Nicky Singer - Doll

“No!”

It sounds like a gasp. Grandma looks at me, moves to my side, takes my hand.

“No need, Richard,” she says smoothly. “I’ll deal with all that.”

“But—” he protests.

“It’s fine, Richard. It’ll be fine. You have enough to do.”

“Enough” means work. Grandma likes a man to work. Her husband always worked, Gerry. Worked long hours, worked long distances, was a travelling salesman. Good commission, until he ran his car into a tree. Still got Salesman of the Week though, even though he died on the Thursday. Had more Tupperware receipts in his pocket that day than most salesmen got in a month. That’s what was said, proudly, at his funeral. His daughter, my mother, was fourteen at the time. The same age I am now.

“Well,” says my father, “if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” she says.

He looks uncomfortable. Says to me, knife poised, “Aren’t you having any?”

“I’m not hungry.” He should put down that knife. The light on the blade is bouncing in my eyes.

“She’s a stick. A rake. How can she be the daughter of a restaurateur and be so uninterested in food? You should feed her up, Richard.”

“She knows she’s welcome in the restaurant any time.” He looks up at me, blade still upright. “In fact, you can come back with me, Tilly. Stay until – well, you know.”

“Put down the knife,” I say.

“What?”

“The knife. Put it down!”

Grandma moves swiftly, pushes my father’s knife into his bacon, as though he were a child.

“What—”

Then she backs off, stands against the counter. “Sorry, Richard,” she says and half nods at me. Adding quickly, “And don’t worry about the arrangements. I’ll take care of everything.”

And I know why she’s standing there.

My father re-groups. “I don’t know what we’d all do without you, Margaret,” he says.

She’s standing there because of the Sabatier block.

I edge towards the counter myself, but I keep my eyes on my father.

“You’ll let me know – what happens?” he says.

“Of course,” says Grandma.

“We’ll need to talk about a long-term solution. Tilly can’t stay here, not now, not after …”

I expect to see a gap. One knife missing. The long, thin-bladed carving knife. But, as I turn and glance, I see it. The knife. Washed and dried and in its place. Grandma. Oh Grandma.

“No need to rush into things,” says Grandma. “Take one day at a time. That’s the best way.”

My father drains his coffee. “You don’t have to go to school, Tilly,” he says. “I’m sure they’d understand.”

“Best to keep busy,” says Grandma. “What would she do here, anyway?”

“Tilly?”

“I want to go.” It’s a kind of whisper.

“OK. Your choice.” He pauses. “Do you still want to come to the restaurant on Sunday?”

“Of course she does,” says Grandma.

“Tilly?”

“If you want.”

“Well, I am short-staffed. It would help.”

“OK then.”

“Thanks, Tilly.” He stands up. He comes for a kiss, or a touch, but I move away and his arms fall short. “Just one thing,” he says. “It’s not your fault. You do understand that, don’t you Tilly? Nothing that’s happened is your fault.”

Why does he have to say these things?

“Of course she understands that,” says Grandma. “Now come on, Tilly. We have to go.”

She puts her body between my father’s and mine, directs him towards the door.

“Goodbye then,” he says.

I watch my father drive away. What strikes me most about him this morning is that he is alive. And that doesn’t seem fair somehow.

The drive to the school gates is fifteen minutes, but Grandma doesn’t take me to the gates. She pulls the car up four roads short. Looks in all her mirrors.

“OK?” she says.

“Yes. Thanks Grandma.”

I also check the road. Sometimes Mercy’s friend Charlie walks this way. But more often she gets the bus and the bus doesn’t come down this street. I can see no one but a man and his dog. I give my Grandma a peck on her dry cheek.

“It’ll be all right,” says Grandma. “Don’t worry about a thing. Promise me?”

I get out and watch while Grandma turns the car and drives away. Until this moment, I have no doubt that I’m going to school. It’s not as if I don’t know the way. I’ve walked the route from here more times than I care to remember. But, as my grandmother’s car disappears from view, so does my certainty. It’s as though, by turning the corner, she has cut me adrift. School doesn’t seem the point any more. Even the word “school” seems to have shifted. I can’t fix on its meaning. I stand bewildered. I seem not to know what to do or where to go.

And then I hear a voice, soft and low. “I know,” the voice says. And then it whispers: “Come.”

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