‘Only with my PJs and my new book,’ said Mirren, trying to pretend she didn’t care.
Chapter 2
Mirren loved her great-aunt dearly, always had. On the other hand, if Mirren were to tell you she loved going to visit the old people’s home as well, she would be lying. This wasn’t a particularly fancy one; it was a vast creaky old Victorian house in south London with plumbing noises and rooms subdivided in odd ways to accommodate wheelchairs, and it basically looked deliberately designed to frighten children, who were rarely over the moon to be there in the first place.
But Violet was different. She didn’t raise Mirren, but she had always been such a good counteroffensive to her mum, when she really needed it. Violet put up with no nonsense whatsoever, was endlessly generous with caramels, and told lots of lies about being in the war. (She had, technically, been in the war, she’d just been eight at the time.) Mirren had spent hours at Violet’s house as a teen, eating carrot cake and being lectured about feminist literature and told to go to university, which she was very glad about, even when her mum sniffed that it was a waste of money. Mirren loved Violet very dearly.
Violet had been furious about the whole going-into-a-home thing; she was mentally sharp as a tack, but kept falling over, and her arthritis was horrible. She had objected furiously to moving until the third time she tripped over theoven door, and Nora told her the only alternative was moving in with her, whereupon Violet went mutinously quiet – and now, here they were.
Mirren hadn’t seen Violet for a couple of weeks and she’d been all right then – signing in to an old person’s home always felt like telling the dentist you floss all the time. She never felt like she’d been quite good enough.
Mirren was nervous by the time she made her way along the first-floor corridor to the turret room at the end. It was the fanciest room; Violet had adopted a policy of outliving everyone else who got it, then putting in an early bid, so she’d made it there eventually. The nice thing about the turret room was that single-paned windows lined the turret and they were old and draughty, so it slightly took the edge off the 50-degree furnace temperature the facility was kept at. The heavy fireproof doors weren’t meant to be propped open, but hers were.
The last time Mirren had seen Violet, she’d been sitting in her day chair, nicely dressed, with make-up on.
This time, she was in bed, barely lifting her head.
‘Violet?’ Mirren said, worried. ‘It’s me, Mirren.’
Violet looked slightly confused – not like her at all – then her face cleared.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Little Mirren.’
‘Hey,’ said Mirren. ‘Mum said ...’
Well, Nora hadn’t said much actually.
‘What’s up?’ Mirren said, suddenly very frightened.
Violet fussed and moved herself up the bed, and Mirren helped and poured her a glass of water and found her – actually rather chic – oversized reading glasses.
‘Did you know,’ Violet said, by way of an opener. ‘Did you know that about eighty per cent of people my age have cancer? I mean, basically we all have it?’
Mirren shook her head, her mouth falling open.
‘No . . . and you?’
‘Yes,’ said Violet. ‘So common. Honestly. Between this and ending up in Bexleyheath, I really don’t know why I bothered with university.’
Violet had gone to Cambridge when not many women did. It had been the most remarkable time of her life.
‘I am so, so sorry,’ Mirren said. The breath went out of her, and she sat down on the bed. She knew her aunt was old, of course. She’d just always found it easier not to think about it. ‘When do you start treatment?’
Violet gave Mirren a look.
‘Oh, Mirren, don’t be ridiculous. They don’t do treatment at my age.’
‘Of course they do!’ Mirren said, scandalised.
‘Well, all right. They are technically putting me on a list. Kind of. I think they put my name on in a very light pencil.’
‘That’s a scandal!’ Mirren said. ‘That’s awful. You should be at the top of the list!’
Violet shook her head.
‘What, I should take the place of a child? I don’t think so, do you? Who exactly should I push out of the way, Mirren?’
‘But . . .’
