Time Travelling Grandma

By Franke Anderton

I’m walking to yours after school on a Tuesday like I’ve always done, for dinner and a  catch-up. I have my school bag on my back full of books and pens and science  homework we can struggle through together before tea. We’ll eat dinner about  5.30pm, do the dishes together and sit and play cards and watch re-runs of come  dine with me until my parents come get me about 6.30. you’ll pretend to not find my  sarcasm funny and tell me off when I swear, tell me its unladylike. Then you’ll tell me  you love me, and I’ll say of course, I’m your favourite grandchild and you’ll smack me  on the arm and say you don’t have favourites.  

But today, I get to your front door and ring the bell and wait for you to run up to the  door, realise the key isn’t there and run back into the house to get the key which will  probably be by the back door. Sure enough, I see you wave through the window get  to the door and turn around to find the keys. But I could have sworn you shout FUCK  as you walk back through the house.  

I finally get into the house and am taken back by the state of the living room. Gone is  the ugly rug and uncomfortable pastel furniture with those lace doilies on, its looks a  lot less like you’ve brought a living room from ‘woman’s weekly’ to life. Instead,  there’s more art on the walls and books covering the tables, and photos of you and  your friends when you were younger finally freed from that memory box upstairs.  

I shrug it off and we sit at the table, I go to get my schoolbooks from my bag but  you’re already shuffling the cards. My favourite thing about these cards is how  there’s two packets in the box. One pack completely unopened in the plastic still.  And the other, the ones you are shuffling, are so crumpled and creased you can  barely read the numbers. The box is shredded to the point there’s more tape than  box and still the other packet remains unopened. You cheat at cards, like you always  do. I call you out on it and you just laugh at me. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you  laugh like that before.  

Whilst we eat dinner you tell me I should bring that girl over for dinner one week and  I nearly choke on my smiley face potato waffles and say what girl? You smile at me. I  panic and think oh god, we’re finally going to talk about how you saw me kissing my  girlfriend down the road that one time. You see me panic and laugh again and say  you just want to speak to her because she’s confused as that girl is soo out of my  league. I’m not quite sure how to respond to that.  

We do the dishes and listen to the radio; we sing Blondie together and I tell you that  you’ve changed your tune since the last time we listened to her. You shrug your  shoulders and tell me there’s nothing wrong with a bit of female sexual liberation,  since we’re all getting some aren’t we?  

I finally notice the fridge. Gone are the kitche and twee fridge magnets from my  holidays I always got you and instead those comical ones of ladies holding big  glasses of beer with their tits out instead. I can’t help but laugh and you notice it and  say they always make you laugh when you see them too.  

We sit and chat until mum and dad come and get me. Dad walks into the kitchen and  says he fancied a cup of coffee if that’s alright. You look at him and tell him he knows 

where the kettle is and you carry on chatting. Mum joins in on the conversation and  tells me off when I swear, tells me its unladylike, you tell her to get a life.  

When its finally time to go, I put my shoes and coat on and confuse myself further  with the woman I’ve just spent the evening with. The same but different I suppose.  You don’t wear the wedding ring anymore and I wonder if you binned it after all these  years – he was a prick after all. You look like you have new wrinkles, on your smile  lines which is nice and by your eyes from laughing, they suit you.  

I tell you that I love you, you hug me and tell me I was always your favourite.