusually large number of elderly ladies in the street—all of them with knitted hats and shopping carts.

No wonder it's called Bideford, Joe thought to himself. The place is full of old biddies.

The taxi turned right and followed a narrow, twisting road up a steep hill. At the top it stopped and Joe saw the hotel where they were staying.

It was a tall, double-fronted house, four floors high but with extra rooms built into the roof. The house was old, but the owners had tried to modernize it with a revolving door (which looked ridiculous) and a white marble lobby. The hotel advertised forty-five rooms “all with hot and cold running water” except that someone had crossed out the
and
and replaced it with
or
. Apparently they had plumbing problems. It was called the Stilton International.

Granny paid the driver and she and Joe went in. The reception area was surprisingly large—the whole hotel seemed bigger inside than out.

While Granny checked in for both of them, Joe wandered between the artificial leather sofas and the wilting potted plants—the hotel was as hot as Granny's apartment—and went over to a large sign on the opposite wall. It was made up of plastic letters, although some of the alphabet was evidently missing, and it read:

 

 

“The Golden Granny Awards…” Joe muttered the words to himself, and looking around him, he suddenly realized—with a lurch in his stomach—that the hotel was occupied entirely by grannies. There were half a dozen of them sitting in the reception area reading magazines or nodding off to sleep. The elevator arrived and three more grannies got out, whispering among themselves. Two grannies met near the front desk and Joe heard them greet one another.

“Gladys!”

“Evelyn! I haven't seen you since…1942!”

“Over sixty-six years ago, Gladys! You haven't changed…”

“Haven't I, Evelyn, dear?”

“No! You're still wearing the same dress.”

A bus had drawn up and another fifteen grannies got out and formed a line at the reception desk, chatting excitedly among themselves. They were all carrying shopping carts and old heavy suitcases. But now Joe noticed something else. It was very strange, but they had brought what looked like scientific equipment along with them, too.