Another aspect of her bad table manners was her tendency to steal the silver. After lunch with Granny, Mr. Warden would insist on a spoon count. Wolfgang and Irma would spend hours in the pantry checking off the pieces that remained against the pieces that had been laid and then writing down a long list of what would have to be replaced. When Granny left the house at half past four or whenever, her twenty-seven-year-old coat would be a lot bulgier than when she arrived, and as she leaned over to kiss Joe good-bye, he would hear the clinking in her pockets. On one occasion, Mrs. Warden embraced her mother too enthusiastically and actually impaled herself on a fruit knife. After that, Mr. Warden installed a metal detector in the front door, which did at least help.
But nobody in the family ever mentioned this—either to one another or to anyone else. Mr. Warden was never rude to his mother-in-law. Mrs. Warden was always pleased to see her. Nobody acted as if anything was wrong.
Joe became more and more puzzled about this—and more confused about his own feelings. He supposed he loved her. Didn’t all children love their grandparents? But why did he love her? One day he tackled Mrs. Jinks on the subject.
“Do you like Granny, Mrs. Jinks?” he asked.
“Of course I do,” his nanny replied.
“But why? She’s got wrinkled skin. Her teeth are horrible. And she steals the knives and forks.”
Mrs. Jinks frowned at him. “That’s not her fault,” she said. “She’s old…”
“Yes. But—”
“There is no but.” Mrs. Jinks gave him the sort of look that meant either a spoonful of cod-liver oil or a hot bath. “Always remember this, Joe,” she went on. “Old people are special. You have to treat them with respect and never make fun of them. Just remember! One day you’ll be old, too…”
2
LOVE FROM GRANNY
If Joe had doubts about Granny, the Christmas of his twelfth year was when they became horrible certainties.
Christmas was always a special time at Thattlebee Hall: specially unpleasant, unfortunately. For this was when the whole family came together and Joe found himself surrounded by aunts and uncles, first cousins and second cousins—none of whom he particularly liked. And it wasn’t just him. None of them liked one another either and they always spent the whole day arguing and scoring points off one another. One Christmas they had actually had a fight during the course of which Aunty Nita had broken Uncle David’s nose. Since then, all the relations came prepared, and as they trooped into the house, the metal detector would bleep like crazy, picking up the knives, crowbars, and brass knuckles that they had concealed in their clothes.
Joe had four cousins who were only a few years older than him but who never spoke to him. They were very fat, with ginger hair and freckles and pink legs that oozed out of tight, short trousers, like sausages out of a sausage machine. They were terribly spoiled, of course, and always very rude to Joe. This was one of the reasons he didn’t like them. But the main one was that Joe realized that if his parents had their way, he would end up just like them. They were reflections of him in a nightmare, distorted mirror.
But the star of Christmas Day was Granny. She was the head of the family and always came a day early, on Christmas Eve, to spend the night in the house. Joe would watch as the house was prepared for her coming.
First the central heating would be turned up. It would be turned up so high that by eleven o’clock all the plants had died and the windows were so steamed up that the outside world had disappeared. Then her favorite chair would be moved into her favorite place with three cushions—one for her back, one for her neck, and one for her legs. A silver dish of chocolates would be placed on a table, carefully selected so only the ones with soft centers remained. And a large photograph of her in a gold frame would be taken out of the cabinet under the stairs and placed in the middle of the mantelpiece.
This had been happening every year for twelve years. But this year Joe noticed other things, too. And he was puzzled.
First of all, Irma and Wolfgang were both in a bad mood. At breakfast, Irma burned the toast while Wolfgang spent the whole morning sulking, muttering to himself in Hungarian, which is a sulky enough language at the best of times. His parents were irritable, too. Mrs. Warden bit her nails. Mr. Warden bit Mrs. Warden. By midday they had consumed an entire bottle of whiskey between them, including the glass.
