N is for nowhere (to be seen)

Little brother and I travel home for Easter today. I feel hideous - I may have snatched a few moments of sleep but I feel as though I have been awake all night. A generous helping of coffee helps to bring me round slightly.

Before setting out I phone my Granny. With the parents away we are in charge of collecting her to spend Easter with us. There’s no answer from her telephone but it’s Good Friday. She’s a devout Catholic and I assume that she is probably in church.

We arrive home at 3pm and I call once more to no avail. There’s either a lengthy stint of God bothering going on or she’s inadvertently knocked the ringer off the phone again. We decide there’s nothing for it but to drive to her house and we get there around 5ish after stocking up on plenty of food and drink. She’s still not answering the phone and there’s no visible movement in the house when I call through a slightly open window. I’m almost certain that she’s fine and just out somewhere. However, given that it’s around five and a half hours since we tried to contact her, I’m thinking that that’s an awful lot of praying or…Inevitably your thoughts turn, no matter how briefly, to the worst case scenario. My Grandma is a very sprightly 82 year old Polish lady who survived the best the Germans could throw at her in a concentration camp during the war. But that doesn’t stop me from thinking for a split second that she could be lying in the house needing attention.

We wander up and down the road, unable to get into the house and feeling a bit stumped. We can hardly call my parents and tell them that we have lost my Granny. Little brother suggests calling the warden. This is sheltered accommodation; or “the compound” as my Grandma affectionately terms it. I buzz for attention only to be told that the warden is on holiday and won’t be back until next week. I am infuriated. Clearly only sheltered accommodation 9-5 on a weekday then.

We do some more wandering up and down the road trying to come up with a plan. Little brother downloads the address of the Polish church and Polish Club to his phone and we decide to start the search at the former. Just as we are about to leave I catch sight of a diminutive figure walking quickly towards us; stooped and hugging the treeline as if on manoeuvre. We wait for her to approach and walk towards her, relieved, smiling and waving.

Grandma: “Do I know you?”

Me: “Er, it’s your Granddaughter.”

Grandma: “Oh. You look different. I’m not coming to you today. I’m not ready. Can you come back tomorrow?”

Brilliant.

We assure her that we don’t mind waiting while she packs. I’m not sure about Grandma’s of other nationalities, but the primary role of a Polish one is to feed you. Before packing can commence, we are made cups of tea and fed oranges, cakes, biscuits and chocolate. The TV is switched on for our entertainment at an ear-splitting volume and little brother and I watch virtually the whole of 102 Dalmatians and the news before she appears.

Standing in the doorway wearing a red fleece and carrying a couple of bags. “Are you ready then?” she asks.

Katy

(Naughty or Nice?)