Another Life Altogether: A Novel - By Elaine Beale Page 0,109

Far as I can tell, they sleep in their clothes and never so much as run a comb through their hair.” He looked at me and shook his head disapprovingly.

I had on the same outfit I’d worn at the Christmas disco. And though it probably didn’t match Granddad’s antediluvian fashion taste, I had carefully ironed it the night before. I’d also taken care to brush and style my hair and had thought I looked quite presentable before I descended the stairs that morning. I opened my mouth to protest Granddad’s pronouncements, but it was hard to interrupt him once he was in a flow.

“This country, going to the dogs, it is,” he continued. “It’s all them hippies and peacenikers or whatever they call themselves. No wonder England’s in such a mess. Can you imagine it, if we’d been the same when I was younger? Hitler about to kick in the bloody door and us responding by growing our hair and preaching free love. We’d have all been speaking German and living on sauerkraut by now. I’ll tell you one thing, erm—” He narrowed his eyes and waved at Frank. “What’s your name again, laddy?”

“Frank. Frank’s the name and I—”

“Like I was saying,” Granddad interrupted, “lads need to look like lads. Need to act like them as well. Best thing you could do for them is give them a short back and sides and make them do their national service. Never did Mike any harm.” He looked over at my father and bellowed, “Did it, Mike?”

“What?” my father asked, still staring at the television.

“He said national service never did you any harm,” Frank said.

My father shrugged. “Bloody waste of time, you ask me.”

“Eh? What did he say?” Granddad asked.

“He said he thought it was a waste of time,” Frank repeated, louder. “I never felt like that, mind. Too young to serve in the war, I was, but not too young to serve my country. I—”

“Should be proud of serving your country,” Granddad said, scowling at my father. “If you’d appreciated your time in the army, maybe it would have made more of a man of you. See, our Brian … Did I tell you about our Brian, erm—” He waved vaguely toward Frank.

“Frank, the name’s Frank,” he said, a strain of irritation in his voice.

“Right, Frank.” Granddad repeated. “Well, Frank, did I tell you about my lad Brian? Grand lad, he was. Now, if he’d had a chance he’d have served his country. But killed, he was. On his eighteenth birthday.” Granddad breathed a heavy sigh, shook his head, and folded his arms over the huge curve of his belly.

“What, in the army was he?” Frank ventured.

“He was a football player,” I chirped. “He was run over by a delivery van.” For some reason, I enjoyed supplying this particular item of information.

“Oh, aye,” Granddad said. “Terrible it was. Best bloody football player you’ve ever seen. And if his life hadn’t been snatched away from him so young there’s no doubt he would’ve played on the national team. Lad like Brian, he’d have gotten the England squad out of the bloody doldrums. He wouldn’t have let us lose three nil to the bloody krauts.”

At that moment, the door burst open and Mabel propelled herself into the room. “Right, then, lads,” she said, breathless. “I hope all this sitting around has worked up your appetite because your dinner’s ready.”

As if on springs, both Frank and my father bounced to their feet and followed Mabel into the kitchen. I launched myself after them, leaving Granddad, who continued to extol Brian’s football-playing skills, muttering behind me in the hall.

Once assembled, we all sat, a cramped little bunch, elbows touching, around the piles of steaming food on the kitchen table. I had covered it with a big white tablecloth and had managed to make it look quite festive, with holly-patterned serviettes. In an effort to enhance the party atmosphere, my father had unearthed a box of Christmas crackers that Ted had given us on one of his previous visits. At some point, apparently, the crackers had been stored in the sun so that, on one side, the colors on their crepe-paper coverings were washed-out and streaky. The fatigued colors gave our gathering a rather sad air. Like the crackers, my mother looked as if she had passed her prime. No longer gleefully drunk, she sat glum and barely verbal, staring down at her empty plate and playing with the edge of the tablecloth, as a nervous