We visited Nan Wells on Sundays often enough for the routine to feel fixed, though I cannot say whether it was every week.
She lived in Portsmouth and had been on her own since Grandad Wells died in 1965. We travelled by bus. Dad preferred going early enough to avoid waiting, which meant we sometimes arrived before Nan had finished preparing for us.
She called him Georgie. Nobody else did.
Dad was quiet at home, but quieter there. Nan asked whether he was eating properly while Mum sat beside him, having cooked the meal he had eaten before we left. Mum said, ‘He manages,’ and Dad let the matter pass.
Nan served tea and something sweet. Sometimes it was cake. Sometimes it was tinned peaches with evaporated milk. Peter and I preferred the peaches because the portions were easier to compare.
She asked about school. Peter gave short answers. I gave longer ones until Peter told me I was including things she had not asked. Nan told him to let me speak, then changed the subject before I had finished.
Dad usually found a practical job. A loose handle, a plug, a door that caught. Nan did not save these jobs for him, she said. They happened to be there when he arrived.
Mum sat with her and talked about relatives, prices and people I could not place. Peter looked through old magazines. I was expected to stay in the room and not ask for food too soon after having been given food.
Before we left, Nan gave us a coin each. Dad said she should not. Nan said she knew what she was doing. Peter put his away. I asked what I could buy with mine and was told this was not the time to start planning.
On the bus home, Dad said Nan was managing.
Mum said, ‘Of course she is.’
They left it there.