Something rotten (49 page)

“Well, if she died then, and Dad’s mum died in 1979 . . .”

“Yes?”

“Then who is that up at the Goliath Twilight Homes?”

“I’ve never met her,” explained Landen. “I thought ‘Gran’ was a term of endearment.”

I didn’t answer. I had thought she was my gran but she wasn’t. In fact, I’d known her only about three years. Before that I had never set eyes on her before. Perhaps that’s less than accurate. I had seen her whenever I stared into a mirror, but she had been a lot younger. Gran wasn’t my gran.
Gran was me.

Landen drove me up to the Goliath Twilight Homes, and I went in alone, leaving Landen and Friday in the car. I made my way with heavily beating heart to her room and found the ward sister bending over the gently dozing form of the old, old woman that I would eventually become.

“Is she suffering much?”

“The painkillers keep it under control,” replied the nurse. “Family?”

“Yes,” I replied, “we’re very close.”

“She’s a remarkable woman,” murmured the nurse. “It’s a wonder she’s still with us at all.”

“It was a punishment,” I said.

“Pardon?”

“Never mind. It won’t be long now.”

I moved closer to the bed, and she opened her eyes.

“Hello, young Thursday!” said Gran, waving at me weakly. She took off the oxygen mask, was roundly scolded by the nurse and put it back on again.

“You’re not my gran, are you?” I said slowly, sitting on the bedside.

She smiled benevolently and placed her small and pink wrinkled hand on mine.

“I
am
Granny Next,” she replied, “just not yours. When did you find out?”

“I got my sentencing from the Gryphon just now.”

Now that I knew, she seemed more familiar to me than ever before. I even noticed the small scar on her chin, from the Charge of the Armored Brigade way back in ’72, and the well-healed scar above her eye.

“Why did I never realize?” I asked her in confusion. “My
real
grandmothers are both dead—and I always knew that.”

The tired old woman smiled again. “You don’t have Aornis in one’s head without learning a
few
tricks, my dear. My time with you has not been wasted. Our husband would not have survived without it, and Aornis could have erased everything when we were living in
Caversham Heights
. Where is he, by the way?”

“He’s looking after the boy Friday outside.”

“Ah!”

She looked into my eyes for a moment, then said, “Will you tell him I love him?”

“Of course.”

“Well, now that you know who I am, I think it’s time to go. I
did
find the ten most boring classics—and I’ve almost finished the last.”

“I thought you had to have an ‘epiphanic moment’ before you departed? A last exciting resolution to your life?”

“This is it, young Thursday. But it’s not mine, it’s
ours.
Now, pick up that copy of
Faerie Queen
. I am one hundred and ten, and it is well past my out time.”

I looked across at the table and picked up the book. I had never read the end—nor even past page 40. It was that dull.

“Don’t
you
have to read it?” I asked.

“Me, you, what’s the difference?” She giggled, something that turned into a weak cough that wouldn’t stop until I had leaned her gently upright.

“Thank you, my dear!” she gasped when the fit had passed. “There is only a paragraph to go. The page is marked.”

I opened the book but didn’t want to read the text. My eyes filled with tears, and I looked at the old woman, only to be met by a soft smile.

“It is time,” she said simply, “but I envy you—you have so many wonderful years ahead of you! Read, please.”

I wiped away my tears and had a sudden thought.

“But if I read this now,” I began slowly, “then when
I
am one hundred and ten years old, I will
already
have read it, and then I’d be—you know—just before the last sentence before I . . . that is, the younger me . . .” I paused, thinking about the seemingly impossible paradox.

“Dear Thursday!” said the old woman kindly, “always so
linear!
It does work, believe me. Things are just so much weirder than we
can
know. You’ll find out in due course, as I did.”

She smiled benignly, and I opened the book.

“Is there anything you need to tell me?”

She smiled again.

“No, my dear. Some things are best left unsaid. You and Landen will have a wonderful time together, mark my words. Read on, young Thursday!”

There was a ripple, and my father was standing on the other side of the bed.

“Dad!” said the old woman. “Thank you for coming!”

“I wouldn’t miss it, oh, daughter-my-daughter,” he said softly, bending down to kiss her on the forehead and hold her hand. “I’ve brought a few people with me.”

And there he was, the young man whom I had seen with Lavoisier at my wedding party. He laid a hand on hers and kissed her.

“Friday!” said the old woman. “How old are your children at the moment?”

“Here, Mum. Ask them yourself!”

And there they were, next to Friday’s wife, whom he had yet to meet. She was a one-year-old somewhere, with no idea of her future either. There were two children with her. Two grandchildren of mine, who had yet to be even thought of, let alone born. I continued reading
Faerie Queen,
slowly pacing myself as more people rippled in to see the old woman before she left.

