Through the Roof
by
Copyright©
2012, Graham
Murray
Published by Living Books USA
Cover design by author
Smashwords Edition
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RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International
and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or
use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be
reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information
storage and retrieval system without express written permission from
the author or publisher.
This book is
purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents
either are the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons whether living or
deceased, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
* * *
Through the Roof
They sat in the living room, huddled around the single-bar electric heater in the fireplace which had been turned to the lowest setting, as usual. Brian slumped back in his chair when his Grandma held up an admonitory finger. This usually meant she was about to launch into one of her tirades. They usually began with, When I was your age
“When I was your age,” said Grandma, peering at Brian over her NHS-issue, half-moon glasses, “we never had anything like Social Security or Jobbie Centers.” She sniffed. “If you didn’t have a job, you didn’t have anything.”
Brian sighed. “It’s Job Centers, Grandma. And I don’t have anything,” he said dolefully. “We sold it all, remember? To pay for Grandad’s funeral.”
“There weren’t any handouts,” continued Grandma, ignoring him. “No work meant no food. And no food meant . . .”
She though about this for a minute and then added, “Well, it meant you just went hungry. And we did.”
“Maybe I could go out and beg us some dinner,” said Brian under his breath.
Grandma’s head spun around like greased lightning.
“Whassat?” she said suspiciously.
Like many of the elderly, Brian’s Grandma suffered from chronic selective hearing. Or rather, everyone else suffered from it. One minute she couldn’t hear a word anyone said when they were standing right in front of her. The next she could hear a pin drop amidst the throng at Wimbledon. It was uncanny.
“Nothing,” said Brian glumly. “I just wondered what you wanted for dinner.”
“Dinner?”
Grandma pulled her cardigan tighter around her, sighed, and leaned back in her chair.
“Werl . . . I suppose we’ll just have to scrape by with what we’ve got, won’t we?”
She shot Brian a sideways glance. “What have we got?”
“Hmm, let’s see,” said Brian, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling and counting on his fingers.
“I can do us egg ‘n chips or . . . egg ’n chips . . . and then there’s that old standby favourite of ours . . . egg ’n chips!”
He dared not look at Grandma.
“What?” said Grandma and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “I don’t want no fancy stuff, mark you. Haven’t we got egg ’n chips?”
“Or I could just do us some egg ’n chips,” said Brian wearily.
“I want egg ‘n chips,” said Grandma. “Do us some egg ’n chips. There’s a good lad. We’ll just have to make do with that.”
Brian did egg ’n chips.
Brian entered the living room fifteen minutes later carrying a tray with two plates of egg ’n beans - the chips having been wishful thinking. When she saw him, Grandma suddenly leaned forward in her chair, brandishing a Number 12 knitting needle and stared at him with wild eyes.
“Who’re you?” she demanded, waving the needle around and trying to stand up.
This failed as it required the use of both hands. She blew a wisp of hair out of her eyes.
“What do you want?” she hollered. “There’s no money! We haven’t got any money! I’ll call the police! Who are you?”
Brian gawped at her for a few seconds and then walked over to the table and put down the tray.
“It’s me, Grandma. Brian. Remember?”
Her eyes were riveted on him.
“Eh? Who?” she squeaked. “Who’re you?”
“You better come and get this before it gets cold, Grandma,” said Brian, pulling out a chair for her.
Grandma waved the needle around some more, but with a little less enthusiasm. Her expression clouded over.
“Brian . . . Brian . . .” she mumbled, as if trying to recall the name.
“Dan’s boy. Your son. Remember now?” said Brian as he walked over to her, maintaining a safe distance between him and the knitting needle because you just never know.
Grandma’s shoulders sagged and the knitting needle fell to the floor. Brian carefully retrieved it and put it on the mantelpiece.
“You’re not Dan,” she said, glaring at Brian. “Dan’s dead. He was in the war, you know.”
“I know, Grandma. I’m not Dan. I’m his boy. Your grandson, Brian.”
“He was blown up, my Dan. I never told you that.”
Brian sank to knees beside her chair and took her frail hand in his.
“Yes, I know Grandma. He’s my dad. He was in Iraq.”
