‘Well, that is good news,’ Dad says. ‘Pneumonia’s bad at any age but in the elderly, it’s vicious.’
I love how Dad refers to the elderly like he’s not in that age bracket. Although maybe seventy is the new fifty these days, I have no idea.
‘Do you mind if I have a nap?’ I ask. ‘I got quite a broken night’s sleep last night.’
‘Your bed’s there,’ Mum says. ‘Will you stay for dinner? We were going to get some Chinese.’
‘That sounds lovely,’ I reply. I feel bad for thinking it, but it’snice to be here instead of at Kate’s. No stress, everyone is well and I can just be myself for a little while.
I go downstairs and kick off my shoes, collapsing back on the bed. I’m exhausted. Kate fell asleep in my arms last night and I didn’t have the heart to move her. Actually, I didn’t want to move her. I’ve missed her so much. However, that meant I only nodded on and off the entire night. Also, she snores like a beast.
Dad knocks on the door at six and tells me that the food is here. I didn’t realise I had slept for so long. I’m tempted just to stay in bed, but I’m starving, so I give my face a quick wash and head upstairs, following the smell of fried rice and MSG. As usual, Mum’s laid out the dining table, even though I’d be happy with a plate on my knee in front of the telly. I love the way she puts out chopsticks, even though we’re all too ham-fisted to use them properly.
‘I just ordered you mushroom curry,’ Mum says, ‘and some veggie wonton.’
‘Perfect,’ I reply, pulling out a chair. ‘Kate will be sorry she missed this. She loves wonton.’
‘Well, take her some back,’ Dad suggests.
That’s not a bad idea. Maybe she could use a little wonton after the day she’s had. ‘Yeah, I think I will,’ I reply. ‘Thanks, Dad.’
Dad tells me all about the features on his new car, most of which I can guarantee he won’t use. Still, it’s nice to see him excited about something and I’m really happy that they finally got rid of that nineties’ Honda Civic that must have had about ten million miles on the clock.
‘And what’s new with you, son?’ he asks, passing me the rice. ‘School going well?’
‘It’s fine,’ I reply. ‘Same old. I have been doing some open-mic nights, though.’
‘Performing?’ Mum asks. ‘How wonderful!’
I nod. ‘I was a bit rusty, but it’s been fun.’
‘Then you must play something for us,’ she exclaims. ‘That old piano hasn’t been used for a while.’
‘Sure,’ I reply. ‘Maybe after dinner.’
As mortifying as that sounds, I don’t have the heart to say no. Music is such a huge part of Mum’s life, the least I can do is let her watch her boy perform. We finish dinner and go through to the living room.
‘When was the last time this was tuned?’ I ask Mum. ‘Must be a while.’
‘Last month,’ she replies as I pull out the stool. ‘It’s just a habit now, I suppose, even though I don’t play often.’
As I lift the lid, I feel four years old again. Me, sitting staring at the black and white keys, too short to reach the pedals, while my mum sits beside me, showing me where to place my fingers. I should have played more when I came home to visit but the desire to play for fun was long gone. Well, until recently.
I start to play, and I start to sing and before long, my mum is crying, and my dad isn’t far off. It’s a song about love. It’s a song about mistakes. It’s a song about Kate. I always knew I’d write a song about her; I just didn’t expect it to be this one.
Kate
We arrive at Gubba’s sheltered-housing complex in Bamford, armed with some shopping, her flowers and a couple of puzzle books to help her pass the time. Ed parks up near the front and we carefully make our way along the path, being careful not to slip on the ice. It’s colder in February than it was at Christmas, but still no sign of snow.
‘You’d think they would grit these paths,’ Ed says. ‘Someone will do themselves a mischief.’
‘I’m glad I wore my trainers,’ I say, carefully dodging the especially shiny parts of the path. ‘They’ve got good grips.’
‘I think I’d rather break my leg than wear—’
‘Ugh, I get it. You hate them,’ I say, making a mental note to complain to the council. . . or the warden. . . or whoever is responsible for elderly wellbeing around here. I knock gently on the door and wait, wondering if Mum remembered to call and tell Gubba we were coming. There’s no answer so I knock again. I have the spare key, but I really don’t want to just barge in in case Gubba’s walking around with no knickers on. It’s happened before.
By the third knock, I’m beginning to worry and decide that seeing my grandmother’s bare arse is the price I’m willing to pay to ensure she’s OK.
