it already, the way the rain makes the earth smell bright, as if it’s just woken up. The air is fresher here.
Not here on the bus, of course. The air on the bus smells of stale sleep and somebody’s chicken tikka sandwich. But as soon as I step out, I know that first breath in will be beautiful.
Hamleigh itself is made up of just three streets: Lower Lane, Middling Lane, and Peewit Street, which really ought to have been called Upper Lane, but there we are, that’s quirky village life for you. The houses are mostly squat limestone cottages with higgledy slate roofs, but to the furthest edge of Middling Lane there’s a new development – it stands out like a cold sore on the corner of the village, all brash orange brick and black-edged windows. Grandma despises it. Whenever I point out to her that Britain is in desperate need of new affordable housing, she says, ‘only because buggers like you keep spending so much on shoebox flats in London’, which I have to concede is a pretty sound point, economically speaking. I only wish I was one of the buggers who’d actually got around to doing that instead of choosing to spend tens of thousands on renting the artisan warehouse lifestyle.
I head straight from the bus stop to Grandma’s house. I find myself averting my eyes as I walk past the turning on to Mum’s street, like when you pass a traffic accident on the motorway, horribly aware of it pulling at the corner of your vision.
My grandmother’s house is the most beautiful one in the village: Clearwater Cottage, No 5 Middling Lane. A wibbly old slate roof, wisteria climbing up the front wall, a ruby red door … It’s a fairy-tale home. That knot of anxiety lodged between my ribs loosens as I walk up the garden path.
I lift the knocker.
‘Leena?’ comes Grandma’s voice.
I frown. I look right, then left, then up.
‘Grandma!’ I shriek.
My grandmother is halfway up the apple tree to the left-hand side of the front door. She’s almost as high as the upstairs windows, each foot wedged against a branch, dressed in khaki trousers and a brown top, both of which merge very effectively with the greenery. If it weren’t for the shock of white hair, I might not have spotted her.
‘What the hell are you doing up that tree?’
‘Pruning!’ Grandma calls. She waves a large, sharp implement at me. I wince. I am not reassured by this.
‘You’re very … high up!’ I say, trying to be tactful. I don’t want to say she’s too old for this, but all I can think about is that episode of 24 Hours in A&E where an elderly lady fell off a chair and broke six bones. This tree is considerably higher than a chair.
Grandma begins to shimmy down. Really. Shimmy.
‘Take it slow! Don’t rush on my account!’ I call, nails biting into my palms.
‘There!’ Grandma even hops the last bit of the drop, brushing her hands on her thighs. ‘If you want something done well, do it yourself,’ she tells me. ‘I’ve been waiting for the tree man to come for months.’
I look her over. She seems unscathed. Actually she looks well, if a little tired – there’s some colour in her cheeks, and her brown eyes are bright behind her green-rimmed glasses. I reach forward to pull a leaf out of her hair, and smooth it back into its usual loose, wavy bob. She takes my hand and squeezes it.
‘Hello, love,’ she says, face melting into a smile. ‘Hot chocolate?’
*
Grandma makes hot chocolate the proper way: on the hob, with cream and real chocolate. It’s pure decadence in a mug. Carla used to say that if you have more than one you won’t have room for meals for the rest of the day, and it is my absolute favourite thing.
I make myself useful, putting away the dishes from the drainer by the sink as Grandma stirs the chocolate. It’s been months since I’ve been here – I came up last when Grandpa Wade left, at the end of last year – but everything still looks exactly the same. That orange wood of the skirting boards and kitchen units, the faded, patterned rugs, the wonky family photos in frames on the walls.
You can’t even tell that Grandpa Wade has gone – or, rather, that he was ever here. I don’t think he took anything with him except clothes. Clearwater Cottage has always felt like Grandma’s house,