Granny (6 page)

But for Joe, the very worst memory of the day, the one that would keep him awake all of that night and most of the next, was of something he had seen in the middle of all the activity. As he stood in the hall he had heard something and had turned around just in time to see Granny coming down the stairs. At that moment, with just the two of them there, the mask was off again and the crocodile smile that Mrs. Jinks had described was there for him to see.

But it wasn't the smile that frightened Joe. It was what Granny was holding in her hand, what she had taken from the kitchen a few minutes before.

It was a box of instant gravy powder.

Without saying a word, Granny hurried past him and went into the kitchen to put it back.

N
obody felt the death of Mrs. Jinks more keenly than Joe. It was as if he had lost his only friend—which, in a way, he had. And not only was she dead but she had been branded a thief, and that hurt him all the more.
The truth will always come out.
That was what she had said to him. But how could he go to his parents or the police and tell them that it was Granny who had taken the jewelry and the gold teeth and that it was she who had killed Mrs. Jinks by pouring gravy powder over her when the police dogs were near because…because… What reason could there possibly be? They would think he was crazy.

Every day when he got home from school, Joe found himself on his own. He took to walking down to the back of the garden, where Mr. Lampy would be waiting for him and the two of them would sit together next to a coal stove with the family of moles watching them through the window of the shed.

“I'm going to run away,” he would say. “I'll go to China and work in a rice paddy.”

“I don't know, Master Warden,” Mr. Lampy would reply. “China's a long way away. And who's this Paddy you're talking about?”

Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Warden had problems of their own. The summer vacation was about to start and that meant the departure of Wolfgang and Irma. Every year the cook and her husband went home to Hungary, although, as they only owned a trailer just outside Budapest, Mr. Warden would have much preferred it if the home had come to them. What it meant was that for three weeks there would be no cook and no butler. Worse still, Mrs. Warden had been unable to find a new nanny to look after Joe, even though she'd advertised. The fact that the last nanny had just been eaten by two dogs probably didn't help.

“We've got to find someone to look after Jordan,” Mrs. Warden said the night after Wolfgang and Irma left.

“What? What did you say?” Mr. Warden was lying in bed, smoking a cigar and reading
The Economist.

Mrs. Warden pivoted around upside down. She had recently begun a course in escapology, and in addition to being handcuffed, straitjacketed, and Scotch-taped, she was also tied by one foot to the chandelier.

“I said we've got to find someone to look after Jordan.”

“Oh yes. But who?”

“I was thinking about Mr. Lampy.”

“Mr. Lampy? He's just the gardener. And he's over eighty. Completely senile…”

Mrs. Warden tugged with her teeth at one of the ropes that bound her. It wouldn't give. “We could ask Mabel Butterworth. She's an angel.”

“You're absolutely right,” Mr. Warden said. “She died two years ago.”

“Did she?” Mrs. Warden blinked. “No wonder she hasn't been returning my calls.” She considered for a moment. “How about Barbara Finegold? She always says how much she likes kids.”

“But she means goats,” Mr. Warden said. “She's always had a fondness for goats. She keeps two of the brutes as pets.”

“Well, there must be someone.”

“How about you?” Mr. Warden suggested. “After all, you are the boy's mother.”

“I hadn't thought of that,” Mrs. Warden muttered. “I suppose it is an idea…I mean, I could look after him for a few days.”

Mrs. Warden twisted around again, trying to release a hand from the straitjacket without dislocating her shoulder. Nothing happened. “This isn't working.” She sighed. “I'm sorry, Gordon, but I'm afraid you're going to have to untie me. Gordon? Gordon…?”

But Mr. Warden had fallen sound asleep.

The next day did not begin well. Mrs. Warden had a headache (from sleeping upside down) and had no wish to be left alone with Joe. Mr. Warden had left early for the office, even though —as Mrs. Warden realized an hour after he was gone—it was Saturday. Joe was waiting for her in the kitchen, studying a map of China.

“Good morning, Jordan,” she said.

Joe looked up. He had been thinking about life in Chwannping.

