Mum closes the sitting room door.

The news must be bad because this is what it was like in the days before Grandma died. Dad calling Mum, Mum calling Dad, Dad coming home, whispering in the kitchen, whispering in the dining room, whispering in their bedroom. I didn’t want to listen, but you don’t have to hear everything to know when someone is really ill. I didn’t want Granddad to go to hospital on his own, but Mr Keytes said I was too young to be left alone at the hospital. It was so quiet in the minibus on the way back that all I could hear was the rush of the wind and the rumble of tyres on the road. Rebecca said she was sure Granddad would be okay, and Jake said the same, but there was no way they could know. They were just hoping like me.

I roll over onto my side. See the pieces of paper with Granddad’s writing scrawled across them: the chessboard, drawings of the chess pieces with the moves written beside them – Pawn, can only move forward, two squares first move, then only one. Bishop, can only move on the diagonal. Rook, can only move horizontally and vertically. I close my eyes. Normally I would keep seeing the squares, but now all I can see is Granddad, wrapped up in a blanket in the back of the ambulance.

‘Felix . . . Felix . . .’ Mum knocks gently on my door. ‘Can I come in?’

I wipe my eyes on my pyjama sleeve and roll over to face the door.

Mum pushes the door open slowly.

‘I just thought I’d give you some news on Granddad,’ she says softly.

‘Is it his heart? Like Grandma?’ I ask.

‘We’re not sure,’ she says as she walks in and sits at the end of my bed. ‘He’s sleeping now, but Dad says not to worry and he’ll call again in the morning.’

‘I knew he shouldn’t have driven to watch me play . . .’ My voice begins to crack. ‘He did feel dizzy earlier in the week. I should have said something.’

‘Hey.’ Mum gives me a caring smile. ‘You’re not to blame. You know what your granddad is like, he’s so stubborn. Even if we’d said not to, he’d have gone, and besides, it’s you who cheered him up these past few weeks.’

I force a smile. I’d rather he’d been grumpy and be sitting at home, not happier and in hospital.

‘I wish I’d never even started playing,’ I say.

‘Come here,’ says Mum, holding out her arms.

I lean forward and she wraps her arms around me.

‘He’ll be fine,’ she whispers. ‘You wait and see. He’ll soon be picking you up from school again in that pink car. You won’t be able to wait to get into it!’