Lynne Banks - Stealing Stacey

“She won’t do it again,” she said. “I’ll see to that.” But she said it very faintly, almost whispering. “Thank you.” And she closed the door on him.

“You don’t have to thank him, Mum,” I said. “Big buttin! We only took the afternoon off.”

She put her finger to her lips – shhhh. Then I remembered what she’d said, before.

“What did you mean about someone being here?”

“I don’t want you playing truant, Stace,” she said in that same whisper. “Did you know mothers can go to prison if they let their kids bunk off?”

“Not the first time, Mum, only if you never make me go to school. So who’s here?”

She was still whispering, her eyes rolling like some loony. “Someone I don’t want you to shame me in front of,” she said. “Your other nan.”

I gawped at her. “What you mean, other nan?” I said like an idiot.

“Your other grandma .”

My other grandma? Well, nobody has more than two. The nan I knew about was my mum’s mum, so this one must be—

But that was impossible.

Now Mum was squeezing my arm tight and kind of wheeling me up to the mirror that hangs in our little lobby where we hang our coats. She was eye-signalling more madly than ever. I tried to read the signals. I’m quite good at it – I should be, after fourteen years’ practice. It was something like, I hadn’t a clue she was coming… she’s in the living room… I nearly died… the place is such a tip… so are you… for God’s sake do something about it before you go in there!

No, I’m not pretending to be that good. Her hands were signalling, too. They were fussing about all over me. Trying to pull my top down to cover my middle. Unrolling my skirt and pulling it up (and down). Reaching into her handbag, fetching out a grotty little comb and thrusting it at me, talking in that loud voice all the time.

“Think of it, Stacey, all the way from Australia ! Of course she wrote to warn us but she forgot to put enough stamps on it – it must still be on a boat somewhere! Never MIND, it’s just so great to see her, aren’t you excited that she’s come to see us, I am!” I know, I know – it’s terrible – but PLEASE remember your manners! signalled her eyes. They were now crossing and rolling so much I was afraid they’d fall out.

I scraped the comb over my hair, just to shut her up (I’d done my hair that morning with Just Out Of Bed: Keep That Messed-up Look All Day wax) and went into the living room. I admit I was curious. Who wouldn’t be? Because this was my dad’s mum. Why would she come to see us from Australia, when Dad never did from Greville Drive, two miles away? Didn’t she know he’d scarpered?

In the doorway, I stopped dead. A kind of vision was sitting there on our sofa.

She had short curly hair, very blue-rinsed and just-been-done, and a two-piece suit with a short skirt and high-heeled shoes to match. Underneath her jacket she wore a fancy spotted blouse with ruffles and a bow at the neck. All of it was in shades of mauve and purple. And lots and lots of make-up. The eye make-up was purple, too. And she was smiling a big smile with bright white (false?) teeth.

“Blossom, come to Grandma!” she said in an Aussie accent that’d put Neighbours to shame, and reached for me.

Mum gave me a push from behind. I sort of fell forward into this stranger’s arms. She smelt as if she’d emptied a bottle of Eau de Pong over herself. That, and spearmint, from the gum she was chewing. The gum-chewing didn’t go with any other thing about her.

After she’d hugged and kissed me she pulled me down on the sofa beside her.

“You ravishing little angel!” she cried. “Aren’t you pretty, you little wavy blondie, you! With those blue eyes! You get those from me!” She batted her mascaraed eyelashes. She had blue eyes, just like my dad. “And I love your nails ! If only mine were long, I’d have ’em done just like yours! Oh, w hy did I wait this long to meet you? You and me are just going to be the pals of the millennium !” She had one arm round my neck and she was holding my head on her shoulder. I thought my head would come off, but I managed to straighten up before it did.

“You two have just the cosiest little nest here!” the vision was saying, looking round our hovel. I saw her glancing at some of the photos. There were still ones of Dad and of him and Mum together on their wedding day, and of the three of us, all of which I’d have chucked in the bin the day he bombed off. In fact I did, but Mum fished them out, and she was crying so much I hadn’t the heart to chuck them again. “Little nest” was about right. With three of us in the living room, it felt like three cuckoos were squashed into a sparrow’s nest.

Mum looks a bit like a sparrow. I read that sparrows, which used to be the British birds we had the most of, are dying out for some reason, pollution maybe, and no wonder – you can hardly breathe where we live. Now Mum looked as if she might be the last of them. She has these round bright eyes, and she’s soft and small with little pecky movements. She wasn’t actually fluttering and twittering, but I knew she was, inside.

“D’you want a cup of tea, Mrs, er—” She stopped. Her face turned red. I heard myself say, a bit impatiently I admit, “Denton, Mum, it must be.” Of course this nan must have the same name as us, my dad’s name.

But she said, “Oh, call me Glendine, lovies, everyone does! We can’t have two Mrs Dentons, can we? Too confusing! Besides,” she added, “I don’t suppose you want to be reminded of a certain Mr Run-Rabbit-Run.”

I couldn’t believe it. Dad was this woman’s son. I kept staring at her, trying to connect her to Dad. Apart from the eyes, she didn’t look anything like him. And she was slagging him off. It was weird.

Grandma said, “Did I hear the word ‘tea’? Because I’d kill for some.” And she got up off the sofa. God, she was tall! That was like Dad. Her blue rinse nearly bumped the ceiling. Then she said, “But first I need a sweet pea.” I must’ve looked blank because she laughed. “Point me at the dunny, darling, I’m busting.” When I still looked blank, she said, “The la. The loo. The potty-house. The toilet !” I don’t know why I was so embarrassed. Everyone has to go. It was just that my other nan would never mention toilets or anything else she calls “vulgar”. When she has to go, she says, “I’m off to the excuse-me.”

It turned out the vision preferred the kitchen, where we normally eat, to the living room. But she looked all wrong in there. Like a tropical bush in a window box.

She sat perched on a high stool at the counter, with her legs crossed. She had nice legs for an old woman, I’ll say that, and she liked showing them off and all.

There was no problem about keeping the conversation going. She just couldn’t stop gassing. She said the long flight from Australia had nearly killed her.

“I simply have to stretch out, petals,” she said. “If I can’t stretch my poor old legs, they get cramp.” She stuck them straight out in front of her and nearly fell off the stool. “Ooops! No, but I’m serious. I was in agony! In the night when the crew turned the lights off and went behind their curtains, Glendine went on the prowl. I found a lovely little cave behind the last row of seats. So I went and got my rug and my tiny cushion and I just laid down—”

“You lay on the floor?” gasped Mum. She was staring at her as if she’d come out of a flying saucer.

“Why not? It was quite comfy, I got a lovely kip. But of course my feet stuck out, and in the morning, a steward tripped over them! Just about broke me bloody ankle. You’d think he’d apologise, but not a bit of it – he was livid . ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘lying on the floor of the aircraft is strictly against regulations, you will have to return to your seat!’ I sat up and gave him my biggest smile. I said, ‘Of course, pet, no worries.’ And I gave him my hand, to pull me up, very graciously, just like the Queen. I got back to my seat in nice time for brekky. And then, would you believe? They made a special announcement to the whole plane that it was forbidden to lay down on the floor! I think they had to make a new regulation, just for Glendine!”