Playing Out by Paul Magrs (free biff chip and kipper ebooks TXT) 📗

got the same shaved neck, the same soft-looking smile and the same tucked-in arse that Eric used to have, bless him, so I forgive him bossing me about when he’s down. Even if he is a short-arsed nineteen-year-old and really, on this town, I’m old enough to be his granny.

I’m a glamorous granny! They have special nights for them down the Rec. What do they call them? Grab a Granny nights.

I went once, for a laugh, when I felt like I was looking a dog. I went to cheer myself up and feel younger. Sure enough, it was a load of witches in there trying to cop off with all these old fellers who’d come in a bunch from the British Legion over the road. You could tell they were from the British Legion because they wore them blue blazers with badges and caps and they reeked of booze.

Among that lot I was like a babe in arms. I was like one of them tarts off Baywatch who you never recognise but with all the tits and hair. Dead sexy like, at least, compared with the competition. All them hags in their mohair jumpers and thick tights. So I could have had me pick of any old feller there.

I’m not desperate, mind. I stayed around, flirted a bit and had a few offers, but I laughed them off. I pissed off out of there before some old sod took me serious. You have to cover your back.

I only went to give me ego a boost. Cheer myself up a bit. I looked a million dollars beside the grannies. Even in a room of British Legion men they still danced together and ignored them. I scooted out of that ballroom and into the ladies’ and I cried buckets in one of the stalls. I don’t know why.

When I went to splash some water on my face I met some young pregnant lass from the antenatal dance-class thing that was on the same night. She looked ever so bonny. Had I been to the ballroom dancing classes, she wanted to know. I think she was just making conversation. Dabbing a bit eye shadow on, close as she could get to the mirror over the basin. I think she must have had triplets on the way, size of her. She said I might enjoy the ballroom dancing more than the less formal Grab a Granny do’s. The thing about ballroom dancing is that you’ll always get a friend. I said I might give it a go. She smiled and went back to her class. Her common-law husband was keeping the mat warm, she said.

That was the last night I had out by myself. Now I make sure I’m with someone who’ll pull me out of myself when I get maudlin. Which is usually when I’m on the gin, I must admit, and that’s all I can drink anyway, because after a couple it tastes like pop and I’ve never really liked the alcoholic taste.

I said once to my husband—he’s long gone, the first one—that that made me ladylike, me not liking the taste of alcohol. He said he’d like it more if I did get pissed more often. He liked me flat on me back with me mouth open. Oh, he was a pig and the one after him was no better, although we shouldn’t speak ill of those who met with tragic endings.

Like I say, I’m a glamorous granny—I’m fifty now—but I’m not a natural one. What I mean is, I don’t have any grandchildren. Most of the women my age I know have got them by now. But I’ve always been young for my age and they know that. I’ve still got jet-black hair. Dyed, of course, but it’s a symbol more than anything.

So even though I ought to be, I’m not a real granny yet. My bairns show no signs of sorting themselves out in the kiddie department. That’ll all come soon enough. There’s no hurry.

Round here they hurry up. If you’re not married and settled by the time you’re nineteen, if you haven’t got kids hanging round you all through your twenties, then they reckon something’s wrong with you. That’s not right. People make wrong decisions under that kind of pressure. I’ve warned my two not to get daft. You have to live with all your mistakes. And I think my two are being sensible. They’re twenty-four apiece now.

Twins—not identical—a lass and a lad. The apples of my eyes. Andrew and Joanne.

Maybe it was the divorce and me having them on my own for those years, but we’ve made it different to how other families on this town work. I’ve drummed it into the pair of them, mind, but they understand all the same. They don’t have to be like everyone else round here. They don’t have to chuck themselves into something they’ll regret. No one will think any worse of them for lagging. Well, they might, but their mam won’t. And I don't.

I’m proud of them and will be even if they wait until they’re in their thirties to marry and give me grandchildren to fuss over and spoil and take to the park and stuff.

The reason you have to take your time is this:

Once you have the bairns and the council have given you a house and you have a job you think ought to last… then that’s you. You’re sorted out and, even at your luckiest, this will be how your life will stay. Until you’re dead old and you’re in the British Legion or you’re a glamorous granny dancing with another glamorous granny down the Rec.

What I like to think I’m doing for my two—by telling them to slow down, to play the field, to think hard before doing what everyone else they know has done—is giving them a bit of space.

I want them to have chances. That’s all I want. That’s all any parent wants, I suppose, though you’d never guess, the way some