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I hugged her. She smelt of Bodmin for Women. She hugged me in return in that sort of fragile way that very elderly people do. And she was elderly – a hundred and eight, at the last count.
'I have come to look after you, young Thursday,' she announced.
'Er – thank you, Gran,' I replied, wondering quite how she got here.
'You're going to have a baby and need attending to,' she added grandly. 'My suitcase is on the jetty and you're going to have to pay the taxi.'
'Of course,' I muttered, going outside and finding a yellow cab with TransGenreTaxis written on the door.
'How much?' I asked the cabby.
'Seventeen and six.'
'Oh yes?' I replied sarcastically. 'Took the long way round?'
'Trips to the the Well cost double,' said the cabby. 'Pay up or I'll make sure Jurisfiction hears about it.'
I handed him a pound and he patted his pockets.
'Sorry,' he said, 'have you got anything smaller? I don't carry much change.'
'Keep it,' I told him as his footnoterphone muttered something about a party of ten wanting to get out of Florence in The Decameron. I got a receipt and he vanished from view. I picked up Gran's suitcase and hauled it into the Sunderland.
'This is ibb and obb,' I explained, 'Generics billeted with me. The one on the left is ibb.'
'I'm obb.'
'Sorry. That's ibb and that's obb. This is my grandmother.'
'Hello,' said Granny Next, gazing at my two house guests.
'You're very old,' observed ibb.
'One hundred and eight,' announced Gran proudly. 'Do you two do anything but stare?'
'Not really,' said ibb.
'Plock,' said Pickwick, who had popped her head round the door. She ruffled her feathers excitedly and rushed up to greet Gran, who always seemed to have a few spare marshmallows about her.
'What's it like being old?' asked ibb, who was peering closely at the soft pink folds in Gran's skin.
'Death's adolescence,' replied Gran, 'but you know the worst part?'
ibb and obb shook their heads.
'I'm going to miss my funeral by three days.'
'Gran!' I scolded. 'You'll confuse them – they tend to take things literally.'
It was too late.
'Miss your own funeral?' muttered ibb, thinking hard. 'How is that possible?'
'Think about it, ibb,' said obb. 'If she lived three days longer, she'd be able to speak at her own funeral – get it?'
'Of course,' said ibb, 'stupid of me.'
And they went into the kitchen, talking about Mrs Beeton and the best way to deal with amorous liaisons between the scullery maid and the boot boy – it must have been an old edition.
