Free Don’t You Forget About Me by Alexandra Potter

through him, like the letters in a stick of Blackpool rock, rebels against everything it stands for.
    But after Nan died he just couldn’t cope on his own. With two hip replacements and a habit of leaving the gas hob on (‘But I could have sworn I turned it off!’), he was becoming a danger to himself, and his neighbours, and last year he moved grudgingly to Hemmingway House.
    ‘I can just imagine that Temple woman’s face now,’ he chuckles, reaching for a bag of Jelly Babies and rattling them at me. ‘She always looks to me like she’s sucking a lemon. Either that or she’s sat on something sharp—’
    ‘Gramps, can I ask you a favour?’ Quickly changing the subject away from Miss Temple’s derriere, I sit down beside him and dig my hand in the bag.
    ‘Go on then, how much?’ he grumbles affectionately, putting down the Jelly Babies and pulling out his wallet.
    ‘Oh, no, I don’t need any money,’ I protest quickly. ‘I got a Christmas bonus.’
    Granddad raises his eyebrows approvingly. ‘Well, aren’t you a clever girl?’
    I feel my cheeks colour slightly. Clever hasn’t got anything to do with it. It’s more a case of having a kind boss who took pity on me and turned a blind eye all year to my appalling PA skills.
    ‘No, the thing is, I wanted to ask if I could borrow your sewing machine? You see, I found this . . .’ Digging into my ancient rucksack that has seen better days, I pull out a length of patterned material, all folded up, that I recently discovered in a charity shop. I can never resist popping into charity shops: you can find all kinds of weird and wonderful things. ‘I thought I might make a bag out of it, as this one of mine is ready for the dustbin and bags are so expensive these days . . .’
    Reaching for his half-moon spectacles, Granddad props them on the end of his nose and unfolds the material. ‘Hmmm—’ he nods, turning it over in his hands, examining it – ‘well, it’s possible, but this fabric is a very thick cotton, almost like a loomed hemp, and it appears to be some kind of sack . . .’ Frowning, he looks up. ‘I have made thousands of bespoke suits in my time, my dear, but they were made from the finest fabrics, not sacks,’ he says, a little sniffily. ‘Now, if you were talking a nice silk or Italian cashmere—’
    ‘I want to use this,’ I say stubbornly. ‘And yes, OK, you’re right, it is an old sack. The woman in the charity shop said an old lady brought it in with some clothes inside. Apparently it’s from the 1950s and they used it to store flour when she lived on a farm in France—’
    ‘And you want to make a bag out of it?’ He looks bewildered.
    ‘Absolutely,’ I smile. ‘I just loved the design on it and I thought if I lined it with some pretty fabric and then I sew these ribbons along the edges—’ I pull out a piece of ribbon I saved from a Christmas present – ‘so that it gathers up like this . . .’
    I’m always going round to Granddad’s so that he can help me with some new project or other. I’m forever making things, partly because I don’t earn much money, but mostly because I get such a buzz from thinking up ideas and recycling someone’s charity cast-offs into something new and interesting.
    Bending both of our heads together, we pore over it for a few moments. ‘So, what do you think?’ I ask, turning sideways to glance at him.
    Pushing up his glasses onto the bridge of his nose, Granddad peers at me intently, as if deep in thought. ‘You’ve got the gift,’ he says quietly after a moment, a smile playing on his lips.
    ‘The gift?’ I frown.
    ‘I’ve never told you this before, but I always knew it,’ he nods, looking very pleased with himself. ‘I used to say to your mother: Tess will be the one to take after me . . .’
    ‘Oh Gramps,’ I laugh, ‘you were one of the finest tailors on Savile Row. I wouldn’t have a clue how to make a suit!’
    ‘That bit’s easy: anyone can learn how to