Free Cross My Heart and Hope to Die by Sheila Radley Page A

liquorice above the shop counter. She hardly ever went out of the shop, and she bought her clothes from the drapery traveller and they never fitted properly, so she looked a bit of a freak. But Mum always said that she was sharp as a needle, and you’d have to be up very early to get the better of her.
    I’d always assumed that Gran Thacker made her living out of the shop, and it was difficult to start thinking of her as a property owner. But when the idea sunk in, I couldn’t resist bragging about it in the village school next day.
    â€˜My Gran’s rich,’ I told anyone who would listen. ‘And when she dies, we’ll be rich too.’
    I suppose it got back to Mum through the Crackjaws. Anyway, a couple of days later I was for it.
    â€˜Don’t you ever say that again.’ Mum wasn’t just furious, she seemed to be in a panic. ‘Don’t you dare say another word to anybody about Gran Thacker dying and us being rich. If she gets to hear it, she could ruin us. And don’t let your Dad hear it, neither.’
    â€˜But Mum …’
    â€˜That’s enough. One more word from you and you’ll get the good hiding you’re asking for.’
    So I shut up, though I couldn’t see why. But thinking about it, I realized that Gran Thacker’s being rich hadn’t made any difference to her or to us in the past, so it wouldn’t now. And when I looked at her, I could see that she hadn’t any intention of dying for a very long time to come.
    Fortunately Gran Thacker never did get to hear what I’d said. I don’t know what she’d have done about it but she’s a real old terror when she’s roused. She never seemed to like any of us, or any of her customers come to that. She didn’t speak to anyone if she could avoid it, but sat in her back room doing the accounts and interviewing travellers and giving her orders while poor old Dad rushed about trying to please everybody.
    Mum kept me out of Gran Thacker’s way as far as possible when I was small, and always told me to mind my manners when we did meet. With Gran Bowden it was quite different; she made a great fuss of me, and if Dad’s mother had been the same I’d have been spoiled to death. As it was, she was so snappy and disapproving that I never felt bold or affectionate enough to call her Gran to her face.
    I was cheeky to Gran Thacker just once. As soon as I spoke, I knew that I’d chosen the wrong person to cheek. She whipped round on me faster than I’d ever thought she could move and spat out the words; literally, I could feel the drops spray on to my face, but I was too frightened to wipe them off.
    â€˜Don’t you dare be pert to me, Miss, or you and your mother will be sorry!’
    I mumbled some sort of apology and nipped off home, and I didn’t tell anyone. After that, I really did mind my manners with her, but the knowledge of her disapproval didn’t worry me. I never felt that she counted as one of our family. As I saw it there were just the three of us: me and Mum, who does her best for me even though she drives me mad in the process, and my wonderful Dad, the nicest father in the whole world.

Chapter Three
    A November evening at home. Me, seventeen, supposedly doing some schoolwork, Dad reading a detective book from the library, and Mum knitting away like a machine-gun, rattling out a stream of socks and scarves and sweaters in horrible shades of mauve and yellow wool that Gran Thacker had bought from a traveller because it was cheap and then couldn’t sell to her customers at any price.
    â€˜Beggars can’t be choosers,’ said Mum, measuring me for a bilious cardigan, and though I’d die if anyone saw me in it I’d be glad enough to wear it in bed over my pyjamas. None of our doors and windows fit properly and there’s always ice on the inside of the panes in bad weather.
    I just didn’t hear Mum next time she