Dream a Little Dream

  A large display cabinet is home to tons of teddy bears (no doubt given to Ethel by her grandchildren over the years – I used to give my own nan very similar ones on a yearly basis when she was alive) – china ornaments and official royal paraphernalia from various weddings and christenings. It’s busy, but well kept and organized. Cluttered but clean.

  Giving a golden glow to the room, hordes of orange fabric hang from both the large window at the front of the house and the French doors leading to the small but well-managed garden – I find myself wondering whether Ethel tends to it herself or whether her grandchildren help out in return for some pocket money.

  Beneath my feet is a well-worn Axminster rug, set on top of a dark cream rustic weave carpet. It’s all pretty ancient and characterful.

  Beside the sofa that Real Brett and I perch on, is Ethel’s armchair. A dark green recliner with a cream throw folded over the armrest. Next to it is a side table filled with everything Ethel could need during the day – the telephone, the current issue of Radio Times (opened on today’s date with Cagney and Lacey circled in blue biro), the remote controls for the TV, DVD and video player, a box of tissues, glass of water, her glasses case and cleaner, spare glasses, packet of boiled sweets, packet of polos, her purse, and the latest addition – her laptop. Everything is in reaching distance and ready at her disposal.

  ‘Looks like she didn’t,’ I whisper, widening my eyes at Real Brett.

  ‘Didn’t what?’

  ‘Redecorate.’

  His mouth twinges into a smile.

  A smile that puts me at ease.

  ‘Here we go,’ Ethel coos, walking in with a tray loaded with tea and fruit shortcake biscuits.

  ‘I’ll get that,’ offers Real Brett, leaping to his feet and taking it from her before placing it on the wooden coffee table in front of us.

  ‘Thank you,’ she smiles, making her way to her armchair. ‘Big ones are yours and mine’s in me cup. You can bring it over.’

  Brett can’t help but grin as he picks up Ethel’s mug – the one claiming that she’s the World’s Greatest Nan – and places it on top of the coaster in front of her.

  ‘So you emailed us,’ I say, wanting to get the conversation started.

  ‘Yes,’ she nods, glimpsing proudly at her laptop – the device that’s brought us here. ‘I saw your article on Age Wise and thought I might as well get in touch.’

  ‘And we’re glad you did,’ chimes in Real Brett, reaching over and opening the packet of biscuits and placing one in front of Ethel before taking one for himself. He really does have a sweet tooth.

  ‘So, are you making a telly show?’

  ‘Planning to,’ I nod enthusiastically. ‘It’s in the early stages at the moment, we need to develop it all further, but we think you might be able to help us with that.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right, love,’ she agrees, without hearing what that would actually entail.

  ‘Do you mind if I record our conversation?’ I ask, pulling out my iPhone and placing it between us on the arm rest of the sofa. ‘No one else will listen to it, it’s just to help me remember things later on.’

  ‘Whatever helps … could do with one of those meself,’ she chuckles to herself, picking up a tissue and cleaning her spare pair of glasses with it.

  ‘Ethel,’ I ask. ‘When did you last go on holiday?’

  ‘Now you’re asking,’ she replies, putting on the newly polished frames (ignoring the ones dangling from her neck) and looking up at the pictures on the walls as though scanning them for clues. ‘Samuel died back in eighty-nine so it would’ve been a long time before that. We used to take the kids to the seaside and the like, you know.’ Her face shows pride at the memory of her deceased husband.

  I glance over to the pictures and my eyes land on one from their wedding day – both looking exceptionally young and startled at having their photo taken, with Samuel even blinking slightly at the flash. Nowadays we’re all so click happy with our digital cameras and phones, we take dozens just to get ‘the shot’ (especially if you’re Poutmouth Louisa looking to post the perfect selfie online), but I guess back then, when Ethel and Samuel got married, photos were still a novelty – with only a handful of them taken at one event. They didn’t have the luxury of being able to see them back (and delete the unattractive ones) or an endless photostream – which is why Ethel’s ended up with a less than perfect image from one of the most important days of her life.

  ‘Did you go on honeymoon?’ I ask.