“Not your Dan,” said Grandma irritably. “My Dan.”
She stared into his eyes. “They killed him. Just like that. One minute he was there, waiting for me and the next”
She snapped her fingers. “Poof! Gone. It was all gone.”
“I know, Grandma,” said Brian patiently.
She looked at Brian, her icy-blue eyes searching his.
“You don’t know, son,” said Grandma. She looked into his eyes a while longer and then added, “He had a boy you know. My Dan. Had a boy of his own.”
“Yes, I know, Grandma,” said Brian. “That’s me. I’m Dan’s boy.”
Her eyes moved from side to side as she searched Brian’s features.
“You look a bit like him, you know,” she said. “My Dan. And your Dad, too. Same nose.”
Brian helped her to her feet and steadied her. He had heard all of this many times before.
“C’mon,” he said as he guided her towards the table. “Your steak’s getting cold.”
They managed to get through dinner with only a few mishaps. Grandma spilled most of her beans onto the tablecloth when she lifted the plate and tried to drink them, and had then protested loudly when Brian offered to clean up the mess. She sat with a fork, piercing the little orange beans and putting them into her mouth one by one.
She had also insisted that the eggs were bread. After folding them in half with her fingers, she had eaten them just as she would a sandwich, with the yolk dripping down the front of her dress. Afterwards, she had complained that the steak tasted rubbery.
Brian helped her out of her egg-stained clothing and into her dressing gown. When he pulled the dress up and over her head, as if he were helping a child, she smiled when her head reappeared and said, “Peek-A-Boo!”
And then she giggled like a child.
When she saw Brian’s expression, her smile evaporated and she stared at him vacantly with her head to one side.
“Why’re you cryin’, son?”
Brian surreptitiously wiped away an errant tear.
“It’s . . . it’s nothing, Grandma,” he said.
She raised a blue-veined hand and gently stroked his cheek. Her fingers felt strangely soft and warm and instantly transported him back in time; to a time he recalled her doing that whenever his little heart had been broken, even when he was still at school.
Her expression softened.
“Tell Mommy what’s wrong, dear, and I’ll kiss it all better for you,” she cooed.
Brian looked into her eyes, and across the years. Across the decades. What stories could those eyes tell? What had she seen in her time? Where had she been? Where had she gone?
“I was just . . .”
Brian faltered as his voice cracked.
“I was just thinking about . . . about Dad,” he managed, and turned away as more tears built up.
Grandma looked at him and nodded.
“Definitely the nose,” she said.
She squinted at him. “And the eyes.”
When he finally had her ready for bed, Brian made her some cocoa and they sat in front of the fire, still with only a single bar burning. Earlier, when Grandma had been distracted by a moth flitting around the ceiling light, Brian had furtively switched on the second bar, but she had clicked it off again before sitting down and staring into space with her hands in her lap, grunting occasionally and clicking her dentures.
Brian was working on a crossword he had started a few days ago. He was stuck on nine across.
Grandma was wearing George’s favourite red-chequered dressing gown. The one with the missing pocket. Although it was now threadbare and almost transparent through usage, she claimed that it kept her warm and she could smell George on it.
He’ll come back for it one day, she would say. It’s his favourite one and he needs it, wherever he is.
She had also managed to put some rollers in her hair, albeit haphazardly, and was wearing only one stocking.
Brian had his legs stretched out in front of him, hopeful for any warmth from the feeble fire that was throwing out about as much heat as a cigarette.
Grandma’s feet were thrust into Brian’s slippers. Being several sizes too big for her, they appeared clown-like.
A carriage clock on the mantelpiece boomed out the seconds in the confines of the room, each one drawing Brian closer to morning and what he knew must be done.
He felt like a murderer.
Nine across remained stolidly obstinate as his thoughts were consumed by life’s remorseless brutality.
“I know what you’re trying to do!” Grandma shouted suddenly.
Startled by her unexpected outburst, Brian jumped and spilled cocoa down the front of his shirt.
She leaned forward and stared at him conspiratorially.
“I know. You can’t fool me, mister!”
She was waggling a finger at him, but her eyes were focused on a distant point over his left shoulder.
Brian put down his cup and attempted to wipe some of the drink off his shirt.
