Page 16 of The Matchmaker
We live in a cottage.
When people think of cottages, they tend to picture cute, storybook places, but having lived in one all my life, I can confidently say that all they are is cramped and dark with little to no storage space. I toyed with the idea of renovating it a few years ago, figuring I’d be able to apply for a few grants to cover most of it. I spent days looking up websites before phoning a bunch of men who eventually came in their vans and spoke in loud voices while they knocked on walls, held up little sticks, and announced they were doing “readings.” They all said the same thing. Tear it down, start again and pay a lot of money to do it. I gave up after that, doing my best to paint over moldy ceilings and fix cracked floor tiles as and when I had time.
It’s the front step that’s the biggest problem now. It’s getting a little steep for Granny since she had her fall, and while we’ve put in a makeshift ramp, we need to get something more permanent. I make a mental note to look into it as I step inside, almost tripping over Plankton, who has chosen to lie right in front of the door.
“Helpful,” I tell him, as he gives me a wounded look.
The postman must have come sometime in the last few minutes as a few letters lie scattered around him. A postcard, some bills, and another expensive-looking leaflet from Glenmill to add to our collection. Or at least to the recycling. I skim through it, eyeing the blond man I’d met last week smiling on the cover.
Jack Doyle, Managing Director.
Dickhead of the century.
“Granny?”
“Who’s that?” an irritated voice calls from my right.
“Who do you think?” I toe off my sneakers, leaving them by the stairs as I crumple the brochure into a ball, but instead of finding Granny in her usual chair, I open the door to the living room to see her on her hands and knees, surrounded by boxes and scattered paper.
“Whathappened?” I ask, horrified.
“None of your business. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine; you’re on the ground.” I kneel beside her, helping her to her feet. “Did you fall again?”
“I didn’t fall; everything else fell.”
I ease her onto the couch and grab a blanket for her lap before turning to scoop up the books and photographs strewn across the rug.
“What is all this crap?”
“A little respect, please, Katie. You’re referring to my lifetime of memories.”
“I’m referring to the crap all over the floor. What were you doing?”
“Looking for one of my books,” Granny grumbles, and I know by her tone she’s embarrassed that I found her like this. “The Prince’s Conquest. There’s a man on the cover.”
“All your books have men on the covers.” Usually in some state of undress. “Your friend Nancy sent you a postcard,” I add, handing her the letter from the hall.
“Nancy died three years ago.”
“No, Mary died three years ago. Nancy lives in Vancouver. And she sent you a postcard. You should stay in touch with your friends.”
“Why?” She gives it a cursory glance before putting it on the table beside her. “It’s not like they’ll be alive for much longer. Pass me those.”
I hand over a couple of books and settle beside her to sort through the photographs. We’ve got mountains of them around the house, mostly in boxes that neither of us can bear to get rid of. I’m familiar with most, but these ones are older and seem to span a few decades, judging by their faded colors.
“I don’t think I’ve seen these before,” I say, examining them.
“You have. But not for a few years. I used to give them to you when you were younger when I wanted you to be quiet.”
“You did?”
She nods, flipping through one of the books. “I told you there was a ghost in one of them. You’d spend hours looking at them.”
Ah, yes, my ghost phase.
I sit back on my heels, looking through the box with renewed interest.
