“Oh, great fun,” I said. “Mostly.” I swallowed. “By and large.”
“God, you must have had a riot. Did you even go to school?”
“Course. Mostly we filmed during the holidays.”
“Will you do the catchphrase for us again?”
“Do I have to?”
“Oh, go on.”
“Don’t blame me,” I said, and then, again, eager not to disappoint: “Blame Grandpa.”
For two years, between 1986, when I was eight, and 1988, when I was ten, I played the part of “Little” Jim Cleaver, the wisecracking son in the BBC’s family sitcom
It was Granddad’s show, you see. He wrote all the scripts, his only major credit after twenty-odd years toiling in the Light Entertainment department of the BBC, something tossed to him as a favor by mates who wanted to give the old guy a break. My catchphrase (actually, often my only line in an episode when they worked out that I couldn’t enunciate for toffee and was pathologically unable to emote) was: “Don’t blame me. Blame Grandpa” — this invariably delivered on my entrance, as I trotted through the door to the family home and onto the main set. Although gales of prerecorded laughter followed on its heels, I never actually got the joke nor met anyone who did.
After two years of contrived coincidences, pratfalls, one-liners and painfully convoluted cases of mistaken identity, the show was mercifully cancelled and that was that. Just as well, as it turned out. There was no way I could have carried on.
I got ill, you see. I needed to have some operations.
Most days, it all seems like a dream, like something which happened to someone else and not to me, but even now there are times, when I’m channel-hopping at two o’clock in the morning trying to find something worth watching, that I’ll catch a clip of it or an old episode running on some misbegotten cable channel. And there’s a Lilliputian version of myself, wisecracking in falsetto. “Don’t blame me,” he crows. “Blame Grandpa!”
“You must get recognized loads.”
“Not loads, no.”
“Still acting?”
“I’m a civil servant now,” I said firmly. “I’m a filing clerk.” I made a big show of checking my watch. “And it’s time to get back.”
At two o’clock we were sitting in another meeting room watching a man with a whiteboard talk absolute nonsense.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m Philip Statham and I’m the safety officer for this department.” There were only two of us in the room but he spoke as though he was delivering his address to a packed-out lecture hall.
Barbara was making dutiful notes.
Philip Statham, she wrote. Safety Officer.
Statham sounded like a stand-up comic of the old school about to launch into the best loved part of his act, some creaky routine his audience could recite by heart. “You might think,” he began, “that an office is a safe place to work. You might think that just because you’re not dealing with anything more lethal than a stapler, a fax machine or a ring binder that nothing can happen. You might even believe that accidents don’t happen here. That somehow they don’t apply to you.” He paused, for what I can only imagine he believed to be dramatic effect. “You know what?” He sucked in a breath. “It ain’t necessarily so.” He tapped the whiteboard with his marker pen for emphasis. “Accidents can happen. Accidents do happen. Every office is a potential death trap. And over the course of the next two hours and a bit I’m going to be giving you just a couple of pointers on how to stay safe.” He arched an eyebrow, flared his nostrils. “On how to stay
We had sat through two videos and a PowerPoint presentation and were about to embark on something Statham ominously referred to as “a little bit of role play” when my mobile phone gave an epileptic shudder I my pocket.
“Sorry, Philip,” I said, thankful for the distraction. “Got to take this.”
Statham glared as I scuttled gratefully into the corridor but when I saw the caller ID which flashed up on the screen, anything that was left of my good humor ebbed away.
“Mum?” I said. “You mustn’t call me at work.”
“The old bastard’s dead.”
My heart clenched tight. “What did you say?”
And she said it again, more firmly this time, not bothering to suppress the smirk.
“The old bastard’s dead.”
Chapter 4
The first time I saw Granddad again I didn’t recognize him. He had been with me for the whole of my life and I couldn’t pick him out in a room full of strangers.
Too cut-up and jittery to risk using my bicycle, I caught the 176 bus opposite the station and sat, anxious and impatient, as it edged its grudging way through the grimy streets of Waterloo, the tarmacked monotony of Elephant and Castle and the minatory neglect of Walworth and Camberwell Green. Down by the river, surrounded by sightseers, gift shops and the eager bustle of commerce, it is easy to forget that the city has teeth, that it has a certain hunger. Out here, it is scarcely possible to forget it.
At last we creaked to a stop, the brakes of the bus whinnying and wheezing like an old nag days from the glue factory, outside the sprawling, red-brick mass of St. Chad’s. The entirety of my journey had been spent crammed next to a fat man in a Garfield T-shirt, who ate chicken from a cardboard box and listened to pop music unsociably loud.
I skittered through the big sliding doors at the front of the hospital before spending the next ten minutes wandering about looking lost. Eventually a nurse took pity on me and directed me to the Machen Ward, a soporific antechamber at the rear of the fifth floor sealed off from the rest of the hospital by a thick glass door. Inside, half a dozen elderly men lay stretched out on narrow beds, motionless, silent and still. The room was filled with old- fashioned smells — bleach, soap, floor polish and, everywhere, the insidious odor of decay.
A few beds down, a nurse was wrangling a patient’s pillow into place and muttering something she presumably intended to sound soothing.
“Excuse me?” I said.
The woman turned her head to look at me but carried on with whatever it was she was doing. “What?”
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Name?” Her speech was clotted with an accent which sounded like it might be from Eastern Europe.
“His name’s Lamb.”
She glared scornfully at me, as though I’d just asked if the hospital had a bar.
“He’s my granddad,” I added, rather feebly.
“Behind you.” She shot me another contemptuous look and bustled back to work.
Supine and oblivious to the world, the old bastard had aged about a hundred years since I’d seen him last. Now he was all the things he’d never seemed before — frail and fragile, feeble and faded. White hairs curled unchecked from his ears and nostrils and his skin was drawn tight around the bones of his face. Tubes, wires and metallic lines snaked from his body, linked in some mysterious way to plastic pouches of liquid and a monitor which beeped officiously at intervals.
There was a large window behind his bed decorated, in a puny stab at festivity, with a single, balding strand
