Free Swallowing Grandma by Kate Long Page A

She’s not one to complain, isn’t Maggie. ‘Now, I’ve summat for you, if you’ll howd on a minute. Fetch my shopping bag from t’ kitchen, will you?’
    I brought it in, trying not to snag my tights on the vicious raffia decoration.
    ‘Here. Try this on for size. I spotted it in Scope and I thought, I know who that’ll do for.’
    She handed me a plain brown leather purse with a length of thong wrapped round and round it.
    ‘What is it?’ Poll squinted and reached for her magnifier. I unwound the long strap and passed it over to her. ‘Hmm. Very nice.’ She mauled it between her fingers, undid the top and sniffed inside. ‘Leather. What do you say?’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘Well, I still think it’s awful, them rough boys taking your purse belt and throwing it out of the bus window. You did report them, didn’t you?’
    I nodded. ‘There wasn’t any money in it.’
    ‘That’s not the point. You’d think you’d be safe on a bus in the daytime. It’s getting so you can’t go out. Bolton’s becoming a war zone. Over here, love.’ She motioned me to bow my head so she could slip the purse on. ‘You wear it round your neck. And I’ve a picture, see. It was in a magazine at th’ hairdresser’s.’ She unzipped the purse and drew out an A4 page folded into squares. It showed a hippyish model with half a dozen scarves on, plus this purse dangling below her neck, and all sorts of jewellery hanging against her red hair. She looked gorgeous. Maybe it was a magic purse that would make me look like that. ‘You can be really with-it, wearing this. And it’s plenty big enough to fit your bus pass, your keys, all sorts. Kitchen sink, if you want.’
    ‘Thanks,’ I said.
    ‘You suit your hair back, though, we can see your bonny face. She’s a pretty girl, in’t she, Poll? Hiding behind all that hair. How d’you expect the lads to see your bonny smile if you brush your hair all down like that?’
    ‘I’m not interested in boys,’ I said, pulling out the elastic on purpose and shaking my head like the girl in the Pantene advert.
    Poll tutted. ‘Tek no notice, Maggie. She’s a lost cause. I’ve given up botherin’, me. Now. Are you stoppin’ for your dinner, cause I’ve a prayta pie and some pickled cabbage as wants eatin’ up.’
    ‘Hmm.’ Maggie patted her belly. ‘I s’ll be awreet wi’ t’ pie but I might have to pass on the cabbage.’
    I buzzed off back up to my room, purse swinging. Boys? Yeah. Right.

    *

    ‘I’ve lost my wife and my daughter on the same day,’ I heard him say as he walked out of the room.

    *

    Nothing ever turns out exactly like you imagine it. That’s what allows you to play Cheat-Fate, where, for instance, you imagine unwrapping your exam results and getting a line of U grades then, because you’ve imagined it, it can’t happen. I play this game all the time, but sometimes I can’t stop myself fantasizing about good things, which is stupid because simply predicting them will prevent them from happening.
    What I’d role-played for months was that I’d get put in a General Studies group with Donna French and that, being forced into close proximity to me, she’d suddenly realize that I was OK really and just needed bringing out of myself. Then she’d invite me on a few one-to-one shopping trips or meetings in coffee bars, and she’d quickly come to like me so much she’d decide to have me as her best mate. Rebecca would leave the school, or get herself a new friend, basically find some way of disappearing, as would all the rest of Donna’s gang.
    Under Donna’s influence I’d become slimmer and smarter, because she’d find me the right clothes to wear and teach me make-up, and also tell me what music to listen to (at the moment I mainly play Dad’s old 80s cassette tapes, hiss hiss, wurp wurp. All Rebecca ever listens to is classical).
    Then, one day, Donna would invite me back to her lovely house, and it would look like a page of Hello! magazine.