Right Number, Wrong Girl

“Grandma is never happy.”

“That’s not true. She’s happy when she’s doing that class where she can paint and drink wine at the same time.”

Henry paused. “Maybe we should hijack the party and make it one large drinking and painting get together.”

“Do that.” Grandma hobbled into the kitchen with her leopard print walking stick clinking against the slate tiled floor.

Shit.

“Do what?” Henry asked innocently.

“Do the painting thing instead of this godforsaken shindig your mother is paying some poor bugger to organise.”

He blinked at her.

Grandma glared at him. “Would saying please make it better, Henry?”

“You know?”

“I told you,” I said, smirking. “She knows everything.”

Grandma pointed at me. “Smart boy.” She sat on the stool next to me. “Yes, I know. You should know by now that I know everything that happens in this house. You can’t get anything past me.”

I held out my hands and looked at my brother as if to say, “I told you so.”

I had told him so.

He should have known better. She really did know everything that went on in this place—and outside of it, too.

Neighbourhood watch groups had nothing on Grandma.

Heck, she was probably secretly part of MI5. I wouldn’t be surprised if she one day came out and told us James Bond was real and she’d been one of his girls.

I shuddered.

Now there was fuel for my nightmares.

“No. I’m not doing this. I’m not awake enough for this crap.” Henry grabbed his giant mug of tea and strolled out of the kitchen.

“Stop scratching your backside,” Grandma hollered after him.

His hand snapped to his side, and he disappeared from view.

I chuckled. “Would you like a cup of tea, Grandma?”

“As long as you make it properly. Not that weak shite your mother makes.”

Dutifully, I got up and made my way over to the kettle. It was only to boil the water—Grandma only ever took her tea in a pot and insisted until she was blue in the face that it was better than from a kettle.

I understood why, but I couldn’t taste it myself.

Tea was tea.

Unless you were drinking that hinky herbal tea, it all tasted the bloody same.

I made her pot of tea and brought it over to where she’d sat herself at the large farmhouse-style table. Her half-moon glasses were perched on the end of her nose as she peered down at the newspaper in front of her with her brow furrowed.

“Here you go, Grandma.” I set it all down and carefully poured the scalding liquid into her teacup.