Charm Bracelet

GRAN died on Christmas day, an hour after mum’s mega-dinner and enough sherry to kill a small dog.

The only things she brought to the feast were a heavy cold and determination not to lift a finger inside or smoke outside. She cursed pubs that forced her into icy wintery air, which is where, she’d have us know, she picked up the chesty cold that was ‘like a gravestone on my chest,’ she spluttered inhaling deeply.  She sat close to the fire gently cooking in thermal underwear, a black polo-neck sweater, red furry scarf and matching slippers.

I’d never seen anyone die. One minute she was lighting up, the next she’d slithered off the sofa, onto the floor, burning a hole in the rug as mum, me and my brother Joe, watched, each of us letting out a strange animal-like distressed sound.

Joe stood first. He had learned the kiss of life at Army Cadets but when Gran spewed yellow froth, he turned to stone. Mum knelt down and tipped Gran’s head back, whispering 'Ring 999'. I rose then and the operator was calm as I gabbled what was going on and relayed to mum what she should do. Mum did it all by herself, like always.

The paramedics arrived, in bright-green jumpsuits, with clanking cylinders. After listening to her heart, taking her pulse and looking in to her eyes, they agreed Gran was dead and probably was when she hit the floor.

‘See it often at Christmas’, said Jumpsuit One, patting his bulging beer gut.

‘Second today,’ Jumpsuit Two added apologetically,’ as they hefted Gran on the stretcher. The paramedics diplomatically omitted the effects of feasting, booze and fags. Gran’s right arm flopped down and trailed as if she didn’t want to leave. Mum picked it back up and patted it back down. Jumpsuit One made a phone call outside and came back in with a nod to his mate.

            Gran made a noise which sounded like she was deflating. Nobody mentioned it. It felt like her ghost departing. Mum opened the living room window even though it was raining and the gale howled into the stuffy room.

            ‘We’ll have to wait for the doctor to confirm she’s dead and sign the forms in-situ,’ said Jumpsuit Two. ‘It might take a while.’

            So, there was Gran by the remnants of her Christmas dinner, paper hat on the floor, and mum torn between tears and politeness. 

            ‘Would you like something to eat while you wait? I expect you must be hungry and there’s plenty left,’ said Mum, as the saucer-eyed men gazed at the feast.

‘Very kind of you,’ One said, and Two added: ‘I’m starving, thanks.’ With that they turned their backs on dead Gran and tucked in.’

I was impressed. I didn’t think I could swallow anything with a dead person by my side. The men murmured politely, ‘lovely, tasty and thank you.’

Joe sloped off to his room and I had my eye on Gran’s handbag, that had tumbled on the floor and lay there like an unexploded bomb.  

‘Cassie,’ said mum with a hiss that meant she needed to talk Now. I went into the kitchen and she followed.

‘I’m going to tidy up and I hope to God it’s not Doctor McKenzie. I’ve avoided him ever since that internal and don’t want to meet him now.

‘Mum,’ I say, as she gets out a bin bag and chucks things into it, ‘the doctor’s here to confirm Gran’s dead not give marks out of ten for your domestic skills.’

‘I can’t help it. Go and tidy in there,’ said Mum, pouring herself a large whisky. She’s in awe of doctors. Treats them like vicars and police officers – not that we see much of them either – but they bring out the total doormat in her and it makes me mad.

 While mum drank and scoured the sink, my only thought was to check The Will in Gran’s handbag before mum’s loaded brother got an eyeful. The Will had sat like the family Sword of Damocles for a decade on Gran’s lap. On a daily basis, Gran, who was a dab-hand in stocks and shares, mentioned who was now in The Will and who was out on their ear.

I chucked in enough to clear the decks, grabbed the bag, went to the loo and locked myself in.

Gran’s knackered leather treasure chest looked like it was made of ancient elephant hide. The once gold-coloured clasp was rubbed to pewter metal. It smelt of her cigs and was stained with greasy fingerprints. I put the seat down on the loo and opened the genie’s bottle. It contained used-hankies, a rank hair-filled comb, three packs of cigs, heart tablets, blood pressure pills, scraps of paper with her spidery hand-writing of tatty lists, whisky miniatures and Lemsip. Underneath it all, like some archaeological dig, was a crinkly, medieval-looking parchment envelope.

I opened it carefully and spread out the will on my knee. There was the rambling legally-worded introduction, without a single bit of punctuation, I noted, as I skimmed lines until I reached the important sections. Mum and her brother were to share Gran’s house plus £50,000. Our Joe would get £50,000 when he reached twenty-six - but only if gainfully employed. So, he might have to wait. And there, in red pen, was what Gran left me. Her charm bracelet, a sly dig and massive threat. My hands shook.

‘You might be plain,’ stated Gran, ‘but you have a brain; so far unused. The bracelet comes with a list of challenges. If I passed them, I got £50,000. If not, she wanted the cash to go to ‘Bring Back Smoking in Pubs’ if it existed but failing that ‘Help for Heroes’.

Mum tapped hurriedly on the door.

            ‘Have you got the bag?’ she hissed. I slid the lock back and she and Joe came in. We were like sardines. Mum was red-faced, a whiff of whisky and newly-sprayed polish floated about her, Joe smelt of himself, new mown grass and sweaty trainers.

            ‘I didn’t want the paramedics to see,’ I say, maintaining a blank look.

            ‘Well, they’re going to wonder why we are all in the loo.’ Mum cried. ‘She’s not even cold yet. And I need to put bleach down the loo in case the doctor needs to go. Or the paramedics. What’s it say?’

            We shuffled around so she could pour bleach in. I told her and Mum welled up.

            ‘It’s terrible, isn’t it?’ I said, ‘why have I pulled the short straw?’ But it was like Mum hadn’t heard a word. She closed her eyes and relief rose through her like it had fallen from another world. I’d never seen her look like that.

            ‘Thank God, £50,000 that’s going to save me,’ beamed Joe.

            ‘What about me? She called me plain.’

            The doorbell rang. Mum wiped her eyes with loo roll. They were smudgy with mascara. She went out without saying anything about my situation.

            ‘I better think about a career,’ said Joe and looked completely muddled.

            ‘Hello, Doctor McKenzie,’ I heard Mum say in that terrible fluttery voice she has when she’s nervous and wants to make an impression.  I banished the thought of him giving an internal to her and now here he was observing dead Gran. I put Gran’s handbag in the wash basket for safe-keeping and went to see what was going on. Joe sloped off to his bedroom.

            The paramedics put down plates, and stood to one side as Doctor Mackenzie felt for a pulse and had a stethoscope to Gran’s chest. I so wanted her to say ‘Boo!’ and see them all run. Doctor Mackenzie didn’t look the cold fish mum painted him to be. He was old, at least 45, wrinkly round the eyes, with greying brown hair and glasses. He could do with going to the gym. He stood up and touched mum’s elbow. Her cheeks flushed. God it was embarrassing. 

            Jumpsuit One and Two dabbed their mouths with Christmas-pudding decorated napkins. When the doctor nodded, they trundled out Gran. I bet the neighbours were glued to the ambulance with the flashing blue light, parked half on the muddy grass outside. Well, they’d get a good eye-full now, it would be their most exciting hour for a long time. Gran would be gutted.

            At the front door Jumpsuit One said; ‘Happy Chris,’ and stopped. I thought about the charm bracelet. I’d never seen one.