Joe had seen this sort of behavior before. It was always the same when Granny came to visit. But it was only now that he began to wonder. Were they like this because Granny was coming? Could it be that they didn’t actually want to see her at all?
It was seven o’clock on the evening of Christmas Eve when Granny finally arrived. She had told Mr. Warden that she would be coming at lunch and Wolfgang had been dutifully waiting at the door since then. When the taxi did finally pull up, the unfortunate man was so covered in snow that only his head was showing and he was too cold to announce that she was there. It was a bad start.
“I’ve been waiting out here for ten minutes,” Granny muttered as Mrs. Warden opened the door after just two. “Really, dear. You know this weather doesn’t agree with me. I’m going to have to go to bed straight away—although goodness knows I won’t sleep. This house is far too cold.”
“What’s gotten into you, Wolfgang?” Mrs. Warden sighed, gazing at the blue nose and forehead, which was just about all she could see of her faithful Hungarian servant.
Granny stepped into the house, leaving her luggage on the drive where the taxi driver had dumped it.
“A little brandy?” Mrs. Warden suggested.
“A large one.”
Granny stood in the hall waiting for someone to help her off with her coat and at the same time examining her surroundings with a critical eye. Mr. Warden had recently bought a new Picasso of which he was very proud. It hung by the door and she noticed it now. “I don’t think very much of that, dear. Too many squiggles and it doesn’t go with the wallpaper.”
“But, Mummy, it’s a Picasso!”
“A piano? Don’t be ridiculous. It doesn’t look anything like a piano.” Granny could be deaf when she wanted to be. At other times she could hear a pin drop half a mile away. She moved toward the living room then suddenly stopped and pointed. “But I like that very much,” she said. “How original! And what a lovely color!”
“But, Mummy. That’s not a painting. That’s a damp patch.”
Joe had watched all this from the first-floor landing, but hearing Mrs. Jinks opening a door behind him, he realized he had to show himself. Quickly he stood up and went down the stairs.
“Hello, James!” Granny cooed. “You’ve put on a lot of weight!”
“My name’s Joe, not James,” Joe said. He was sensitive about his name. And his weight.
“No, it’s not. It’s Jordan,” his mother said. “Really Jordan! Joe is so common!”
“Jordan? That’s what I said,” Granny interjected. “Haven’t you grown, Jordan! What a big boy you are! What a big boy!” And with these words, Granny went into a “spread.”
Joe shuddered. The spread was the word he used to describe what Granny was doing now. It was the one thing he dreaded most.
The spread was the position Granny took when she wanted to be kissed. She widened her legs and crouched down slightly with her arms open as if she wanted him to jump onto her knees and maybe even onto her shoulders. Of course, if Joe had done this, Granny would have broken into several pieces as she was over ninety years old and very frail. And with the spread came the terrible words: “Aren’t you going to give your grandma a kiss, then?”
Joe swallowed hard. He was aware that his mother was watching him and that he had to be careful what he did. But at the same time he hated what he knew he had to do.
Kissing Granny was not a pleasant experience. First there was the smell. Like many old ladies, she wore an expensive perfume that was very sweet and very musty and, if you got too close to it, made you feel a little sick. There were no labels on her perfu
me bottles, but this one might have been called “Decomposing Sheep.” Then there was her makeup. Granny wore a lot of makeup. Sometimes she put it on so thickly that you could have drawn a picture in it with your thumbnail. Her lipstick was the worst part. It was bright blood red, and no matter how carefully Joe tried, he always came away with a glowing mirror image of Granny’s lips on his cheek. Nobody knew what make of lipstick Granny used, but Mrs. Jinks could only get it off him with a Brillo pad.
But worst of all was her skin. As well as kissing her grandson, Granny insisted on his kissing her and her skin was as withery as a punctured balloon. No words could describe the feel of her skin against his lips, actually flapping slightly between the upper and the lower lip at the moment of kissing. One night Joe had woken up screaming. He had just had a nightmare in which he had kissed Granny too enthusiastically and had actually swallowed her whole.
