Chasing Out The Demons:

Scrubbing she was, scrubbing for all she was worth. Jars, pots, rusty woks, year-old Bran Flakes, Harvey’s Bristol Cream bottles saved because they were blue, biscuit tins, a spanner, two champagne glasses, all jammed onto the worn oak table and around the tiled counters. And there was Kate in the pantry again, with her hard bristle brushes and two battered buckets sloshing with soapy water. If you could have seen her, seen the savagery with which she attacked those old shelves, you’d have known that this was no spring clean; it was as though Kate were exorcising demons.

And she was. She didn’t know it, of course. If you asked her why she’d moved in on the pantry three times in less than a month, she’d have said, “It’s been ten years since I last had a good go at it and a decade of dirt takes more than a quick wipe, you know.” She clambered down from the rickety larder steps, shunted them impatiently to one side and set about the red tile floor on her hands and knees. She was like this when Jub poked his head round the pantry door, tousled and with the faintly apologetic air he always carried round with him.
“Is it alright for me to come today Grams? I mean, if it’s not, I’ll…”
“You’re daft,” interrupted Kate as she got stiffly to her feet. “’Course it’s alright; you’re the light of my life.” She scruffled his hair and, as usual, he grimaced and ducked out of her reach. “Who are you’re trying to look cool for today?” she laughed.

It was true though, Jub being the light of her life, I mean. Whenever she saw him, a little ball of happiness scudded through her. It had always been like that, ever since she’d first seen him as a bundled-up baby with his funny old-mannish face. As she got the kettle boiling, she wondered vaguely whether she’d felt the same with her own sons, Seb and Joe, when they were little. Had she just forgotten?

Jub shuffled through her pile of unopened post; more dreaded condolence letters. She hated them. They kept the wounds open and seeping. She glanced at him sideways as he methodically rearranged the envelopes in size order and stacked them neatly.
“So! To what do I owe the honour of this visit?” she started.
“Mmmmm? No, ‘nothing really. Just bored and a bit hungry. And nobody at home again,” His voice rested on an odd monotone. Kate felt a flick of regret; she’d just tossed out the mottley contents of the biscuit tins. Toast would have to do.

Chatting about the neighbours’ new BMW and the sick pear tree, she got the tea ready and cleared a space at one end of the table. But all the while, she was taking in his thinness and the tense line of his jaw. Once sitting on the old wooden bench opposite him, she could look at him squarely. He munched on a dripping piece of toast, unaware of her scrutiny for a little while. Then his eyes, grey-green and unreadable, met hers. He grinned briefly.
“You’re staring at me Grams. Admit it; I’m so cool you’re gobsmacked.” She grinned back and sipped her tea thoughtfully. There was something up. She couldn’t make him open up but she wanted to give him the option.
“So, tell me the best and the worst things that happened today,” she said brightly. It was old device but it sometimes worked.
“That’s easy,” he retorted. “The worst thing was getting to school and the best was getting out.” Kate didn’t know if he was serious, but his flip remark made her uneasy.
“But apart from that?” she persisted.
“Art was OK, I suppose; all the rest was crap.”
Kate’s eyebrows shot up and opened her mouth to protest. Before she could say anything more, Jub mumbled, “’Sorry Grams, but school is crap.” He helped himself to more toast and, clutching his mug in both hands, slurped his tea morosely. There seemed little point in pursuing this line of conversation.
“If there’s nobody at home,” she said, “why don’t you do your homework here? Just leave a message on the answer-phone to let them know where you are.” He laughed.
“They wouldn’t notice if I was there or not.” He thought for a moment. “Naa, I’ll help clear tea Grams and then I’ll go back and do my English on the computer.”
Kate nodded knowledgeably but if, truth be known, computers bewildered her; mystifying beasts that could tell people where you lived, how old you were and when you’d had your tonsils out. But she also felt foolish for being so left behind. Ben had bought one last year so he could email Seb in New York. She kept promising to learn but there was always an excuse to leave it till another day.

They gathered up the plates and mugs; Jub washed, Kate dried. They’d somehow perfected a swift ritual over the years. He glanced at the massed counter.
”’Want some help putting all that away, Grams?” he asked.
“Not yet, pop,” she answered with her head half in the wall cupboard where she kept the plates. “Still got to wipe everything off.” She straightened up. ”Come and help me plant some new sage if you’ve got time at the weekend,” she said, stealing a hug and ruffling his hair again.
“Sure.” He swung his satchel half onto his back and made for the door. “You’ve ruined my cool again,” he added, running his fingers through his hair.
“Not possible with you,” she laughed after him.

Kate watched her grandson lope up the path, his legs too long for the rest of him, loose, uncontrolled. She slid the bolt across and twitched the key in its lock. It was stiff; she hadn’t been able to find Ben’s secret stock of DIY potions that fixed things like this. A small sigh shivered out as she turned back to the kitchen. The house seemed heavy and cold again.