Free Don’t You Forget About Me by Alexandra Potter Page B

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