“Tuesday!” said the old woman as another person appeared. It was my daughter. We’d vaguely talked about her, but that was all—and here she was, a sprightly sixty-year-old. She had brought her children, too, and one of them had brought hers.

In all, I think I saw twenty-eight descendants of mine that afternoon, all of them somber and only one of them yet born. When they had said their good-byes and rippled from sight, other visitors appeared to see her. There was Emperor and Empress Zhark, and Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw, who were never to age at all. The Cheshire Cat came, too, and several Miss Havishams, as well as a delegation of lobsters from the distant future, a large man smoking a cigar and several other people who rippled in and out in a polite manner. I carried on reading, holding her other hand as the fire of life slowly faded from her tired body. By the time I had started on the final verse of
Faerie Queen,
her eyes were closed and her breathing was shallow. The last of the guests had gone, and only my father and I were left.

I finished the verse, and my sentence was complete. Twenty years of gingham and ten boring books. I closed the volume and laid it on the bed next to her. Already her face had drained of color, and her mouth was partly open. I was alerted by a quiet sniffle next to me. I had never seen my father cry before, but even now large tears rolled silently down his cheeks. He thanked me and departed, leaving me alone with the woman in the bed, the nurse discreetly waiting at the door. I felt sad in that I had lost a valued companion, but no great sense of grief. After all, I was still very much alive. I had learned from my own father’s death many years ago that the end of one’s life and dying are two very different things indeed, and took solace in that.

“Are you okay?” asked Landen when I got back to the car. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost!”

“Several,” I replied. “I think I just saw my whole life pass in front of my eyes.”

“Do I feature?”

“Quite a lot, Land.”

“I had my life flash in front of me once,” he said. “Trouble is, I blinked and missed all the good bits.”

“It will need more than a blink,” I told him, nuzzling his ear. “How’s the little man?”

“Tired after a lot of pointing.”

I looked into the backseat. Friday was spark out and snoring.

Landen started the car and pulled out of the parking space.

“Who was the old woman, by the way?” he asked as we turned into the main road. “You never did tell me.”

I thought for a moment. “Someone who knew me really well and turned up when it mattered.”

“I have someone like that,” said Landen, “and if she’s feeling up to it, I’d like to take her out for dinner. Where do you fancy?”

I thought of the old woman in the bed, dressed in gingham, hanging on for the last verse, and all the people who had come to see her off. Life, I decided, would be good and, more than that,
unusual.

“If I’m with you,” I told him tenderly, “SmileyBurger is the Ritz.”

Credits

My great thanks to Maggy and Stewart Roberts for the illustrations in this book.
My thanks to Mari Roberts for huge quantities of research on everything from
the Danes to Hamlet to conflict resolution and the piano gag, and for
companionship, and love.
Mr. Shgakespeafe’s quotes and Hamlet kindly supplied by Shakespeare (William), Inc.
Lorem Ipsum usage suggested by Swaim & Rogan.
For the purposes of this narrative, it should be noted that Zeffirelli’s excellent version
of
Hamlet
starring Mel Gibson and Glenn Close was made in 1987, not 1991 as
previously thought.

My grateful thanks to John Sutherland and Cedric Watts for their
Puzzles in Literature
series, which continues to amuse and delight, and to Norrie Epstein for her excellent
Friendly Shakespeare,
which is every bit as the title suggests. Also to the Reduced
Shakespeare Company for much-needed Bard-related tomfoolery in times of stress.
Pulp western research by Gillian Taylor, author of
Darrow’s Word
and many others.
Visit
www.gillian-f-taylor.co.uk
.

My grateful thanks to Landen Parke-Laine for being willing to undertake a guest
first-person appearance at short notice.
No penguins were killed or pianos destroyed in order to write this book. The
penguin meal on page 146 and the piano incident on page 305 were merely fictional
narrative devices and have no basis in fact.
My apologies also to Danish people everywhere for the fictional slur undertaken in the
pages of this book. I am at pains to point out that this was for satirical purposes only,
and I like Denmark a lot, especially rollmops, bacon, Lego, Bang & Olufsen, the
Faeroes, Karen Blixen—and, of course, Hamlet, the greatest Dane of all.
Mandatory toast information, as required by current toast legislation:
Bread was
originated in a Panasonic SD206 breadmaker, sliced with an IKEA bread knife on a
homemade breadboard and toasted in a Dualit model 3CBGB. Spread was Utterly
Butterly, and Seville marmalade was homemade.
The appearances of Zhark in this book and the use of his name and exploits were
monitored and approved by Zhark Enterprises, Inc., and we gratefully acknowledge
the Emperor’s help and assistance in the making of this novel.
This book was constructed wholly within the Socialist Republic of Wales.
A Fforde/Hodder/Viking Penguin production.