Smack! Granny kissed Joe.
Smeruberry smack! Joe kissed Granny.
Then, with a satisfied smile, she continued into the living room. Outside, Irma was pouring hot water over Wolfgang to thaw him so that he could carry in the baggage. Mr. Warden was nowhere to be seen. This was something else that had puzzled Joe—how his father was never around when Granny arrived. The year before, Joe had found him hiding inside the grand piano and he was there now. He could tell from the cigar smoke coming out of the keyboard.
Granny sat down in the chair that had been chosen for her. It was one of those old-fashioned wing chairs and she always sat in it even though her legs couldn’t touch the ground, with the result that you could see straight up her dress. Not that you would look. Your eyes would stray up to her bulging knees wrapped in what looked like surgical stockings, and then beyond to the yellowing flesh of her thighs. And that would be enough. Her legs were like a set out of a horror movie.
Mrs. Warden had poured a large brandy. Granny swallowed it in a single gulp. “Where’s Gordon?” she asked, glancing suspiciously at the piano.
“I don’t know…” Mrs. Warden faltered.
“I can see him, Maud darling. I’m not blind, you know…”
Mr. Warden came out of the piano, hitting his head on the lid with an echoing thud. “I was tuning it,” he explained.
“I’ll have another brandy, please, dear. And do you have anything other than this cooking brandy?”
“Cooking brandy?” Mr. Warden exploded. “That’s Rémy Martin.”
“It burns my throat,” Granny said.
Nobody slept well that night. The trouble was, Granny was a terrible snorer. At dinner she had complained of a touch of indigestion and an upset stomach after having been kept waiting in the cold and so she was only able to manage three portions of lamb stew, two portions of lemon mousse, and half a bottle of wine. Finally she had tottered off to bed and ten minutes later her snores were resounding through the house. Even in the vast surroundings of Thattlebee Hall, there was no escaping it. Joe went to sleep with his head buried under five pillows. Mrs. Warden finally managed to drop off after squeezing a wax candle into each ear. Mr. Warden didn’t sleep at all. In the morning there were huge bags under his eyes—and even huger ones on the bedroom floor, which he was busily packing. It took Mrs. Warden half an hour and a fountain of tears to persuade him not to move into a hotel.
But it was Christmas Day: the snow sparkled in the garden and the church bells rang. Santa Claus had visited, the smell of turkey wafted through the house, and everyone was in a good mood. Even the arrival of all the relations and the terrible crash as Uncle Michael’s Volvo accidentally backed up into Uncle Kurt’s Range Rover couldn’t completely spoil the scene. The Wardens always waited for everyone to arrive before they opened their presents. Now the whole family repaired to the Christmas tree. Wolfgang, Irma, and Mrs. Jinks came in to join them and Mr. Warden served champagne and orange juice—champagne for his wife and himself, orange juice for everyone else. It was a happy moment. Even Granny was smiling as she tottered out of the breakfast room and took her place in her favorite chair.
Joe found himself sitting between his uncle David and one of his cousins. There were about fifteen people in the room, but as he looked around, he found himself concentrating only on Granny. She was sitting in her usual place, smiling, her legs dangling a few inches above the carpet. Joe gazed at her. Was he imagining it, or was there something strange about Granny’s smile? It was as if she were enjoying some secret joke. He had thought at first that she was looking out of the window, but now he realized that her eyes were fixed on him. Occasionally her lips quivered, and as the presents were handed out she couldn’t hold back a soft and high-pitched giggle.
“This is for you, Jordan.”
His father had handed him a present from under the tree. Joe flipped open the label on the top and immediately recognized the large, spidery handwriting.
To Jordan. Love from Granny.
Now, although there were many presents for Joe under the tree, this was one he was particularly looking forward to, and holding it in his hands, he suddenly felt ashamed. A moment ago he had been looking at his granny as if she were…what? Some sort of monster! But he couldn’t have been more wrong. She was just a kind old lady, surrounded by her family, enjoying the day. And she loved him. The proof of it was in his hands.