“What, Grandma?” he said, jadedly. “What is it I’m trying to do?”
She snorted.
“Hmph! You’re just like all the rest of them,” she maintained. “Always wanting something off me.”
Brian slumped.
“I don’t want anything from you, Grandma,” he said. “Why don’t you finish off your cocoa and we’ll get you into bed. You must be exhausted. I’ll get your pills for you.”
As Brian stood up, Grandma lifted her arm above her head, still with the mug grasped in her hand and threw it at him. He ducked just in time and shut his eyes as the mug shattered against the wall, spraying porcelain shards and cocoa everywhere.
“Grandma!” yelped Brian. He turned around and looked at the large stain on the wall behind him. “What’d you go’n do that for, eh?”
She was scrabbling to get out of her chair, but kept falling back as her slippers slid on the carpet. One of her hair rollers had come loose and was dangling down the side of her face.
She pulled it free and tossed it across the room. It clattered harmlessly onto the floor somewhere.
Brian sank down on all-fours and slowly crept towards her.
“Grandma, Grandma . . . it’s alright,” he said soothingly. “No-one’s trying to take anything from you.”
But she wasn’t listening. She was still staring at some distant point as if there was someone else in the room with them.
She waved her arms about as if beating off an angry wasp.
“You’ll never get it!” she bellowed. “That’s mine and Dan’s and George’s house!”
Brian wrapped his arms around her shoulders and gently pulled her arms down to her side.
“Never!” she wailed. “Never! You understand me!”
Her shoulders heaved as she struggled to catch her breath from the exertion. After blinking her eyes a few times, she slowly turned towards Brian.
She looked at him in surprise.
“Oh . . . Hello, Dan,” she said happily. “Didn’t see you there, son.”
Brian hugged her tighter.
He put his head on her shoulder and gently rubbed her back. She seemed to like it when he did that. It helped to calm her down. Her frail body felt like it may break in his grip. She was painfully thin and smelled of mothballs and gardenias.
“What’s the matter, my boy?” she said, her voice now tranquil and soothing as she stroked Brian’s hair. “Have those naughty girls been pickin’ on you again an’ teasin’ you?”
“No, Grandma,” Brian whispered. “There’s no girls.”
She patted his back and gently pushed him away so she could look at him.
“Just look at you,” she beamed. “All grown up now. Your dad would be so proud of you. Dan as well.”
Brian fought back the stinging tears. “I’d like to think so,” he said.
“Oh, they would,” said Grandma, nodding.
Brian sat back on his haunches with her hands in his and watched her for a while.
Finally he stood up and said, “I’ll get your medicine for you.”
Grandma looked up at him.
“Alright, George,” she said. “You know what’s best.”
Brian gently patted her hand
“That’s right,” he said resignedly. “George knows best.”
He fetched her medication from the kitchen and returned carrying a tumbler of water.
“Here you go, Gran,” he said. “Take these.”
She looked up at him as she took the pills in her hand. Her expression seemed distant and dreamy.
“Who’re you?” she asked, putting one of the pills into her mouth and taking a swig of water.
She shook her head and swallowed.
“I haven’t seen you here before. Where’s the regular boy? The one who looks like my Dan?”
Brian rolled his eyes. It was too late for all this.
“I’m right here, Grandma,” he said.
She stared at him for a few moments and then smiled broadly.
“Did I ever tell you about my house?”
Brian sighed.
“Yes, Gran. You did,” he said.
“They never did get it, you know,” she pressed on. “I told them they’d never get it and you know what? You know what happened?”
“No, Gran,” said Brian patiently. “What did happen?”
Grandma threw both arms into the air.
“Boom!” she said, and launched into a spate of raucous laughter that quickly turned into a fit of coughing and wheezing.
When the laughter died down a little and she had composed herself somewhat, she took his hand and put a finger to her lips.
“A doodlebug,” she whispered. “A bleedin’ doodlebug went right through the roof it did and boom! All gone! We was all at the pictures and when we got back, it wasn’t there any more. There was just a big hole in ground.”
She smiled faintly.
“ ’44 that was. February, ’44.”
She laughed a little more, but without humour, and then lay back in the chair, her tiny chest heaving from the exertion.