57 292
Not Near London
57
Southern Comfort at her
elbow. ‘I’m in the pink, ta.
How’s you, duck?’ Jasper
met her only once, when
she was literally almost
on her last breath but still
upright.
‘Where do you live, Mrs
Fowler?’ he asked.
‘Louth, my hubby’s town.’
‘I thought Louth was in
Ireland.’
Suzie covered her face in
mock despair. Nan cackled.
‘You know what thought
did? He only thought he
did. And you know what
they say of Louth folk?’
‘No.’
‘They’re either lame or
daft.’
‘Which are you?’ dared
Jasper, risking a lot.
‘Neither, handsome. From
Grantham, me.’
Plain-spoken Gran would
have told her what to do.
Gran had all the stories,
some of them right saucy.
Like how she worked in a
grocery store in Grantham
when she was fifteen and
had her boobs felt up by
the owner, one Alderman
Roberts, father of our
future prime minister
and supposed paragon of
virtue. ‘Like a dog with two
dicks, he were! Slipping
his paw down, right here.
Ugh. Mind you, I were
lovely to look at, then.’ And
now there wasn’t one left
to tell, not one, because
they’d all gone up in
smoke along with her, and
the firemen had got there
just five minutes too late,
according to her mum.
‘Midnight like midday,
they said.’ Flat scorched
black like the inside of
an oven, nothing left
intact but that porcelain
cat watching a butterfly