Don't You Forget About Me Part 6

But after Nan died he just couldn't cope on his own. With two hip replacements and a habit of leaving the gas hob on ('But I could have sworn I turned it off!'), he was becoming a danger to himself, and his neighbours, and last year he moved grudgingly to Hemmingway House.

'I can just imagine that Temple woman's face now,' he chuckles, reaching for a bag of Jelly Babies and rattling them at me. 'She always looks to me like she's sucking a lemon. Either that or she's sat on something sharp-'

'Gramps, can I ask you a favour?' Quickly changing the subject away from Miss Temple's derriere, I sit down beside him and dig my hand in the bag.

'Go on then, how much?' he grumbles affectionately, putting down the Jelly Babies and pulling out his wallet.

'Oh, no, I don't need any money,' I protest quickly. 'I got a Christmas bonus.'

Granddad raises his eyebrows approvingly. 'Well, aren't you a clever girl?'

I feel my cheeks colour slightly. Clever hasn't got anything to do with it. It's more a case of having a kind boss who took pity on me and turned a blind eye all year to my appalling PA skills.

'No, the thing is, I wanted to ask if I could borrow your sewing machine? You see, I found this . . .' Digging into my ancient rucksack that has seen better days, I pull out a length of patterned material, all folded up, that I recently discovered in a charity shop. I can never resist popping into charity shops: you can find all kinds of weird and wonderful things. 'I thought I might make a bag out of it, as this one of mine is ready for the dustbin and bags are so expensive these days . . .'

Reaching for his half-moon spectacles, Granddad props them on the end of his nose and unfolds the material. 'Hmmm-' he nods, turning it over in his hands, examining it 'well, it's possible, but this fabric is a very thick cotton, almost like a loomed hemp, and it appears to be some kind of sack . . .' Frowning, he looks up. 'I have made thousands of bespoke suits in my time, my dear, but they were made from the finest fabrics, not sacks,' he says, a little sniffily. 'Now, if you were talking a nice silk or Italian cashmere-'

'I want to use this,' I say stubbornly. 'And yes, OK, you're right, it is an old sack. The woman in the charity shop said an old lady brought it in with some clothes inside. Apparently it's from the 1950s and they used it to store flour when she lived on a farm in France-'

'And you want to make a bag out of it?' He looks bewildered.

'Absolutely,' I smile. 'I just loved the design on it and I thought if I lined it with some pretty fabric and then I sew these ribbons along the edges-' I pull out a piece of ribbon I saved from a Christmas present 'so that it gathers up like this . . .'

I'm always going round to Granddad's so that he can help me with some new project or other. I'm forever making things, partly because I don't earn much money, but mostly because I get such a buzz from thinking up ideas and recycling someone's charity cast-offs into something new and interesting.

Bending both of our heads together, we pore over it for a few moments. 'So, what do you think?' I ask, turning sideways to glance at him.

Pushing up his gla.s.ses onto the bridge of his nose, Granddad peers at me intently, as if deep in thought. 'You've got the gift,' he says quietly after a moment, a smile playing on his lips.

'The gift?' I frown.

'I've never told you this before, but I always knew it,' he nods, looking very pleased with himself. 'I used to say to your mother: Tess will be the one to take after me . . .'

'Oh Gramps,' I laugh, 'you were one of the finest tailors on Savile Row. I wouldn't have a clue how to make a suit!'

'That bit's easy: anyone can learn how to measure an inside leg,' he pooh-poohs. 'What you can't learn is the vision.'

'Well, I don't know about that . . .' I smile, a bit embarra.s.sed by his compliment. I'm not used to compliments, except of course from Gramps. For some reason, he thinks I'm the best at everything. 'I just like making things, that's all,' I shrug.

'You don't just make things, Tess, you create things,' he corrects, looking every inch the proud grandparent.

I blush, memories flashing back of Gramps coming to see me in the Nativity play at school. I played the donkey and had no lines, and he spent the whole time loudly applauding me whenever I came on stage, much to the annoyance of the other bemused relatives in the audience. To this day he still insists the donkey stole the show.

'So, you think it can work?' I ask, looking across at him.

'Well now, let's see . . .' Opening a drawer, he pulls out his fabric tape measure and, easing himself up from the sofa, moves over to his sewing machine. 'If we cut along this edge and do a double seam here . . .' As he begins explaining, I scoot across and pull up a little footstool next to him, watching as his pale, papery fingers come to life and begin expertly turning dials and levers on his sewing machine.

