This is Not a Love Story

Chapter Nineteen

After a long, hot shower I decide to go and see Nana again. I catch the tram to Altrincham and head to her house first to grab a few little bits that I hope might make her stay in the hospital a little less confusing.

I turn onto Nana’s street and fumble in my bag for one of the spare keys she hands out at random, just in case she’s in the garden and can’t hear the doorbell. I’m pretty sure the majority of Greater Manchester owns one of these keys. Mine has a ‘J’ keyring on it — no idea why.

Nearing the house, it’s obvious that the council have done sweet FA about the mould on the pavement. It’s still caked on, with three heavy smears across it where Nana must have fallen. The idea makes me feel sick. I stab at my phone and rest it on my shoulder as I wrestle the key into the front door.

‘I’m calling about my Nana’s house,’ I say once I’ve navigated the options and been put through, again.

I reel off my details and the man pulls up my previous conversations.

‘Ah, yes. I see,’ he murmurs. He’s got a charming, seductive voice. Is that a slight Geordie accent I detect? ‘This is logged in for tomorrow morning, so it’s all being sorted.’

God, he sounds so sexy and reassuring. I feel an overwhelming desire to giggle and thank him profusely, but then I picture the smears in the mould and the fog clears. My grandmother’s safety is far more important than a man whose voice makes my fanny flutter.

‘See, I’m struggling to believe that. Last time I called I was told that this would be sorted the very next day. It clearly hasn’t been. Is this “ first thing tomorrow morning ” line just the go-to remedy for annoying callers?’ I wander into the living room, distractedly studying items on shelves and wondering which I should take to the hospital. I rifle through the cupboards and look for some bathroom cleaner, wondering if I could take a stab at cleaning the pavement myself. But it’s all the way up the street; it needs one of those spray jobs — the one with the backpack that makes you look like the decontaminators from Monsters Inc.

‘I can assure you that absolutely isn’t the case, Miss Gardiner. We take this very seriously. I will personally make sure someone is at your grandmother’s house tomorrow morning,’ he replies.

‘There better had be. I’ll be calling tomorrow at midday to make sure—’ I stop mid-way into the conservatory and gasp.

‘Madam? Are you all right?’

Charlie is sitting on Nana’s sofa, beer in hand. I end the phone call, Council Man’s audio Viagra suddenly a distant memory.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Charming.’ He looks up at me. His eyes are red-raw; I can’t tell if it’s from booze or crying. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Getting some stuff to take to the hospital for her.’ I slump into the seat opposite him. ‘Again, what are you doing here?’

He shrugs. ‘Dunno.’

We sit in silence as I wait to see if he will offer anything further. When he doesn’t, I start to panic a little — we have never been at a loss for words with each other.

‘Charlie . . .’ I brave. ‘You okay?’

His head snaps up as if I’ve slapped him. ‘Yes.’ He frowns.

I sit back for a second, and then reach out to touch his shoulder. ‘You know, if you want to talk—’

‘I don’t want to fucking talk.’ He swats my hand away. ‘Just leave me alone, Maggie.’

I stand up, feeling like I’ve been punched. I’ve never seen Charlie like this. He’s never spoken to me like this. What is his problem?

‘Fine,’ I say, grabbing the Enid what has she been eating, does her hip hurt, who’s her favourite nurse? She tells me she had chips and gravy on the ship’s deck last night and is confused when I ask her about her hip, as if it’s the weirdest question ever. She tells me her favourite nurse is Florence Nightingale.

When I prop the photo up on her over-the-bed table, she gets a little more lucid. ‘Oh, look how lovely we looked. Me and my Bernie.’ Her eyes fill with tears. ‘In our little house there, aren’t we?’

I nod because I don’t trust myself to speak. She gazes at the photo for a long time before her eyes drift over to me.

‘I don’t think I can go back there,’ she whispers.

‘Where, Nana?’ I’m preparing myself for the latest confabulation.

‘Home. I’m scared.’ Her top lip trembles.

I grab her hand and hold it to my cheek. ‘Nana,’ I kiss her fingers, ‘you don’t ever need to be scared. Please don’t be scared.’

‘Our lovely house,’ she repeats, her eyes sliding back to the photograph.

‘Nobody is going to take your house away,’ I reassure her. ‘You can go home soon and everything will go back to normal.’ I’m saying this to convince myself rather than her; I’m pretty confident things will never be as they were.

‘No.’ She grips my hand tighter. ‘No, Margie. I can’t go back there, I’m not safe. I forget things, I fall over.’ She pauses, and then meets my eye. ‘I’m lonely.’

My heart breaks. This is the second time she’s said this, so it must be true. It wasn’t just a confused one-off. I don’t want to believe it.

The idea of Nana not being in her cosy house anymore — of giving up that gigantic chunk of my entire life — fills me with such a huge sadness I feel like I’m going to be sick. That house has been a boiling-hot, saturated-fat-filled haven for me since the day I entered the world. Nana and Gramps have always been there, as solid and reliable as anything I’ve ever known. When Gramps died it was hard, but we always had that space to remember him, and the love of my Nana in her warm home to welcome us in and care for us.

The sadness and heartbreak of losing that constant, however, is nothing compared to the gut-wrenching despair I feel at the prospect of Nana being unhappy. Of her being lonely. Afraid. Her safety and well-being must be a priority. She must come first, above my own sense of security and childhood nostalgia.

‘Whatever you want, Nana,’ I say eventually. ‘Promise.’

She looks up from where she has been studying her hands. ‘Hm? Where on earth has our Bernie got to?’

I stand up and plant a kiss on her forehead. ‘Love you, Nana.’