  ‘You could say that …’ she sighs, still squinting at the walls. ‘I got pregnant, you see. Me father practically marched me up the aisle and then sent us off to me aunt’s on the Isle of Wight for the next nine months to hide the scandal.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Sorry? Don’t be sorry. It might not have been planned, but it happened. Lucky for us we ended up quite liking each other – we certainly made the best of the situation, not like those youngsters you see these days divorcing whenever they have a lover’s tiff or not even getting married at all. Oh the shame of it,’ she tuts, viciously shaking her head. ‘It wasn’t easy, but we worked hard – both in our jobs and in our marriage. I was a very lucky lady. And him a lucky man,’ she adds, raising her eyebrows at us.

  ‘I’ve no doubt about that,’ comments Real Brett, making her blush.

  The exchange makes me smile.

  ‘Not a day goes by that I don’t think of him and miss him. We might’ve had a shaky, haphazard start, but in the end we were wrapped up in the hands of love,’ she muses, clasping her hands together with a loud clap.

  ‘We can tell – just look at the life you built together,’ Brett says, motioning at the home around us.

  Ethel dips her head in agreement, pride spilling from the smile that’s formed on her lips at his praise.

  ‘So, the seaside,’ I start, wanting to keep the conversation on track – otherwise we’ll be here for hours without learning a thing.

  ‘Yes. Clacton, Frinton, Brighton, Margate – we even went as far as Cornwall one year. Stayed in a B and B overlooking the sea. We loved a beach,’ she beams with enthusiasm.

  ‘And you never fancied going abroad?’

  ‘There were so many of us. It wasn’t something we’d have been able to afford, you see,’ she tells us, reminiscing. ‘Plus, I don’t know about you two, but I don’t really fancy me chances in a chunk of metal floating in the sky. Makes no sense,’ she gasps.

  ‘Couldn’t agree more,’ chimes in Brett, wearing a faux frightened face to amuse her.

  I flash him a warning look.

  ‘Although, obviously planes are, er, totally safe. Just the science that still boggles me. Doesn’t stop me jetting off on holiday though,’ he grins.

  ‘Mmm …’ Ethel grunts, suddenly seeming like her mind has wandered off elsewhere as she picks up her Radio Times and taps her nails against it absentmindedly.

  ‘What makes you think you’d like to travel and get on a plane now, then?’ I ask, attempting to pull her back to the conversation we’re in the middle of, wanting to keep her mind in the present.

  Ethel turns to me with a frown. ‘I think there’s more to life than this,’ she says, gesturing around to the room we’re sitting in. ‘Has to be.’

  Her response surprises me. Yes, it’s apparent she spends her days sat in her comfortable chair watching re-runs of her favourite TV shows and now, thanks to her grandson, searching ‘the world wide web’, but she’s evidently had a great life. She’s surrounded by the memories of it – each significant moment is marked and treasured in the home she’s built for her and her family.

  ‘More than what?’ I ask, unable to resist pulling more meaning from the words she uttered.

  She stares at me, her expression telling me I should know the answer to that already.

  ‘This empty home. Every day I do the same thing. I sit here and watch me programmes, I get me brass and chin
a from the cupboards and polish it all, I hoover – make meself a bacon sandwich in the morning and a Heinz tomato soup at lunchtime – a roast in the evening if I can be bothered … it’s the same. Every day,’ she says, giving a big sigh. ‘Do you know what I’ve been doing since Samuel died?’

  ‘No …’ I say, intrigued as to where this is headed.

  ‘Waiting.’

  ‘For what?’ asks Real Brett from my side, swallowing hard, seeming as though he doesn’t want to hear the honest answer this sweet old lady might be about to give.

  ‘To die.’

  I’m not one for morbid chats – I’m never sure how to navigate my way around the topic, and seemingly Real Brett feels equally uncomfortable. We both sit there, sipping on our teas, unsure how to respond and allowing Ethel to continue her admission.

  ‘Don’t want to be all doom and gloom – but that’s what I’ve been doing. Watching the seconds slowly tick by,’ she admits, looking down at the gold watch on her wrist. ‘My life stopped when Samuel’s did – and I know he’d hate me saying that. But life lost its purpose. I made us a happy home life, and then, all of a sudden, there was no one here to share it with. I still don’t know what me purpose is outside this room – perhaps I’ve fulfilled it already in me lifetime with me kids and that, but I think there’s more to life than sitting in here on me tod waiting for the Grim Reaper,’ she chuckles, removing her glasses and rubbing at her eyes. ‘I’ve wasted enough time for now. I’d be happy if I popped me clogs tomorrow – I’ve had a good run – but until I do I’d like to have one more adventure.’

