down on one of the packing cases. 'About safety in London.' He gives me a beady look. 'You
don't travel on public transport in the evenings, do you?'
'Erm hardly ever,' I say, crossing my fingers behind my back. 'Just now and then, when I
absolutely have to'
'Darling girl, you mustn't!' says Grandpa, looking agitated. 'Teenagers in hoods with flickknives
roam the underground, it said. Drunken louts, breaking bottles, gouging one another's
eyes out'
'It's not that bad-'
'Emma, it's not worth the risk! For the sake of a taxi fare or two.'
I'm pretty sure that if I asked Grandpa what he thought the average taxi fare was in London,
he'd say five shillings.
'Honestly, Grandpa, I'm really careful,' I say reassuringly. 'And I do take taxis.'
Sometimes. About once a year.
'Anyway. What's all this stuff?' I ask, to change the subject, and Grandpa gives a gusty sigh.
'Your mother cleared out the attic last week. I'm just sorting out what to throw away and what
to keep.'
'That seems like a good idea.' I look at the pile of rubbish on the floor. 'Is this stuff you're
throwing away?'
'No! I'm keeping all that.' He puts a protective hand over it.
'So where's the pile of stuff to throw out?'
There's silence. Grandpa avoids my gaze.
'Grandpa! You have to throw some of this away!' I exclaim, trying not to laugh. 'You don't
need all these old newspaper cuttings. And what's this?' I reach past the newspaper cuttings
and fish out an old yo-yo. 'This is rubbish, surely.'
'Jim's yo-yo.' Grandpa reaches for the yo-yo, his eyes softening. 'Good old Jim.'
'Who was Jim?' I say, puzzled. I've never even heard of a Jim before. 'Was he a good friend of
yours?'
'We met at the fairground. Spent the afternoon together. I was nine.' Grandpa is turning the
yo-yo over and over in his fingers.
'Did you become friends?'
'Never saw him again.' He shakes his head mistily. 'I've never forgotten it.'
The trouble with Grandpa is, he never forgets anything.
'Well, what about some of these cards?' I pull out a bundle of old Christmas cards.
'I never throw away cards.' Grandpa gives me a long look. 'When you get to my age; when the
people you've known and loved all your life start to pass away you want to hang onto any
memento. However small.'
'I can understand that,' I say, feeling touched. I reach for the nearest card, open it and my
expression changes. 'Grandpa! This is from Smith's Electrical Maintenance, 1965.'
'Frank Smith was a very good man-' starts Grandpa.
'No!' I put the card firmly on the floor. 'That's going. And nor do you need one from' I open
the next card. 'Southwestern Gas Supplies. And you don't need twenty old copies of Punch .' I
deposit them on the pile. 'And what are these?' I reach into the box again and pull out an
envelope of photos. 'Are these actually of anything you really want to-'
Something shoots through my heart and I stop, midstream.
I'm looking at a photograph of me and Dad and Mum, sitting on a bench in a park. Mum's
wearing a flowery dress, and Dad's wearing a stupid sunhat, and I'm on his knee, aged about
nine, eating an ice-cream. We all look so happy together.
Wordlessly, I turn to another photo. I've got Dad's hat on and we're all laughing helplessly at
something. Just us three.
Just us. Before Kerry came into our lives.
I still remember the day she arrived. A red suitcase in the hall, and a new voice in the kitchen,
and an unfamiliar smell of perfume in the air. I walked in and there she was, a stranger,
drinking a cup of tea. She was wearing school uniform, but she still looked like a grown-up to
me. She already had an enormous bust, and gold studs in her ears, and streaks in her hair. And
at suppertime, Mum and Dad let her have a glass of wine. Mum kept telling me I had to be
very kind to her, because her mother had died. We all had to be very kind to Kerry. That was
why she got my room.
I leaf through the rest of the pictures, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. I remember
this place now. The park we used to go to, with swings and slides. But it was
too boring for
Kerry, and I desperately wanted to be like her, so I said it was boring too, and we never went
again.
'Knock knock!' I look up with a start, and Kerry's standing at the door, holding her glass of
wine. 'Lunch is ready!'
'Thanks,' I say. 'We're just coming.'
'Now, Gramps!' Kerry wags her finger reprovingly at Grandpa, and gestures at the packing
cases. 'Haven't you got anywhere with this lot yet?'
'It's difficult,' I hear myself saying defensively. 'There are a lot of memories in here. You can't
just throw them out.'
'If you say so.' Kerry rolls her eyes. 'If it were me, the whole lot'd go in the bin.'
I cannot cherish her. I cannot do it. I want to throw my treacle tart at her.
We've been sitting round the table now for forty minutes and the only voice we've heard is
Kerry's.
'It's all about image,' she's saying now. 'It's all about the right clothes, the right look, the right