The Key to Finding Jack by Ewa Jozefkowicz (i can read books TXT) 📗

She was bringing out her finest china for me. I felt doubly guilty that she saw my visit as such a rare and special occasion.

‘Her gougères are even better than mine,’ she whispered when Gertrude had gone into the kitchen. ‘Your mother did very well finding her. How is she doing?’

‘Mum? Not terrible,’ I lied, ‘but obviously worried. How are you? How are your legs?’

‘Oh,’ she said, looking down at them as if she’d completely forgotten about the pain. ‘Doesn’t matter about that…’

Grandma loved talking about her aches and pains. Jack and I could hardly get a word in edgeways whenever we’d come round. We loved counting the number of times she used her favourite phrases, which were ‘ghastly’ (to describe places which she disapproved of), ‘tolerable’ (about people she vaguely admired) and ‘magnificent’ (anything French, from food to music). Today she sat in silence and looked at me. Her grey eyes were sad and for the first time I felt as though we understood each other.

‘Funnily enough, I was thinking about Jack as you came in,’ she whispered. ‘He never seems to leave my thoughts.’

‘Same.’

‘I close my eyes and imagine he’s here,’ she said, motioning to the wicker chair, ‘playing that tune on the guitar – you know, the happy one? I forget who it’s by. It’s quite famous… He always played it to me when I felt particularly sad.’

‘He played to you?’

I couldn’t remember why I’d stopped visiting Grandma with Jack. When I’d started secondary school I began to make excuses, saying I needed to finish my homework or that I was doing something with Keira. Jack would offer to reschedule for a different time, but I told him there was no need. I didn’t understand why he wanted to keep seeing her. She never seemed interested in what we were doing and she was so prim and proper. I was scared of putting a foot wrong when I was at her house. Mum always ignored Grandma’s tutting and laughed if she made comments about her cooking or clothes, but I couldn’t. It annoyed me too much.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Grandma. ‘Every time he came. At first he wasn’t great and he kept making mistakes, but he soon improved. He’s a high achiever, your brother.’

‘You never used to think that before,’ I blurted out.

I clapped my hand over my mouth. I couldn’t believe I’d said that aloud. I lowered my eyes waiting for Grandma to tell me to leave. But she sighed and said, ‘Maybe I didn’t say it enough. He’s very talented. In fact, you’re both intelligent. Only you’re much more grounded – I feel as if you know what you want to do with your life. Am I right?’

‘I want to be a writer,’ I said hesitantly. I almost immediately regretted it, but I saw that Grandma looked impressed.

‘A writer, eh? I’m sure you will be excellent. It’s a job that demands imagination and perseverance, and I think you have both. I should be glad to read something of yours. Luckily, I still have my eyes, though my legs are useless. Will you show me your writing?’

‘I’d like that.’ I also liked that Grandma was using the present tense when talking about Jack. I loved her for it.

‘I heard that Jack played a trick on you?’

Her eyes lit up.

At that point, Gertrude returned carrying a tray of tea and gougères. I took one and bit into the pastry as she put them on the table. Grandma had been right. They were even better than I remembered. For a moment I forgot the awfulness of everything that was happening, relishing the feather-light, cheesy wonder in my mouth.

‘Yes, he did. Well, now that I think about it, perhaps he only wanted to make me feel good. It was a late Friday afternoon in early December. I woke up to something hitting my bedroom window. I looked outside, but there was nobody there. Just the empty street and this beautiful tune coming from somewhere in the distance – it was divine, so slow and soulful. I called out to see whether anybody would answer, but there was nobody there. When I was leaving to go to the shop the next day, I found a rose outside the front door. It was frozen by the time I rescued it, but it was obviously from the same person who had serenaded me.’

‘And who did you think it was?’ I asked her. I imagined Jack with his guitar, his parka fastened up tight against the cold, strumming his guitar in a hidden spot in Grandma’s garden.

‘I thought,’ said Grandma, and she cleared her throat awkwardly, ‘that it was Martin.’

‘Martin?’

‘Mr Percy.’

‘Your gardener? You thought he was serenading you?’

‘Well, yes. Don’t look at me like that. I’m a stupid old woman to think that, I know. Truth be told, I always thought he was a bit stuck-up. He seemed to think that there was nobody better when it came to understanding plants, but he always looked at me in this peculiar way, you know.’

‘I know somebody exactly like that,’ I said, thinking of Duncan.

‘Really?’ asked Grandma. I could see her cheeks glowing red beneath her blusher.

‘You asked him, didn’t you? You asked if it was him? Oh, Grandma!’

‘I did. And naturally he denied everything. But… well…’

‘What happened?’ I demanded, seeing that there was more to it than she was letting on.

‘He asked if I wished that it had been from him, and I told him not to be so ridiculous. But we spoke frankly for the first time in years, and he invited me to dinner. I wore my red dress – the one I hadn’t worn since your parents’ wedding. It still fits, you know. We only went to the Italian place on the high street. It wasn’t anything that special.’

‘You went on a date?’ I asked, amazed. I couldn’t imagine Grandma in her red dress in a restaurant with the gardener. It sounded like something out of Cluedo.

‘But