Joe loved science fiction. He had seen Star Wars three times and had dozens of books about aliens and space travel on his bedroom shelves. But what he liked best of all was robots—and when Granny had asked him what he wanted for Christmas, that was what he had said. He had actually seen one in a department store—about three feet high and packed with all the latest Japanese microcircuitry. You had to assemble it yourself—and that was the challenge—but when it was finished it would walk, talk, lift, and carry . . . all by remote control.
And there it was now in front of him. Joe recognized Granny’s gift wrap at once. It was actually wedding paper—she was always economizing like that. It was a large, rectangular box, just the size it should have been. As his fingers tore through the paper he could feel the cardboard underneath. Then the paper was off. The box was open. And his heart and stomach shrank.
The robot was the sort of thing you might give to a two-year-old. It was made of brightly colored plastic with a stupid, painted face and the name HANK written in large letters on its chest. Remote control? It had a key sticking out of its back. Wind it up and it would stagger a few inches across the carpet and fall over, whirring and kicking its legs uselessly. Suddenly Joe realized that everyone was looking at him: his aunts and uncles, Wolfgang, Irma, Mrs. Jinks. His four cousins were nudging one another and sniggering. They were all thinking the same thing.
A baby toy! What a baby!
“Do you like it, dear?”
He heard his granny’s voice and looked up. And that was when he finally knew. There was something in her face that he had never seen before, and now that he had noticed it, he would never be able to see her any other way again. It was like one of those optical illusions you sometimes find in cereal boxes. You look at a picture one way, but then you suddenly notice something different and you can never see it again the same way.
He was right.
She had done it on purpose.
She knew exactly what he wanted and she had gone out and deliberately chosen this baby toy to humiliate him in front of the entire family. Of course his mother would try to explain that Granny meant well and that she hadn’t understood what he wanted. He would be made to write a thank-you note and every lying word would hurt him. But at that moment, looking at her, he knew the truth. He could see it in the wicked glimmer in her eyes, in the half-turned corner of her mouth. And it was so strong, so horrible, that he shivered.
She was evil. For reasons that he did not yet understand, Granny hated him and wanted to hurt him in any way she could.
Joe shivered.
He knew the truth about Granny even if nobody else in the room could see it. But that wasn’t what frightened him.
Wh
at frightened him was that Granny knew he knew. And she didn’t care.
Maybe she knew that whatever Joe said, nobody would believe him. Or maybe it was something worse. Watching her, hunched up in the middle of the Christmas gauze and glitter, her eyes sliding slowly from left to right, he realized she was planning something. And that something included him.
3
TEA WITH GRANNY
A few weeks later, Granny invited Joe to tea. She always used to do this towards the end of the holidays, but curiously neither Mr. nor Mrs. Warden was ever available. Mr. Warden was at work. And Mrs. Warden—who was now taking lessons in Chinese cooking—was at wok. And so Mrs. Jinks was the only one left to take him.
Up until now, Joe would really have looked forward to seeing his granny. But not anymore. He knew now, and even the thought of her filled him with dread.
“I don’t want to go,” he told Mrs. Jinks as she got into the car.
“Why ever not, Jordan? You know how your granny looks forward to seeing you.”
Yes. Like a fox looks forward to seeing chickens, Joe thought. “I don’t like her,” he said.
“That’s a cruel thing to say.”
“I think she’s cruel—”
“Now, that’s quite enough of that!” Mrs. Jinks sniffed. “I suppose you’re still thinking about that silly Christmas present. It was a misunderstanding, that’s all.”
Joe had set fire to the misunderstanding. He had taken the toy robot to the back of the garden and poured lighter fuel over it and then put a match to it. He and old Mr. Lampy had watched as it melted, the plastic bubbling and blistering and the colors running into one another so that for a moment it did look like some alien creature before it shriveled into a black and sticky puddle.