Don’t You Forget About Me Read online

  ‘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 sex 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 assumed 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 déjà 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 passes 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 glasses, 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 pass 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 buttons …’ He frowns in concentration. ‘I think buttons 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 boobs.

  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 hell 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 assistant. ‘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 space 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.

  ‘Ninety degrees yesterday.’

  ‘Wow.’ I know what’s coming next.

  ‘What’s the weather like there?’

  ‘Oh, you know, pretty cold.’

  Maybe I’m missing something here, but my parents have lived in England their entire lives. Since when has January been anything other than cold? And yes, I know all about climate change, but did it used to be tropical before I was born? Balmy and hot even?

  ‘Tell Dad I just saw Gramps,’ I say, changing the subject away from the weather.

  ‘How is he? Has he been behaving himself??’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I say, immediately coming to his defence. ‘It’s Miss Temple, she just doesn’t like him …’

  ‘Well your grandfather has to be nicer to her then. You know, he’s very lucky to be at Hemmingway House; there’s a long waiting list to get a place there—’

  ‘I know, but it can’t be easy for him.’

  ‘It’s not easy for any of us, Tess,’ replies Mum, a little tersely. ‘We all have to put up with things we don’t like …’

  There’s the sound of my dad and brother in the background, yelling at sport on the TV, and Mum tells them to shush.

  ‘Anyway, he was in really good spirits. He’s showing me how to use his sewing machine.’

  ‘Right, yes,’ she says distractedly, and I can tell she’s not really listening. But then Mum never really listens to me. It’s as if she’s already formulated her answer, regardless of what I might have to say. It’s always been like that, which is partly why I’m so close to Gramps. When I was growing up he’d always listen to me; it didn’t matter what I had to say, how stupid or silly it sounded, he’d never pass judgement, just listen. Sometimes that’s all you need: someone to listen.

  ‘But his memory does seem to be getting worse,’ I add.

  ‘Why, what happened?’ Abruptly she snaps back.

  I feel a bit guilty for bringing it up when she’s away, but I’ve been thinking about it on the bus, and although I’m sure it’s nothing, just his age, I admit I am starting to get a bit worried.

  ‘Well, I was talking about Seb, and he didn’t know who he was. It was like he had no recollection of him at all.’

  There’s a pause on the other end of the line, and I think Mum is going to bring up the topic of Alzheimer’s again, but instead she replies, ‘Oh, is that Fiona’s new chap?’

  I feel my heart thud loudly and I feel a slight panic. Not Mum as well.

  ‘Fiona?’ I try stalling, in the hope the conversation won’t continue towards its seemingly inevitable outcome.

  ‘Is that short for Sebastian?’ continues Mum.

  But it’s no good. I can’t stop it. It’s happening all over again

  ‘Um … yes,’ I manage. I suddenly feel very light-headed.

  ‘You’ve never mentioned him before,’ she continues blithely, ‘Is he nice?’ This from a woman who was over the moon when I met Seb and had to be physically restrained from buying a new hat when we celebrated our six-month anniversary.

  ‘Um … yes,’ I say again. My mind is beginning to swirl and I’m trying to hang on for dear life but it’s as if everything is receding. None of this is making any sense. Either the whole world’s gone mad or—

  I freeze the thought and start frantically running around in my head like someone trapped in a maze and trying to find a way out.

  Or I have.

  I manage to get off the phone with Mum, which isn’t easy, as she’s intent on telling me all about how she took a recipe for Brussels sprouts from the new Jamie Oliver cookbook she received for Christmas and how ‘quite frankly it wasn’t a patch on how your nan used to make them’, followed by her recommendations on how Jamie could improve his: ‘sprinkle on my secret ingredient, coffee, and brown
them under the grill’.

  Right yes, Mum, I’m sure a mega-successful, millionaire chef will be just dying to take on your suggestions for his Brussels sprouts. Furthermore, no offence, but Brussels sprouts – be they yours, my deceased nan’s, or Jamie’s – aren’t really at the top of my priority list right now, because I think I’m going crazy.

  Feeling as though I’m about to have a full-blown panic attack, I take a couple of deep breaths.

  OK, focus. Focus.

  I close my eyes, pinch the bridge of my nose and try to relax. There’s no point panicking and getting all stressed out, it’s not going to help. I need to think calmly and clearly. Calmly and clearly. Yes, that’s it, I think, repeating it over in my head. After all, there has to be a rational explanation for all this. There just has to be.

  I concentrate. It takes a few seconds, and then …

  I know! Perhaps there’s some weird type of selective amnesia going round, a bit like swine flu, and everyone’s caught it but me. And it’s not me that’s losing my mind, just everyone else that’s losing their memory. These viruses are everywhere in winter. And maybe all that’s needed is a course of antibiotics or a vaccination or something and …

  And what, Tess? Everyone will suddenly remember who Seb is? Realising how ridiculous I’m being, I keep wracking my brains.

  Hang on, I’ve got another idea! Maybe this is Fiona’s idea of a joke and everyone’s in on it, like April Fool’s Day, only instead it’s January. And maybe in a few hours she’ll confess she was just winding me up and ha ha, wasn’t it funny?

  I feel a flash of triumph: that’s a much better idea! Swiftly followed by niggling doubts. Yes, it could be true but the more I think about it, it’s unlikely. For starters Fiona doesn’t really do jokes. Only recently we were at the pub with a bunch of friends, swapping jokes, and when it came to her turn she deadpanned, ‘The only joke I know is my last boyfriend Lawrence.’

  Then there’s my mum. She can’t be in on anything for longer than two seconds without letting something slip. In fact, she’s single-handedly ruined at least half a dozen surprise parties by unwittingly calling up the person in question to wish them a happy birthday and finished off with a cheery, ‘See you tonight at the party!’