True Things About Me A Novel (Deborah Kay Davies) by Deborah Kay Davies Page A

gone, they said to the ward in general. The elegant old blokenodded and smiled as they went out. It’s a mad house in here, I said. The whole situation is doing my head in. I’ve got to get some fresh air. Stay right where you are, my dad said. He pointed his finger at me. Not everything is about you. I didn’t say a word, but I felt that was a touch harsh.
    Hours went by. We drank tea. Gran was moving her lips and plucking at the bedclothes. My mum tried to listen. I asked what she was saying. Just the usual chicken sounds, I’m afraid, Mum said. She always loved chooks of course. I remember her telling me. She stroked Gran’s cheek, nodding and smiling exaggeratedly at her like people do to babies. Kept them as a child, didn’t you, Mum? she bellowed. My dad put his arm round her, and they both peered at Gran. Poor old duck, he said. Which I thought could have confused her, when she was so into chickens.
    The old man still sat in his chair, looking noble. I couldn’t help watching him. He didn’t seem at all ill. He began to get restless, moving around in his chair, and laughing quietly to himself. He saw me looking, and gestured for me to come over. At first I thought I would ignore him, but he looked so sweet and smiley I stood up and walked across the ward.
    When I got quite close he grabbed my arm and pulled me down to his eye level, uncrossed his legs and pointed to his crotch. Big brown stains were growing. Something liquid but heavier than pee plopped onto the lino near my sandal. The stench was stupefying. Almost visible. Billowing over me. My eyes watered, and I began to gag. I tried to call to Mum andDad but they were both leaning in over Gran. The old man laughed as I wrenched my arm free and ran into the corridor. I threw up my boiled egg and soldiers as I dashed to the toilets.
    I stayed in there as long as I could, splashing cold water over my face and neck, then washing and rewashing my hands. I took my sandals off and dry retched as I dunked my feet in the sink; the old man’s shit was splattered on my big toe. I crunched and swallowed some mints I found in my bag. I had a long sit-down on the loo. I really needed to wee but somehow I couldn’t. It was burning and painful down there. I knew I needed to sit in a cool bath and attend to myself properly. I wondered if I was bleeding. My boobs were tender. Eventually I walked back to the ward. Someone had cleared up the sick in the corridor. The curtains were drawn round Gran’s bed. I went inside. Where have you been? my father asked. She’s dead.

I pour cold water on events
    I GOT COMPASSIONATE leave, so that was a bonus. Though the idea of the bloke with the pig socks and pasties being compassionate made me want to scream with mirth. The funeral was OK. Lots of people I didn’t recognise milling around at my parents’ house. Plenty of alcohol and sausage rolls; what’s not to like? But I couldn’t concentrate on the buffet. I caught glimpses of Alison and Tom, which was nice, though somehow I couldn’t get near them. I began to feel people were deliberately keeping us apart.
    The best thing, I found, was to walk slowly in circles amongst the crowd with a full glass and a heaped plate. That way no one bothered you much. Lots of people still hugged and kissed me, even so. The usual suspects; old male friends my parents probably kept under the stairs, and wheeled out for special occasions grabbed the chance for a grope. I couldn’t blame them really. They told me my gran had really loved me. That she’d been proud of me. One grotesque individual, as he cradledmy buttock in his gnarly old hand, actually told me I was Gran’s ray of sunshine. I couldn’t help laughing. Mostly I didn’t know how to arrange my face, so I just pretended to cry. That sent them scarpering.
    Finally I bumped into Alison, and we sat on a bench in the rose arbour, perfectly bosky and cave-like. The roses had grown up and over the top. Pale pink blooms drooped down on