“Now,” Mrs. Warden went on. “I'm just going to make you some breakfast. Then I'm afraid I have an appointment at the hairdresser's and then my bridge lesson with Dr. Vitebski. This week we're learning about suspension bridges. So will you be all right on your own until lunch?”

Joe nodded.

“Good.” Mrs. Warden was in a hurry. She threw a spoonful of coffee granules into her mouth and sipped some boiling water from the kettle. “I'd love to have lunch with you,” she went on, “but I'm meeting Jane for elevenses and as she's always late it's bound to be twelveses. The poor dear is all at sixes and sevens! Maybe I'll buy her some After Eights.”

Joe had lost count of trying to figure this out, but his mother went on anyway. “I'm going shopping this afternoon,” she said. “I thought I'd go to the spring sales. The sofa in the living room needs some new springs. Then tea at the Ritz and I should be home in time for supper.”

“Do you want me to make the supper?” Joe asked.

“I don't think so, darling!” Mrs. Warden giggled. “Leave that to me!”

But in fact she was so exhausted after her day's shopping that she quite forgot to cook. That evening, Mr. Warden and Joe sat at the table staring gloomily at three cans of pink salmon. Mrs. Warden was even gloomier. She couldn't find the can opener.

“This house is going to the dogs!” Mr. Warden muttered. “And I'm going to a hotel!”

Mrs. Warden burst into tears. “It's not my fault,” she wept. “I've been so busy! How can I be expected to do everything?”

“Well, is there
no
food in the house?” Mr. Warden asked.

“There was a chicken and some peas.”

“You could at least have cooked the peas,” Mr. Warden growled.

“I tried to. But the chicken ate them. And then I tried to cook the chicken, but it ran away.”

The days without Wolfgang and Irma crawled slowly by. Mrs. Warden filled the house with frozen meals. Mr. Warden spent longer and longer at the office. And Joe began to teach himself Chinese. But quite rapidly things began to fall apart.

On Tuesday night, the dishwasher broke down, much to the horror of Mrs. Warden, who hadn't washed a dish herself since 1963 (and then she had only rinsed it). The next day she went out and bought a hundred paper plates, which were fine with the main courses and desserts but caused problems with the soup. On Wednesday, Mr. Warden attempted to dry his shoes by placing them in the microwave. His feet were actually glowing as he took the subway to work and he caused a bomb scare at Charing Cross station. On Thursday, the toaster exploded when Mr. Warden tried to light it with a match. On Friday, it was the vacuum. Mrs. Warden barely escaped a terrible injury when she tried to use it to blow-dry her hair.

You may think it was pathetic that Mr. and Mrs. Warden were so incapable of looking after themselves, but you'd be surprised how true this is of the very rich. They'd been looked after by servants for so long that they didn't know how to do anything for themselves. Ask the Queen what a Brillo pad is and she'd probably tell you it was a lovely place to live.

Anyway, as the week progressed, the house became dustier and dirtier and more broken down. Joe for the most part avoided his parents and spent most of his time with Mr. Lampy. Chinese had proved impossible to learn, so he was thinking now about volunteering for the American space shuttle to Mars.

And then, on Saturday, Granny came to lunch.

“You know, Maud, darling,” she said, munching on a mouthful of Marks & Spencer's Instant Saturday Lunch, “you and Gordon look terribly tired.”

“I am tired!” Mr. Warden muttered.

“Don't you usually go to the South of France at this time of the year?”

“We can't, Mumsy.” Mrs. Warden sighed.

“Why ever not?” Granny had hardly glanced at Joe, sitting opposite her at the table, but he was suddenly suspicious. Granny knew perfectly well that his parents had an apartment in Cannes. She also knew that the apartment only had one bedroom.

“What about Jordan?” Mrs. Warden said.

“I'm sure he'd love to go with you.”

“There's no room,” Mr. Warden muttered.

“Well…” There was a pause. “I could look after him while you were away.”

Joe's mouth went dry. One after another the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Alone with Granny? He'd prefer to be alone with a saber-toothed tiger.

