I smiled at Nan.
‘Max said sorry,’ I said.
‘He likes cheese on toast for his tea.’
I shook my head. ‘That’s dad, Nan. That is Geoff, your son Geoff.’
‘Geoff.’
I reached out and took her hand. Her skin was like soft paper, like the pages of a well-loved book, and the veins on the back of her hand stuck out. I thought how lucky I was to have her.
‘Nan,’ I said. ‘I wanted to say thank you for looking after me and Max. I don’t know what we’d have done without you when Mum left.’ I paused, trying to gather my thoughts. ‘You’d done it all, hadn’t you? You’d already brought up your kids. And then you got landed with us. It can’t have been easy. But you did it and we love you so much, Nan.’
She turned her head slowly and watched me as I spoke.
‘My son Geoff is a waste of space,’ she said. I stifled a laugh. That wasn’t something I would write in the book for her. ‘But oh, he’s a charmer.’
I laughed out loud this time. ‘He is, Nan.’
‘Could sell snow to the Eskimos that one.’
‘Like your mum,’ I said.
She looked right at me. ‘He’s just like my mum. Gift of the gab.’
I smiled but she wasn’t finished.
‘He’s got twins, you know? Twins. Stephanie and Max. Always together. Thick as thieves. Always off whispering together. A right pair of Charlies, I call them.’
‘That’s right, Nan,’ I said, enjoying her being so talkative for once. ‘Remember when we swapped clothes and you pretended you didn’t know which of us was which?’
She gazed at me from watery eyes.
‘I love those kids with all my heart,’ she said firmly. ‘Proud as punch of them I am.’
I swallowed a sob. She’d never said anything like that before.
‘I’m proud of you too, Nan.’
She nodded. ‘Max is in prison.’
‘He is.’
‘He’ll come and see me when he gets out.’
‘He will.’
On my lap, my phone beeped with a message from my dad.
“FaceTime me, please.”
He’d never been one for long gushy messages.
I pressed call on his number and when he answered and the call connected, I saw he was on the beach.
‘Working hard,’ I said with a grin, using his own catchphrase. ‘Or hardly working? I can’t believe you’re on the beach.’
‘I’m not on the beach, I’m having a beer next to the beach,’ he said, holding up his glass so I could see it. ‘Can you speak up? It’s hard to hear you.’
