Dream a Little Dream (19 page)

‘That’s what they say,’ Real Brett murmurs before touching in with his own Oyster card and walking through the barriers.

Without waiting for me, he strides towards the Bakerloo line, leaving me to fumble around trying to pick up the card I’d dropped and get through the machine – which annoyingly bleeps at me angrily because it knows I’m in a hurry and have already shown myself to be a complete tit. I wait a few seconds, try again, and then scurry after Real Brett once it opens for me, feeling like a comedy character from a slapstick film – the only thing missing is a limp and a cane.

A train arrives as soon as we get to the westbound platform. Without saying anything, we board and sit in the only two seats available – two side by side. We sit in silence, with Real Brett staring straight ahead.

With my hands placed on my knees, I scan the carriage and sigh expectantly.

Real Brett still says nothing. Instead, his eyes stay facing
front while he sucks in his lips, and pulls them through his teeth slowly. It’s a repetitive action – one that he alternates between his upper and lower lip – when one comes out the other goes in. I’m not sure whether it’s something he’s just doing without thinking to pass the time, or whether he’s doing it on purpose to stop himself from talking to me.

I know I’m used to brushing him off and being a first-class idiot, but I oddly feel deflated at the thought of offending him – and I majorly feel as though I have, seeing as he’s not being all jolly and in my face as usual like a Labrador puppy.

‘So did you and Ned go to UCL together then?’ I ask, wanting to erase the atmosphere filling the carriage.

‘Yeah,’ he nods.

‘Did you live in the same halls?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Did you know each other before that?’

‘Nope.’

‘Right,’ I sigh, irritated to be the one receiving one-word answers for a change. I much prefer it when he’s buoyantly upbeat – at least that’s readable.

‘I mentioned you to Alastair last night – he said you should come down and join us for a pub quiz.’ I wasn’t going to say anything about Alastair, and I certainly wasn’t planning on inviting him along, but that’s what tense, unreadable situations do to me. They make me involuntarily act in ways I regret instantly. Agonizing silences make me want to leap in and fill them with whatever words spout out of my mouth first.

‘Pub quiz?’ he asks, pulling his mouth down at the sides as he mulls over the invite.

‘Yeah.’

He nods but stays quiet.

Oh for God’s sake this is tough.

‘I wonder what she’s going to be like,’ I say, changing the subject after another humongous pause.

‘Who?’

‘Ethel.’

‘We’ll soon find out,’ he shrugs, suddenly seeming not so excited about the whole thing.

He’s not being moody or huffy – he’s just being indifferent. I hate indifference with a passion. Especially when it’s aimed at me. I much prefer being given something to work with – positive or negative. This is such hard work.

I decide to give up the anger-inducing task of trying to strike up conversation and watch the couple in front of me instead – keenly snogging each other’s faces off without caring that they’re in the presence of strangers.

Oh to be young, foolish and going at it with such ferocity on a Friday afternoon in broad daylight.

Eighteen minutes later, after I’ve ogled the inappropriate pashing more closely than is considered polite (well, sometimes you just can’t ignore these things), we’re ringing the doorbell of a small house in Maida Vale.

‘Who is it?’ asks an elderly voice behind the frosted glass.

‘Brett and Sarah – we spoke on the phone this morning,’ Real Brett replies.

‘We did?’ she asks, sounding confused.

‘You emailed us,’ I add cheerily, hoping this isn’t about to fall flat on its face before we’ve even made it inside.

‘Oh, on the world wide web – YES!’ she cheers before
unchaining the lock on the door and opening it a fraction. Once she sees our faces smiling back at her she mirrors the expression before opening it fully.

Ethel is dressed in pale blue trousers and a pink cotton jumper, with the collar of her white blouse poking out and folded over the top along with a small pearl necklace. On her feet are dark blue corduroy slippers, which, I must say, look like the comfiest shoes in the world – I wouldn’t mind a pair for slumming around the flat in.

She’s every inch what you envisage when dreaming up an old lady with her kind wrinkled face, button nose, little gold-rimmed glasses hanging from her neck on a gold chain, and short grey hair set to perfection in the classic rollered style.

She’s instantly likeable and I mentally fist pump the air – visually she’s perfect for
Grannies Go Gap
.

‘Well, come in, come in. You’ll catch your death out there,’ she ushers, closing the door behind us and putting the chain back across. ‘You can put your shoes on this,’ she says, pulling an immaculate Sainsbury’s bag from her pocket, unfolding it and slowly bending over to place it in the corner of the hallway next to the stairs.

She looks up and beams at us both, her hands waving to prompt us into doing what we’ve been told.

We do.

‘Can I get you both a tea?’ she asks, walking us through to the living room and gesturing for us to take a seat.

‘We don’t want to put you out,’ I say.

‘Nonsense. I fancy one anyway.’

‘Why don’t I make it?’ suggests Real Brett.

Ethel looks at him suspiciously, as though the idea of a
man in her kitchen making a brew is preposterously absurd. ‘No … no, it’s all right,’ she says, fighting a frown that’s trying to break through on her wrinkled forehead. ‘Won’t be a minute – kettle’s already boiled.’

‘Great,’ I say, while sitting on the heavily patterned brown sofa. ‘Just shout if you need a hand.’

Ethel nods before walking out.

Looking around the room I’m amazed at the amount of stuff in it – dozens of pictures of Ethel with the same bunch of people (some black and white, some in colour) at various different family celebrations adorn the walls and cover the retro seventies wallpaper. In some patches, though, the faded orange and brown flower design manages to peep through, giving a glimpse of what’s lurking beneath from years gone by. More photos are displayed in a collection of different frames on the brick fireplace and the windowsill, occasionally masked by newer, unframed photos placed in front of them.

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.