“I could move in, if you wanted me to,” she went on. Her whole face had gone rubbery and there was a sweetness in her voice. But Joe could see her eyes. They were still sly. “Joe would love it. Wouldn't you, dear?”

“Aaagh!”
Joe yelled. For even as Granny had spoken the words, he had felt a terrible explosion of pain. Under the table, a leather-capped shoe had just come into hard contact with his knee.

“I'm sorry, dear?” Granny gazed at him inquiringly.

“You can't!” Joe gasped.

“What?” Mr. Warden was furious. “Your granny offers to look after you and that's all you can say?”

“I mean…I mean, it isn't fair on Granny.” Joe was blushing now. Could he tell the truth? That was what Mrs. Jinks had advised, but looking at his parents now, he knew it was impossible. He forced himself to think. “I'd love to be with Granny,” he went on. “But wouldn't it be too much work for her? It might make her ill.”

“Oh, silly me!” Granny trilled. “I've dropped my fork!” She disappeared under the table.

“Wait a minute…” Joe began.

“What is the matter with you, Jordan?” his mother asked.

A second later, Joe jerked upright in his seat as three metal prongs buried themselves in his thigh. He had been holding a glass of water, but now he cried out, his hand jerked, and the water sprayed over his father, putting out his cigar.

“Have you lost your mind?” Mr. Warden demanded.

“No, Father, I…” Joe put down the glass and reached under the table. There were three holes in his trousers—not to mention in his leg.

“I'll look after him.” Granny was already back in her seat. For someone so old, she had moved incredibly fast. “It would only be for a few weeks. I'm sure we'd have a lot of fun…”

Joe stared at her. Granny leaned forward and picked up the bread knife: thirteen inches of serrated steel. She looked at him and smiled. Joe shrank back into his chair. When he spoke, his voice was thin and high-pitched. “What about Mr. Lampy?” he quavered.

“What about him?” his mother said.

“He's a lot younger than Granny. Couldn't he look after me? That way, you and Father could have your vacation, Granny wouldn't have to bother about me, and everyone would be happy.”

Across the table, Granny was gripping the bread knife so tightly that her fingers had gone white and the veins were wriggling under her skin like worms. Joe held his breath, his eyes fixed on the knife.

“I did suggest Mr. Lampy,” Mrs. Warden said.

“Maybe it's not such a bad idea,” Mr. Warden muttered.

“I think it's a very good idea…”

Granny put down the knife. Her lips had gone all wobbly and there were tears brimming in her eyes like rainwater in the folds of a tent. “Well, if you don't want me,” she burbled. “if you don't like me…”

“Of course he likes you, Mummy,” Mrs. Warden said. “Jordan was just worried about you, that's all.”

“I certainly was,” Joe agreed.

“Well, all right.” Granny forced herself to cheer up. “You two get your tickets, then, and have a lovely time.” But then her eyes narrowed and the next words were aimed directly at Joe. “And if anything terrible happens to Mr. Lampy, if he's unlucky enough to have a dreadful accident in the next few days, just you let me know.”

 

“Now, don't you worry about me, Master Warden,” Mr. Lampy said.

It was the morning before Mr. and Mrs. Warden were about to leave. Mr. Lampy had just come out of the shed carrying a can of gasoline. He had been cutting back the shrubbery at the back of the garden and was about to light a bonfire.

“You and me…we're going to get along all right.”

“That's not what I'm worried about,” Joe replied. “It's Granny…”

“You and your granny!” Mr. Lampy set the can down and rubbed the small of his back. “Ooh!” he exclaimed. “I been to see the doctor today and he goes on about someone called Arthur Itis. Arthur Itis? I never heard of him.”

“Please, Mr. Lampy…”

Mr. Lampy smiled. He was a very old man, and when he smiled, his face folded into a hundred creases. He had spent his whole life out of doors. In ten years in the navy he had never once gone belowdecks—all the more remarkable when you consider that he served on a submarine. “I haven't seen your granny and I don't intend to see her,” he went on. He leaned down and picked up the gas can. “I reckon she'll be leaving the two of us alone.”