'Cooeee . . .'

We're interrupted by the high-pitched sound of a woman's voice and a lavender-permed head pops itself around the door.

'I saw the door was ajar and heard voices . . .'

'Oh hi Phyllis,' I smile.

Considering I made sure to close the door firmly behind me, and Phyllis is hard of hearing, I'm not that sure I believe her, but it doesn't matter. I love Phyllis. A widow in her eighties, her room's down the corridor and she's always popping in to see Granddad with her Scrabble set and gifts of shortbread. 'Do you know your Grandpa is a natural? I've never seen so many seven-letter words!'

Personally I have a sneaking suspicion she has a crush on Gramps, but when I mentioned it to him he told me to stop being so ridiculous. 'At our age we don't have crushes, we have angina,' he said firmly.

'Happy New Year, how are you?' I ask, giving her tiny frame a hug.

'Still alive,' she chuckles. 'How are you? Courting yet?'

I can't help but smile at her use of the word 'courting'. It's so wonderfully old-fashioned and conjures up all these lovely images of tea dances and walks along the promenade. So much better than our modern-day 'dating', I reflect, thinking about Fiona hunched over her computer, going through profiles on KindredSpiritsRUs.com, looking at a thousand photos of men s...o...b..arding, scuba-diving, bungee-jumping. It would seem that every single man in London is an extreme sports fanatic.

'I was . . . but we broke up a few months ago,' I say, trying to make light of it and shrug it off.

She clucks sympathetically. 'Well, don't worry, at your age there're plenty more fish in the sea. Now, when you get to my age, the sea's pretty much empty; all that's left are a few old barnacles . . .' She grins a pink denture smile and gestures towards my granddad.

'Who you calling a barnacle?' he grumbles, before turning to me and demanding, 'What's all this about a chap?' like he's some kind of scary Sicilian G.o.dfather protecting the family honour, and not my eighty-seven-year-old granddad.

Phyllis tuts loudly. 'She doesn't need your permission, you know.'

'I know that,' he retorts hotly, digging out his pipe from his pocket and vigorously knocking the ash from the bowl. 'I just didn't know anything about a chap.'

'You remember Sebastian, I brought him to see you once,' I remind him, although part of me doesn't want to.

It's traditional for the first meeting between your father and your boyfriend to be a little nerve-wracking. After all, you're his little girl and now you're all grown-up and having mind-blowing s.e.x with the guy sitting on the edge of his sofa, trying to make polite conversation about tractors. (Don't ask me why my dad brought up the subject of tractors. My dad's not a farmer, he's a retired biology teacher. But then applying logic to my dad would be a bit like applying it to Lady Gaga's wardrobe. Utterly pointless.) But meetings between your boyfriend and your granddad are supposed to be cosy, genial affairs, with your grandfather reminiscing about the good old days and offering cups of stewed tea and Bakewell slices. They are not supposed to involve a scene where your granddad challenges him to a game of poker, interrogates him about 'his intentions' and warns him against cheating by waving his antique pistol around.

'But of course not, Mr Connelly, I would never do that to Tess,' Seb had stammered in alarm.

'I wasn't talking about my granddaughter, I was talking about cards,' my granddad had replied with a glare.

It was all very stressful. Made worse when the nurses came in and confiscated the pistol for being a dangerous firearm, and Seb went on to win two hands. I'm not sure which was worse, losing the pistol, or the poker game, but either way Granddad was not a happy bunny. Hence I haven't mentioned it again as I thought it best if it could all be forgotten.

Now, apparently, it is. Completely.

'Sebastian? I've never met a Sebastian!' booms my granddad, jabbing a pipe cleaner backwards and forwards into his pipe as if it's a lethal weapon.

I feel a seed of anxiety. Hoping he'd forget the card game is one thing, forgetting he's ever met Seb is quite another. But then Granddad's memory has been getting worse lately. At first we all just a.s.sumed it was his age, but then a few weeks before Mum and Dad left for Australia, they came in to visit and one of the nurses took them aside. Apparently a few of the nursing staff had noticed it was more than him just growing increasingly forgetful, he'd also been getting confused, and there was concern it might be the early signs of Alzheimer's. There was even talk about him seeing a doctor.

