The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [35]
Frannie becomes suspiciously quiet once I persuade her into the passenger seat of the Peugeot.
‘You’re sure you’ll be OK?’ asks Carrie, as I close the car door. ‘I don’t mind coming along if you need a hand. She seems fine, now, but…’ Neither of us can define what but is.
‘Did she say anything to you about what she was doing there?’
‘Not a word.’
‘Come over for supper next week,’ says Carrie. ‘Both of you. You’re not getting out enough, India. What do you do in the evenings? We’ve hardly seen you since Christmas.’
What do I do? I watch television with my grandmother. I know every twist of the plotline of EastEnders and Holby City. After she’s gone to bed, I open a bottle of wine–bugger the new-year resolution–and play Free Cell on the computer. Can only manage the card games, these days; too much blood and destruction in anything else.
‘Oh, I don’t mind a quiet life,’ I say. ‘After London–you know…’ Too late I realize that the wave accompanying this, meant to convey I’m weary of the shallow pleasures of the metropolis, makes it look as if I’m rudely batting away Carrie’s invitation. ‘I’d love to come to supper some time,’ I add. ‘If Frannie’s…up to it.’
All through the conversation, my grandmother sits in the front seat with a puzzled, shut-up-don’t-interrupt-me expression on her face, like she’s working out a difficult sum in her head.
On a cold February night, Trusloe seems bleaker than ever, looming out of the windy darkness under rags of cloud backlit by the glow of Swindon to the north. There are not enough streetlamps, and most windows are unlit. On our road everyone, apart from the couple next door who make amateur porn films in their living room, apparently heads for bed straight after supper. Either that or they still use blackout material for curtains.
‘You OK?’ I haul on the handbrake outside Bella Vista.
Frannie stares straight ahead, brows knitted.
‘I said, are you OK?’
‘What have you brought me here for?’
‘So you can go to bed.’
‘I don’t want to go to bed.’ There’s a petulant droop to her mouth. ‘Too buggerin’ early.’
‘Come on, let’s get you out of the car.’
‘India, I’m not a bloomin’ parcel. I’m perfectly capable of getting myself out.’ She’s adopted that posh tone she puts on when she wants to be bloody-minded.
‘Please yourself.’
‘I will.’ Frannie waggles the catch on the car door. ‘Won’t open.’
‘That’s not the way. Stop messing about. Use the handle.’
‘Locked.’
‘It’s not locked.’
Now she’s wrestling with the seatbelt. ‘I’m trapped!
Just for a second, a feeling of utter panic seizes me. I’m close to tears: frustration, grief, despair, the sheer bloody unfairness of having to watch the person you love most in the world start to lose it, all vying for the honour of making me bawl.
But I won’t give way.
Pressing my nails hard into my palm to stop myself screaming, I reach across and press the button to release her.
While I’m boiling the kettle for her hot-water bottle, Frannie comes into the kitchen wearing her nightie inside out, one strap slipping off a bony, stooped shoulder.
‘You’ll catch your death. Get into bed, or put your dressing-gown on. And your other slippers.’ Her feet are purple. Have I noticed before how scrawny her arms have become, flesh hanging in loose, empty pouches?
She reaches out a swollen-knuckled paw and touches my face. ‘Sorry. Don’t mean to be a trouble.’
‘You’re not a trouble.’ I catch her hand before she withdraws it. It feels like a piece of raw chicken out of the fridge. I squeeze it helplessly, not knowing what else to do. ‘You’re no trouble at all, you old bat.’
She smiles up at me, her eyes showing a ghost of their familiar twinkle. Then she turns and shuffles out of the kitchen. The glow of the lamp in her bedroom backlights her, turning her into a bent shadowy thing crossing the hallway.
Suddenly I recognize what’s been bothering me. Frannie, silhouetted