Free Balancing Act by Joanna Trollope

great man himself, except that he was a youngish great man, and the assessing way he looked at her had little to do with judging the kind of fettler she might make. It was thestuff of fairytales, really it was. Jean McGrath, from an Irish Liverpool terraced house in Burslem with no indoor lavatory, being asked out to tea, and then a country walk, and then the cinema, by Mr Snape of the pottery. Who then produced a ruby and diamond engagement ring from his pocket and went down on one knee in a field out at Barlaston, asking her to marry him and promising her a country house on this very spot if she said yes. Of course, she said yes. And she got a husband and a baby and Oak View. And even if the baby turned out to be a deep disappointment – so weird, Grace thought, to have a grandfather alive who was never spoken of – the baby’s baby more than made up for it. When she thought about that – when she thought about what Ma had done, not just for herself but for people like Barney, and Maureen here, in the fettling shop – she felt that … well, she felt that if she wanted fifty cottages in Barlaston, she could have them.
    ‘Grace,’ someone said.
    She turned to see who had spoken. It was Harry, who had spent a lifetime working the kilns, and now, in retirement, took tours of schoolchildren round the factory. He said, ‘Michelle’s looking for you.’
    ‘Is she?’
    ‘There’s someone up there in the studio, looking to see you.’
    ‘Not—’ Grace said, and stopped.
    Harry patted her arm. He smiled, showing the gleaming new dentures he was so proud of.
    ‘Not him, Gracie. Not lover boy. It’s an old geezer, Michelle said. Asking for you.’
    ‘You don’t know me,’ the old man said.
    He was very thin, and tanned, and his white hair fell in a curious kind of bob on either side of his face. Michelle hadfound him a chair, but he wasn’t sitting on it, he was standing behind it, his hands resting on its back. He was dressed in crumpled linen trousers and a long embroidered quilted coat over a tunic of some kind. There were silver and turquoise beads round his neck, and a sort of tooth, curved and whitish, threaded on a long leather thong.
    Grace stayed where she was, just inside the doorway. ‘No,’ she said uncertainly. ‘Should I?’
    The old man smiled, and raised a braceleted hand as if to wipe the smile off.
    ‘No,’ he said. ‘Of course not. You’ve never seen me. I don’t expect you’ve seen a photo of me, even. I’m your black-sheep grandfather.’
    Michelle and Ben froze into sudden stillness in front of their computers.
    Grace said stupidly, ‘What?’
    ‘I’m your granddad,’ the old man said mildly. ‘Morris. Your old granddad Morris.’
    Grace took a huge gulp of air. She said, slightly breathlessly, ‘What … what are you doing here?’
    He laughed, and waved a hand behind him. ‘When I walked in,’ he said, ‘you could see these kids thinking that.’
    ‘Well—’
    ‘I ran out of life, there. It just happened. After your grandmother died.’
    Grace said wildly, ‘She died?’
    ‘Two years ago,’ Morris said. He had a disconcertingly unhurried manner. ‘Lung cancer. We flew her down to Mombasa, but it was too late.’ He paused and looked down sombrely at his hands. ‘Poor chick.’
    Grace leant against the door frame. ‘I can’t think straight.’
    He said, ‘Well, you could give your old granddad a hug, couldn’t you?’
    She didn’t look at him. She said, ‘I don’t know you.’
    ‘Well,’ he said, unoffended, ‘there is that.’
    ‘How did you find us? I mean, d’you even know who I am?’
    ‘You’re Grace. And –’ he turned and gestured behind him again, ‘these kids are Michelle and Ben.’
    ‘How do you—’
    ‘The website,’ Morris said. He smiled again. ‘There’s everything on the website, isn’t there? Even photographs. You up here, your sisters down in London. I even have greatgrandchildren, down in London. It’s been amazing, that