The Forever Whale. Sarah Lean

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СКАЧАТЬ away, back into the garden.

      “Grandad? Remember you were going to tell me a story?” I say. He doesn’t reply. An ocean of nothing washes into his eyes. “A story about the deer? About a journey?”

      This isn’t the first time I’ve asked him. It isn’t the first time I’ve reminded him of the months passing. August 18th is now only eight weeks away.

      “Journey?” he says. “Where are we going?”

      Suddenly the smoke alarm shrills from the kitchen.

      “Grandad, the toast!”

      I run back inside. Smoke curls out of the grill and rolls up to the ceiling. I turn off the gas, climb on to the kitchen table and jump up to try to turn the alarm off before anyone else comes down for breakfast, but I’m not tall enough to reach.

      Mum runs down the stairs. She stands on a chair and pokes at the alarm with a broom handle until it stops shrieking.

      “Watch what Grandad’s doing, please,” Mum whispers as we try to wave the smoke away with tea towels.

      “It was just an accident,” I say when Dad comes in.

      Dad looks out at Grandad in the garden and I know what he’s thinking.

      “It’s my fault,” I say. “I was feeding the birds and chasing Smokey away and watering the sunflowers and I forgot about the breakfast.”

      “Sounds like you’ve had a busy morning,” Dad says.

      He opens the fridge to get some juice and finds his car keys in there. He takes them out and bounces them up and down in his hand.

      “Will you put those boxes by the front door into the car?” Mum says to Dad. “I’ll be along in a minute.” He and Mum share a long look before Mum says to him, “We’ll talk later.”

      “Save some energy for school, Hannah,” Dad says on his way out.

      Grandad comes into the kitchen. He opens the cupboard under the sink and pulls out a bag of birdseed. He doesn’t say anything about the smoke and the toast, he doesn’t close the cupboard door and the bag of seed is tipping from his hands.

      “Grandad,” Mum says, “they’re spilling and going everywhere!” Dots of seed bounce up from the tiled floor around his feet. “Grandad?”

      Grandad doesn’t seem to hear her and shuffles back outside, leaving a trail of seeds behind him. I hear the sparrows twittering, waiting for him.

      “How is he this morning?” Mum says, sniffing at the bitter smell of burnt toast on her sleeve.

      “He’s fine,” I say. “I heard him get up in the night so he’s probably just tired.” Mum frowns. “I can sweep that up,” I say, jumping down and reaching for the broom.

      Mum holds on to the handle for a moment. “Hannah …” she says, but I don’t want her to say what everybody in our house has been saying recently, that they’re worried about the way Grandad is behaving.

      “He’s fine,” I say again. “I forgot about the toast. It’s my fault.”

      Mum sighs a little and says, “Go and help Grandad, love.”

      “Mum!” I point to the toast on fire in the cooker behind her.

      Mum steps down from the chair and uses the barbecue tongs to pick up the flaming toast and fling it out of the back door, and while she isn’t looking I close the door to the cupboard under the sink because I’ve noticed that there are things inside it that shouldn’t be there.

      3.

      “WHAT WAS THAT ALL ABOUT?” MY SISTER JODIE says, when Mum has gone to work. “And what’s that disgusting smell?”

      I’m on the floor with a brush, but the seeds keep bouncing back out of the dustpan.

      “I forgot to watch the toast,” I mutter.

      Jodie pretends she doesn’t see me sweep some of the seeds under the doormat.

      “Why don’t you just use the toaster like everyone else?” she says, painting gloss on her lips.

      I bite my teeth together. “Why can’t Grandad have it how he likes it?”

      Jodie doesn’t say anything. She’s more interested in smudging her lips and watching her reflection on the edge of the cooker.

      “Why are you putting on lipgloss before you’ve had your breakfast?” I say.

      She rolls her eyes and pours some cereal and milk and mutters to herself, “Where’s he put the sugar bowl now?”

      Jodie sighs and goes out of the kitchen because the last time the bowl wasn’t by the kettle we eventually found it in a drawer in the sitting room. These things are Alzheimer’s fault, not Grandad’s.

      I crawl across the floor and open the cupboard under the sink. It smells of damp. The sugar bowl is there, but it has tipped over the bags and bags of birdseed stuffed inside. I think about putting the bowl over by the kettle, but Jodie has come back and is watching me.

      “What’s that in there?” she says.

      I close the door, but Jodie comes over, so I push her away and sit with my back against the cupboard door with my arms folded and my legs crossed.

      “Actually, this is my place for hiding private things,” I tell her, “so leave them alone.”

      She stands with her legs either side of me and I make myself go all stiff, but it doesn’t work because she’s fifteen and five years bigger and stronger than me.

      “Don’t be a baby,” Jodie says.

      She holds my elbows, pulls me away and opens the door. She finds an old tube of sparkly lipstick, Grandad’s slippers and one of her books that went missing a few weeks ago. She leaves the cupboard door open and slides down to the floor, wiping sticky sugar crystals from her lipstick.

      “I put those things in there when I was sweeping,” I say.

      She holds the book in front of my face. The damp pages bulge.

      “Sure you did.” Jodie twitches her mouth to the side. “I know what you’re trying to do, but it’s not like we don’t all know Grandad’s getting worse.”

      I grit my teeth again and then take a minute because I want Jodie on my side. “I notice things more than anyone else. He’s tired today, that’s all. Can’t he just have a bad day like everyone else? He’ll be fine later, you’ll see.”

      Jodie twiddles with her hair and we sit in silence with my words still echoing in my own СКАЧАТЬ