‘It’s no’ one of us,’ says a gruff voice from downstairs. Rob emerges from the hall, brandishing two old-fashioned mousetraps. He’s a short, bearded, red-haired man – older than the rest of us – probably in his forties. Rob looks and sounds so Scottish that I always expect him to be wearing a kilt. ‘I think we’ve got a wee bit of a mouse problem.’ He puts the mousetraps down on the table and holds his hand out to me. ‘Hello, stranger,’ he says, with a welcoming smile. ‘Long time no see.’
‘A mouse?’ Nanna Beth gives a snort of laughter as I tell her the latest on what’s been happening in the house. I’m curled up on the bed, a fleecy blanket over my knees because it’s freezing cold and there’s something wrong with the heating. It feels good to hear her voice, and I feel a wave of longing.
‘You need to put some peanut butter on a trap. They can’t resist it.’
‘Then we’ll have a squished mouse to deal with.’ I shudder at the prospect.
‘Oh for heaven’s sake, girl. You’re made of tougher stuff than that.’
I pull a face, but don’t say anything.
‘So you seem to be quite settled in with the housemates now.’
‘I am. Work’s a bit …’ I try and think of the right word, but can’t. ‘It’s all a bit new, that’s all.’
It’s like trying to stuff an octopus in a string bag; that’s what it’s like. When I was working at the marketing company, everything went according to plan – admittedly mainly because I was doing most of it. But here, now – well. I’m reliant on authors delivering manuscripts on time, editors getting their work done on time, the vagaries of cover designers and delivery dates and all sorts of things. It’s like Jenga, only with books. If one thing goes wrong, the whole tower falls apart. This week an author decided the book she was working on wasn’t right, and that she wanted to rewrite the whole thing. Trouble is, we’ve got production all set up and it’s meant to be going to print in eight weeks. I go to bed worrying about printing schedules and wake up with my teeth gritted.
Nanna Beth makes a slight snorting noise. ‘You sound a bit stressed out to me, my love. Maybe you need some sea air and some of my cherry scones.’
I sag slightly. The thought of both of those and a comforting hug from her makes me feel about ten years old again, and I ache with homesickness like I did at that age when we went on a school trip to Wales for a week.
‘Oh God, I do. In fact, I’m going to come down and see you next weekend, if you’re free.’
‘Oh, that would be nice, lovey, but I’m going on a coach trip to Hastings.’
I sag a bit more.
‘The weekend after, perhaps?’ she says, cheerfully. ‘I’ve got a chess competition, but that’s only Saturday afternoon. You can have a nice bath or go for a walk along the prom with your mum.’
‘You’ve got a better social life than me,’ I say, and I’m not even joking. Since moving into the sheltered housing complex, she’s been busier than I’ve ever known her. It makes me wonder if she’s been storing all this social energy up for all the years she was married to Grandpa. And then it hits me – she’s lonely.
‘You’re okay, though?’ I ask, concerned.
‘Me? Right as rain.’
‘You’re not – not missing Grandpa too much?’
The last couple of years when he was at home, and the dementia was making it harder and harder for him to manage, had been tough on her. I’d lived there, determined to help as much as I could, especially as Mum had – par for the course with her – checked out and gone travelling with a new boyfriend she’d met. She didn’t really do responsibility. It’s not that she didn’t care, it’s more that she – well, she’s always been sort of focused on herself.
‘No, lovey. I mean I miss him, of course, but he wouldn’t have wanted to carry on like that. It’s a blessing, in a horrible way.’
‘I know.’ I think of Grandpa before, when he was well, pottering around the garden in his slippers and a woolly jumper, dead-heading roses and sorting out the shed that was his pride and joy. I try not to think about him sitting, lost in a world of his own, staring into space for hours