Can You Keep A Secret?

'Anything else I can do?' I say, sprinkling fish food lavishly over the water in an attempt to

block her view of him.

'We've pretty much got it covered,' says Kerry kindly.

'Why don't you go and say hello to Dad?' says Mum, sieving some peas. 'Lunch won't be for

another ten minutes or so.'

I find Dad and Nev in the sitting room, in front of the cricket. Dad's greying beard is as neatly

trimmed as ever, and he's drinking beer from a silver tankard. The room has recently been

redecorated, but on the wall there's still a display of all Kerry's swimming cups. Mum polishes

them regularly, every week.

Plus my couple of riding rosettes. I think she kind of flicks those with a duster.

'Hi, Dad,' I say, giving him a kiss.

'Emma!' He puts a hand to his head in mock-surprise. 'You made it! No detours! No visits to

historic cities!'

'Not today!' I give a little laugh. 'Safe and sound.'

There was this time, just after Mum and Dad had moved to this house, when I took the wrong

train on the way down and ended up in Salisbury, and Dad always teases me about it.

'Hi, Nev.' I peck him on the cheek, trying not to choke on the amount of aftershave he's

wearing. He's in chinos and a white roll-neck, and has a heavy gold bracelet round his wrist,

plus a wedding ring with a diamond set in it. Nev runs his family's company, which supplies

office equipment all round the country, and he met Kerry at some convention for young

entrepreneurs. Apparently they struck up conversation admiring each other's Rolex watches.

'Hi, Emma,' he says. 'D'you see the new motor?'

'What?' I peer at him blankly — then recall a glossy new car on the drive when I arrived. 'Oh

yes! Very smart.'

'Mercedes 5 Series.' He takes a slug of beer. 'Forty-two grand list price.'

'Gosh.'

'Didn't pay that, though.' He taps the side of his nose. 'Have a guess.'

'Erm… forty?'

'Guess again.'

'Thirty-nine?'

'Thirty-seven-two-fifty,' says Nev triumphantly. 'And free CD changer. Tax deductible,' he

adds.

'Right. Wow.'

I don't really know what else to say, so I perch on the side of the sofa and eat a peanut.

'That's what you're aiming for, Emma!' says Dad. 'Think you'll ever make it?'

'I… don't know. Er… Dad, that reminds me. I've got a cheque for you.' Awkwardly I reach

in my bag and get out a cheque for ?300.

'Well done,' says Dad. 'That can go on the tally.' His green eyes twinkle as he puts it in his

pocket. 'It's called learning the value of money. It's called learning to stand on your own two

feet!'

'Valuable lesson,' says Nev, nodding. He takes a slug of beer and grins at Dad. 'Just remind

me, Emma — what career is it this week?'

When I first met Nev it was just after I'd left the estate agency to become a photographer.

Two and a half years ago. And he makes this same joke every time I see him. Every single

bloody-

OK, calm down. Happy thoughts. Cherish your family. Cherish Nev.

'It's still marketing!' I say brightly. 'Has been for over a year now.'

'Ah. Marketing. Good, good!'

There's silence for a few minutes, apart from the cricket commentary. Suddenly Dad and Nev

simultaneously groan as something or other happens on the cricket pitch. A moment later they

groan again.

'Right,' I say. 'Well, I'll just…'

As I get up from the sofa, they don't even turn their heads.

I go out to the hall and pick up the cardboard box which I brought down with me. Then I go

through the side gate, knock on the annexe door and push it cautiously.

'Grandpa?'

Grandpa is Mum's dad, and he's lived with us ever since he had his heart operation, ten years

ago. At the old house in Twickenham he just had a bedroom, but this house is bigger, so he

has his own annexe of two rooms, and a tiny little kitchen, tacked onto the side of the house.

He's sitting in his favourite leather armchair, with the radio playing classical music, and on

the floor in front of him are about six cardboard packing cases full of stuff.

'Hi, Grandpa,' I say.

'Emma!' He looks up, and his face lights up. 'Darling girl. Come here!' I bend over to give him

a kiss, and he squeezes my hand tight. His skin is dry and cool, and his hair is even whiter

than it was last time I saw him.

'I've got some more Panther Bars for you,' I say, nodding to my box. Grandpa is completely

addicted to Panther energy bars, and so are all his friends at the bowling club, so I use my

allowance to buy him a boxful for every time I come home.

'Thank you, my love,' Grandpa beams. 'You're a good girl, Emma.'

'Where should I put them?'

We both look helplessly around the cluttered room.

'What about over there, behind the television?' says Grandpa at last. I pick my way across the

room, dump the box on the floor, then retrace my steps, trying not to tread on anything.

'Now, Emma, I read a very worrying newspaper article the other day,' says Grandpa as I sit

down on one of the packing cases. 'About safety in London.' He gives me a beady look. 'You

don't travel on public transport in the evenings, do you?'

'Erm… hardly ever,' I say, crossing my fingers behind my back. 'Just now and then, when I

absolutely have to…'

'Darling girl, you mustn't!' says Grandpa, looking agitated. 'Teenagers in hoods with flickknives

roam the underground, it said. Drunken louts, breaking bottles, gouging one another's

eyes out…'

'It's not that bad-'

'Emma, it's not worth the risk! For the sake of a taxi fare or two.'

I'm pretty sure that if I asked Grandpa what he thought the average taxi fare was in London,

he'd say five shillings.

'Honestly, Grandpa, I'm really careful,' I say reassuringly. 'And I do take taxis.'

Sometimes. About once a year.

'Anyway. What's all this stuff?' I ask, to change the subject, and Grandpa gives a gusty sigh.

'Your mother cleared out the attic last week. I'm just sorting out what to throw away and what

to keep.'

'That seems like a good idea.' I look at the pile of rubbish on the floor. 'Is this stuff you're

throwing away?'

'No! I'm keeping all that.' He puts a protective hand over it.

'So where's the pile of stuff to throw out?'

There's silence. Grandpa avoids my gaze.

'Grandpa! You have to throw some of this away!' I exclaim, trying not to laugh. 'You don't

need all these old newspaper cuttings. And what's this?' I reach past the newspaper cuttings

and fish out an old yo-yo. 'This is rubbish, surely.'