When Mum told me, I got really defensive and refused to believe it. Like I said to her, it's not that he doesn't know who I am, he just can't remember my name sometimes. It's no big deal. Loads of people are bad with names.

But now I'm beginning to wonder if there might be some truth in it. If it is something more sinister, and I've just been in denial.

'Yes you have, he was American, remember?' I prod gently. Except, in this instance, it's not just his memory that's worrying me; I've just had a flash of deja vu to yesterday and Fiona.

'Oooh, an American?' pipes up Phyllis. 'I went out with an American in the war. Johnny James was his name: big tall fellow with bright red hair and a smile the size of Texas. He used to give me stockings so I didn't have to draw the seams up my legs . . .' She trails off, reminiscing.

Granddad shoots her a look that says he doesn't want to be hearing about Johnny James and his stockings.

Surprisingly, Phyllis gets the hint. 'Well, best be off,' she says quickly, 'I've got a pillowcase to embroider,' and, giving me a wink, she squeezes my hand and promptly leaves.

I turn back to Granddad. 'You played poker . . . he won.' I try again. My seed of anxiety is beginning to sprout.

Granddad Connelly looks aghast. 'Now my memory might not be as sharp as it used to be,' he concedes, 'but that I would remember.' He pa.s.ses me the used pipe cleaner, and wordlessly I take a fresh one from the packet on the table and hand it to him. I'm like the nurse in the operating room, handing the surgeon his implements. 'Now, have you come to cheer me up or finish me off by casting aspersions on my poker game?' He peers at me over the top of his gla.s.ses, like he used to do when I was naughty, and I suddenly feel about five years old.

'I've come to see you, of course,' I protest.

'That's my girl,' he winks, and I smile despite myself.

'And, for the record, it would take a lot more than that to finish you off,' I tease.

'That's what the nurses say,' he laughs, reaching inside his breast pocket and taking out a pouch of tobacco. He begins packing the bowl of his pipe with it. I've seen him do this a million times, but it's still fascinating to watch. He's so methodical and precise the way he does it. When I was a child he told me that I had to think of him filling up his pipe like a family of three . . .

A memory begins playing in my mind like a QuickTime movie: me as a little girl sitting on his knee and him saying, 'First you pat the tobacco gently like a child would, see?' and taking my finger he gently taps it on the soft, springy flakes. 'Next you fill it up again and press it more firmly, like a mother would,' and holding my finger he pushes it down harder. 'And then finally you fill it up one last time and press it down very hard, like a father would,' and, wrapping his huge hand around my tiny finger, he squashes it firmly against the tobacco.

'Now pa.s.s me those matches,' he's saying now, and I snap back to see him gesturing towards a little bowl filled with various packets of all different shapes and sizes.

'Gramps!' I hiss, giving him a disapproving stare. 'You can't smoke that in here, you'll get thrown out!'

'Chance'd be a fine thing,' he grumbles.

I surrender. 'Well, OK, just this once, but I'll have to open a window.' Walking over to the window I push it open, then reach for a box of matches. I glance at the inscription: The Savoy. Abruptly I feel a beat of sadness. Granddad used to go to all those places when he worked in Savile Row. It must be hard being here.

'Here, let me do that for you,' I offer, lighting up a match. Sod Hemmingway House and their rules.

Granddad looks at me in surprise, then leans his pipe forwards. He takes a few deep puffs then blows out a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke. 'Now, about this jacket you want to make,' he says, turning back to the sewing machine.

'No, it was a bag, remember?'

A crease etches down his forehead and it's obvious he's struggling to remember.

'Of course,' he nods vigorously. 'I just got a bit muddled.' Briskly he grabs the material. 'Righty-ho, well, come along, let's get cracking.'

I sit down next to him and immediately I feel myself relax. I need to stop worrying. There's nothing weird going on. It's just Gramps's bad memory. That's why he doesn't remember Seb. And I'm sure that's just an age thing.

Dismissing the thought, I press my cheek against my granddad's shoulder as he fires up the machine. I love this bit. Love seeing my ideas come to life. Love the transformation of something old into something new. It's like magic.

And, feeling a tingle of excitement, I watch as the needle begins to fly over the fabric.

Chapter 8.

After a couple of hours at the sewing machine, it's time for me to leave. Gathering up the fabric, which is already beginning to take shape, I promise to pop back soon for my second lesson. 'And in the meantime, try not to get into any more trouble,' I chide, giving him a kiss on his sandpapery cheek.