  My heart simultaneously bleeds and soars. It bleeds for Ethel’s loneliness and emptiness – despite once having a home filled with family, but it soars for the corner she’s turned and how perfectly she fits into the show I’m trying to create.

  ‘And if you could go anywhere in the world or see anything, what would you choose?’ I ask her, as Real Brett stands and offers her another of her own biscuits before sitting down and dunking one in his tea.

  ‘You know, I saw that Denise Van Outen lady on the telly with Lorraine the other week talking about how she climbed some mountain some years back and then went on to see The Great Wall in China …’

  My brain works quickly to decipher through the hundreds of articles I’ve read on the Mail Online over the years. ‘Yes, she climbed Kilimanjaro with Gary Barlow, Cheryl Cole, Alesha Dixon and a whole bunch of other celebs for Comic Relief, then climbed the Great Wall of China,’ I nod, enthusiastically. Both trips were quite a while back, but we all know how they like to rehash old ground in interviews – I’m pretty sure she even found her way to Machu Picchu at some point.

  ‘Well, I quite fancy that meself.’

  ‘Kilimanjaro?’ I ask with a squeak, wondering what the insurance would be like for something as strenuous as that. I’m pretty sure some of the celebs suffered from altitude sickness and were given serious medical attention. From what I remember reading, it was quite a strenuous climb even for those gym-obsessed celebs.

  ‘Don’t be daft – have you seen how slow I am?’ Ethel tuts, rolling her eyes at Real Brett, as though I’m barking for even suggesting it.

  Real Brett politely manages to curb a laugh, but I still feel him shifting in his seat beside me.

  ‘I want to go see The Great Wall,’ concludes Ethel with a decisive nod.

  ‘Oh,’ I voice.

  ‘What?’ she asks.

  ‘Nothing,’ I shrug, wondering how we’d be able to get around the issue of there being millions of steps for her to climb up and down. Suddenly my idea of getting old folk to see the magical sights the world has to offer doesn’t seem quite so straightforward. In fact, I’m beginning to sense a great big hole of disaster looming within the pitch as I ponder over just how physically able the old folk I find are actually going to be. It’s certainly something I’m going to have to give a lot of thought to – especially as insuring something like this isn’t going to be straightforward.

  ‘I’ve looked it up,’ Ethel says, refocusing my brain as she reaches over to her laptop and brings the screen to life. ‘This place has wheelchair access – not that I’m in one yet, mind,’ she says, looking past me and talking to Real Brett. ‘But I do know my limits.’

  I move off the sofa and crouch beside her seat, the faint smell of urine hitting me and tickling the hairs up my nostrils, taking me by surprise.

  ‘The Badaling Great Wall,’ I read, impressed that she’s already done her homework and relieved at the prospect of such places being accessible to all.

  ‘What is it about there that makes you want to go so much?’ asks Brett from the sofa, nibbling on a fresh biscuit – I’m sure it’s his fourth already.

  ‘Nice to be in the presence of something older than meself,’ she cackles before becoming sombre and letting out a big sigh. ‘Did you know you can see it from the moon?’ she asks, looking at us both expectantly with this little nugget of information that holds the key to her dreams.

  We both look at her in surprise – on my part this is something I hadn’t actually known before, but I’m not entirely sure whether this is new information for Real Brett or whether he’s gawping in disbelief at Ethel just to humour her.

  ‘If you can see it from the moon,’ Ethel continues. ‘Then you must be able to see it from up in the heavens. Now, I know my Samuel is up there – that’s a given, he was a kind old fool in his day so I can’t see him going down to hell, even though I did get pregnant before we got hitched,’ she says, shaking her head at the thought. ‘No. He’s up there. I know it. And I want to go somewhere I know he can see me.’

