‘Stop spying on me.’
‘All right,’ said Chester. There was that trace of a Middle European accent she couldn’t place. ‘I won’t.’
‘Or … well, if you must,’ said Issy, who rather liked the idea of having someone looking out for her. It hadn’t happened before. ‘At least come in and try one of the cakes.’
The man nodded. ‘Your grandfather warned me off eating your profits. He said you were too kind not to feed me for nothing and that I wasn’t allowed to ask for anything.’
‘It’s still a business,’ said Grampa Joe weakly from the bed.
Keavie popped her head in. ‘Hi, Issy! How’s the love life?’
‘So you know everything too!’ said Issy, stung.
‘Give over! Anyway, he does your grandfather a power of good. Perks him right up.’
‘Hmm,’ said Issy.
‘And I like it,’ said the ironmonger. ‘Selling spanners is a lonely road.’
‘And we both know the shop trade,’ said Gramps.
‘All right, all right,’ said Issy. She’d been used to being the only person her gramps would turn to for so long, she wasn’t sure about him having a friend. Now, though, Gramps was looking around, confused.
‘Where is this?’ he said. ‘Isabel? Isabel?’
‘I’m here,’ said Issy, as Chester made his goodbyes and left. She took Gramps’s hand.
‘No,’ he was saying. ‘Not you. Not Isabel. That’s not who I meant. That’s not who I meant at all.’
He grew more and more agitated, and his grip on Issy’s hand grew stronger and stronger, till Keavie came in with a male nurse and they persuaded him to drink some medicine.
‘That’ll calm him down,’ said Keavie, looking straight at Issy. ‘You understand,’ she went on, ‘that calming him down, making him comfortable … that’s all we can really …’
‘You’re saying he’s not going to get any better,’ said Issy miserably.
‘I’d say his lucid moments are going to get fewer and further apart,’ said Keavie. ‘And you need to prepare yourself for that.’
They looked at the old man settled back into the pillows.
‘He knows,’ Keavie whispered. ‘Even patients with dementia … Everyone is so fond of your grandfather here, you know. They really are.’
Issy squeezed her hand in gratitude.
Two Saturdays later, Des, the estate agent, popped his head round the door. Jamie was squawking his head off.
‘Sorry,’ he said to Issy, who was enjoying the Guardian Guide before the Saturday shoppers’ lunchtime rush arrived. Her Cupcake Café keyring was sparkling in the summer sunlight through the polished windows.
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Issy, jumping up. ‘I was just enjoying a quiet moment. Hang on, what can I get you?’
‘I wondered if you’d seen Mira?’ said Des.
Issy glanced at the sofa. ‘Oh, she normally comes in around this time,’ she said. ‘She should be here any moment. They’ve got a proper flat now, and she’s got a job.’
‘That’s brilliant!’
‘I know! I’m trying to persuade her to send Elise to the same nursery as Louis, but she’s having none of it and keeping her in a Romanian crèche.’
‘I didn’t even know they had such a thing,’ said Des.
‘Stoke Newington has everything … Aha,’ said Issy as Mira and Elise arrived. ‘Speak of the devil.’
Mira immediately took Jamie off Des and, as was his wont, he stopped howling to regard her with his large round eyes.
‘Ems has kicked me out the house … for a bit,’ added Des hastily, in case they imagined she’d kicked him out once and for all. (It was rather worrying, Issy thought, if you had to correct people’s impression of your marriage like that.) ‘He’s been right as rain, Mira, since he got over that colic, absolutely a splendid … he’s a great wee man.’ His voice grew slightly emotional as he regarded his son. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘anyway, right. The thing is, the last couple of days have been just awful, just terrible.’
Mira raised her eyebrows.
‘The doctor said it’s nothing, just teething.’
‘So you brought him to the baby-whisperer!’ said Issy cheerfully, lining up a tea, a babycino for Elise and a large cappuccino with plenty of grated chocolate. Jamie, previously content, was now opening his mouth in preparation for a huge wail, as Mira poked her fingers in his soft gums.
Des looked sheepish. ‘Uh, well, something like that.’
Mira gave him a stern look as Jamie screamed.
‘In this country they think it is so hilarious that nobody knows anything about babies, and the grandmothers, they say, “Oh, I will not interfere with the babies,” and the aunties, they say, “Oh, I am too busy to help with the babies,” and everybody ignores the babies and buys stupid books about the babies and watches stupid television about the babies,’ she said fiercely. ‘Babies are always the same. Adults, not so much. Give me a knife.’
Issy and Des looked at each other.
‘Uh, what?’ said Issy.
‘Knife. I need a knife.’
Des put up his hands. ‘Honestly, we can’t take much more of this at home. Ems is sleeping at her mum’s as it is. I’m going bananas. I’ve started to see ghosts out of the corner of my eye.’
‘You’re not having a knife,’ said Issy. Somewhat nervously, she handed Mira a serrated knife. Quick as a flash, Mira stuck Jamie down on his back on the sofa, pinned down his arms and made two little darts inside his mouth with the knife. Jamie screamed the place down.
‘What … what have you done?’ said Des, grabbing Jamie up from the sofa and cradling him in his arms. Mira shrugged. As Des glared at her he noticed that Jamie, once the initial shock and pain had passed, was gradually calming down. His great heaving gulps of air grew slower and slower, and his tense, infuri ated little body started to relax. He nestled his head lovingly into his father’s chest, and once again, no doubt utterly exhausted from his painful, sleepless nights, his eyelids started to droop.
‘Well,’ said Des. ‘Well.’
Issy shook her head. ‘Mira, what did you do? How did you do that?’