'I'll try,' he says cheerfully, and quite blatantly with no intention whatsoever of doing so, 'and don't forget the ribbons for next time . . . oh, and you need to decide whether you want a zip or b.u.t.tons . . .' He frowns in concentration. 'I think b.u.t.tons would be better, some gilt perhaps, or a nice mother-of-pearl. In fact I think I have some somewhere . . .'

'OK, great,' I grin, turning to leave, but he pins me in the doorway.

'. . . and the lining material, that's very important, it makes all the difference. I think a nice shot silk none of this nasty polyester you get nowadays . . .'

I haven't seen Granddad this animated for a long time and his enthusiasm is infectious. 'Silk sounds perfect,' I agree. 'I know, what about a lovely raspberry colour? Like your handkerchief?? In fact' a thought strikes me as I look at it 'we could use your handkerchief!'

He glances down for a moment in surprise, then pulls it out of his breast pocket and shakes it out with a flourish. His face lights up. 'Splendid idea, Tess! What did I tell you about the gift?'

I start laughing, and before he can come up with any more suggestions, I leave him waving goodbye with his handkerchief and scoot off down the corridor.

Outside I jump on a bus and head to the big shopping centre nearby. Even though it's a Bank Holiday all the stores are open, keen to take advantage of everyone being off work and eager to spend their Christmas money. I've brought my laptop with me to take into the big computer store there. Fingers crossed, they're going to be able to fix it.

Arriving, I glide up the escalators and start making my way through the crowds. My eyes flit over the windows of all the designer stores: Tiffany's, Gucci, Prada. I glance inside one. A clutch of blonde women are cooing over the display of handbags, taking it in turns to try them on their shoulders and do twirls in front of the mirror. I slow down to watch in fascination. I've never understood why women spend so much money on handbags. It doesn't make sense to me.

Not that I'm anti-designer. I can see the appeal of a pair of expensive shoes after all, who doesn't covet a pair of beautifully made stilettos that make your ankles look super-skinny and your legs look as if they go on forever? Or an exquisitely cut dress, made of gorgeous fabric that hugs and flatters and gives you a waist and b.o.o.bs.

But a designer handbag? I just don't get it. A six-thousand-pound Birkin is never going to make you look a size smaller. Or five inches taller. Plus, it's not like they're even unique. Every time I open a magazine I see all these celebrities lugging around the same one, I mean, imagine if they were all photographed wearing the same dress? Even Fiona covets them. In fact, she's the reason I even know there's a bag named after a sixties actress that is the price of a small car. And that apparently she'd give her life for it. 'I'd die for a Birkin! Seriously, I'd die!' she once gasped, poring over a picture of Posh.

At least I think it was Posh the bag was so ridiculously big she was practically hidden behind it. All I could think was, What the h.e.l.l has she got in there?

David?

But then, what on earth do I know? I'm making a bag out of recycled flour sacks and my granddad's handkerchief.

Striding quickly past, I head up another set of escalators and finally reach the computer store. Inside it's heaving with shoppers and lots of friendly staff in brightly coloured T-shirts asking if you want any help.

'My laptop's broken,' I explain dolefully as one swoops upon me.

'No worries,' beams the a.s.sistant. 'We'll get one of our technicians to take a look at it. If you want to give me your name and take a seat' he gestures to a row of chairs where other people are waiting 'it shouldn't be too long.'

'Oh OK, thanks,' I nod, giving him my details and sitting down on a spare seat.

I'm just dumping my bags on the floor next to me when my phone rings. It's an Australian number. It must be my parents. Despite my brother having been in Sydney now for nearly six months, I've not heard from him once, apart from a text to say, 'Who won the football?' My mother, on the other hand, has no such communication problems.

'Tess? Is that you?'

This is how my mum starts every phone conversation. I've never actually asked her who she thinks I might be, considering it's my number she's dialled.

'Hi Mum, yes, it's me,' I reply, playing along. Though I keep thinking that one day I'm going to put on an accent and pretend to be someone else. Like the Queen maybe. Or maybe an alien from outer s.p.a.ce who's invaded the body of her daughter and stolen her mobile phone.

'It's so hot and sunny here!' she says, diving straight into a weather report. She's in Australia. It's their summer. It's hard to mirror her surprise, but I do my best.

'Gosh, really?' I say.