  And there it is, I smile to myself – my hook. The piece of her story that’s going to melt the hearts of millions across the country – little old lady goes to The Great Wall of China to grab the attention of her dead husband who she’s felt lost without, but has now regained the strength and courage to explore the world’s beauty, if only to feel closer to him.

  I know I’d be weeping on my sofa at such a tragically romantic tale.

  ‘That’s beautiful,’ I sigh, unable to stop a smile appearing on my face.

  A loud bang interrupts the moment and makes me jump so high that I end up scrabbling on my knees in the middle of the room.

  ‘Nan?’ calls a voice. ‘You there?’

  ‘Sammy,’ she grins in surprise, getting up and walking to the door.

  I put my hand to my chest and take a deep breath as I get up to my feet.

  ‘Nice work,’ winks Real Brett.

  ‘Right?’ I puff – nodding and waving a fist in the air. I resist the urge for a celebratory dance. Ethel is perfect for Grannies Go Gap.

  ‘This is my grandson,’ calls Ethel, returning with a man in tow.

  I was expecting her grandson to be some sort of nerdy computer geek in his teens with glasses and bad acne, but instead, in walks an absolute god of a human being. Tall, shaggy dark hair, juicily kissable lips and the most piercing grey eyes I’ve ever seen.

  I practically melt on the spot at the sight of his suited buff body.

  ‘Hello, I’m Sam,’ he says, his lips pursing in confusion as he shakes Real Brett’s hand before holding his hand out for mine.

  ‘You’re the one who put your nan online?’ asks Real Brett.

  ‘Bought me me laptop,’ nods Ethel, looping her hand through his arm.

  ‘She wanted to get on Facebook and see what we’re all up to,’ smiles Sam, looking down at her. ‘There’s a lot of us. It’s a good way for her to keep tabs – although now she’s on it we can’t seem to get her off. She’s addicted. Comments on everything.’

  ‘Nice,’ grins Real Brett, patting him on the back. Showing no signs of being bothered by the arrival of this beautiful specimen.

  Okay, I might be slightly exaggerating on the whole Adonis thing – he is incredibly good looking, but the fact that he spends time with his nan and has helped her live in the twenty-first century makes him a whole lot more appealing. I
t’s that fact alone (helped along by his mild attractiveness) that makes me wish he’d rip my clothes off and make love on the retro rug beneath my feet right this second.

  On reflection, I think that might be the sexual frustration talking …

  ‘So, who are you guys?’ he asks, thankfully cutting my crazy imagination off, as his eyes flicker suspiciously between the two of us. ‘If you’re selling something then she’s really not interested …’

  ‘No!’ I practically scream, horrified that he assumes we’re taking advantage of Ethel and turning crimson at my sordid imaginings. ‘Ethel emailed us.’

  ‘She did?’

  ‘We’re from Red Brick Productions,’ explains Brett. ‘Sarah wrote a post for Age Wise sharing details of a TV show we want to pilot and Ethel got in touch.’

  ‘Really?’ he asks, looking at her with a chuffed expression on his face.

  ‘I did it all meself,’ nods Ethel. ‘Remembered everything you taught me – even put me name in the subject box.

  The pair exchange a smile that is utterly adorable. I might be running ahead of myself here – but I sincerely hope Sammy comes as part of the deal if we get Ethel to The Great Wall. Maybe he could even come with us.

  ‘We just came to meet your nan and hear more about why she’d like to take part,’ I say, still grinning at the pair of them.

  ‘Oh right. So you’re researching?’

  ‘Exactly,’ nods Real Brett.

  ‘And what’s the show? She’s not signing herself up for something like TOWIE, is she? You’re not wanting her to be the new Nanny Pat, are you?’

  ‘No,’ I declare.

  ‘She does make a good sausage plait if you need her to make one, though,’ he admits under his breath, winking at Ethel.

  ‘I do,’ she nods.

  ‘But we don’t,’ confirms Real Brett.

  ‘Oh,’ ponders Ethel, before her eyes light up in delight at a new thought. ‘Will Nanny Pat be on your show, though? She’s old. Not as old as me, mind.’

  ‘I don’t think she will be …’ I say, trying to let her down gently and utterly confused as to why we’re talking about the Essex Gran. ‘It’s a very different sort of programme,’ I reason.