‘Ah, there you are,’ Grimmy says
as we burst into the kitchen together. ‘I’ve been waiting for my lunch. It’s
past twelve you know.’

‘Where’s John?’ Mum
asks, meaning my dad.

‘Hello, Grimmy.’ I
lean in and give my great-grandmother a quick kiss on the cheek. She flinches.

‘Mmm. I don’t know.
In the garden.’ She shakes her head. ‘Shed. I don’t know. I haven’t seen him
for hours.’

Mum’s eyes widen, not
in shock or concern, but in disbelief. You cannot trust Grimmy’s estimate, or
grasp, of time.

‘He’s supposed to be
doing your lunch,’ Mum says, glancing up at the clock. It is indeed past
twelve; three minutes past.

‘Well he hasn’t. He let
me in, made this cup of tea hours ago and disappeared off.’ She makes a motion with
her hand suggesting he vanished into thin air. She looks cross, but then, she
always looks cross. The only time her super pearly whites make an appearance is
when there is food on offer. She eats a lot for someone so small.

‘We’re going out for
lunch, Grimmy. Why don’t you join us?’ I can’t imagine she will, but it’s
polite to ask.

‘No thank you. I want
cheese and pickle and proper white bread with a decent cup of tea, not a
toasted panny and a cup of froth. I went with your mum a few weeks back. Not
nice, not nice at all.’ It was actually six months ago and we’ll never hear the
end of it. There’s no point in wasting a treat on Grimmy, she doesn’t
appreciate it.

Grim by name and grim
by nature; my oldest brother, Mark, had given her the name Grimmy when he was
about fourteen. It had stuck, we all called her Grimmy, except Dad. To be fair
parts of her life have been grim, she lived in London during the war, had a
daughter who ran away at sixteen and returned at seventeen about to give birth.
Her name was Catherine and that’s who my oldest sister is named after.
Catherine died in childbirth and Grimmy brought Dad up. She’s also outlived
three husbands. So maybe she has a right to be grim, but it can be wearing,
especially as she lives in leafy Wiltshire now with my parents running around
after her.

Mum goes off in
search of Dad and I tell Grimmy about my dress. She appears to listen and her
mouth curves up at the sides, suggesting she is smiling, but her eyes dart
quickly towards the door when Mum and Dad make an appearance. It’s all about
the food.

‘Where have you
been?’ Her tone is sharp. ‘You left me alone for hours.’

Dad waves a loaf of
bread at her, white sliced that only she will eat, gnawing on its viscous dough
for what can seem like hours.

‘I told you I had to
pop out for fresh bread. I’ve been gone ten minutes.’

‘Mmm.’ She frowns at
Mum and Dad before turning to me. ‘What’s happened to your hair, Lauren?’

‘I had it done last
night. Blonde slices and stuff. Ready for next weekend.’ I let my voice go up
at the end, as a verbal reminder without the words.

‘What’s happening
next weekend?’ I don’t think she’s joking.

‘My wedding. Next
Saturday. We sorted out what you are going to wear last week. Remember?’

‘Of course I
remember, I’m not senile. How is Gollum?’

‘What?’ Did I just
hear her correctly?

‘Well…’ Mum butts in,
‘Now you’re sorted, Grimmy, we’ll be off. John will make you a lovely sandwich,
just the way you like it.’ Mum pats Grimmy on the shoulder.

‘Bye, Grimmy,’ I add,
grabbing my handbag and still wondering if she said what I thought she did.

‘Eat plenty,’ Grimmy
says. ‘You’re very thin.’

I smile as I turn
away; I know I am and I love it.

‘Bye Dad,’ I call. ‘Did
Grimmy just call Leeward Gollum?’ I ask Mum as we head out of the door.

‘God knows. Best
ignored.’

‘Has she even seen
Lord of the Rings?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Mum
answers, a bit too quickly.

‘She has, you know, I
remember. Last Christmas with the boys.’ I definitely remember her sitting in
the middle of my nephews watching TV, with Leeward sitting alongside and
constantly telling them not to talk over it – it’s his favourite film, if you
don’t count the other Lord of the Rings films, while us girls – well the adult
ones anyway – drank wine and giggled over YouTube videos shown to us by my
nieces.

‘Where do you fancy
for lunch?’ Mum asks, changing the subject.

‘Your favourite,’ I
say, laughing, because we both know that’s where we’ll be going even if I
suggest somewhere else.