Granddad looks up. His face is serious and his eyes are shining. I’ve said something wrong, but I don’t know what. I look down and push the meat around with my fork. I don’t like it when he gets upset. Then I hear his voice, so quiet it’s almost a whisper.

‘What’s that, Granddad?’

‘I said, can you pass the sauce?’ he asks.

I look up. He can reach the sauce. It’s on h3, right in front of him. Maybe he can’t see it.

‘Are you okay, Granddad?’ I ask.

‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

‘Because you’re . . . Because the sauce is right there.’

‘I know this,’ he says. ‘But I don’t want it. I just want you to move it.’

‘To where?’

‘h1.’

I pick up the sauce and go to move it, but Granddad suddenly reaches out and holds my hand. I try to move it away, but his grip is so tight my hand is trapped and I can feel him shaking.

‘Granddad,’ I say. ‘What are you—?’

‘Shush.’ He holds a finger up to his lips. ‘Look around.’

I look around the room, at the clock on the sideboard, the picture of Berlin on the wall, Grandma on the mantelpiece, the TV in the corner.

‘No.’ Granddad shakes his head. ‘Not around you, around the table.’

I look at all the pieces on the board. What am I supposed to be seeing? I know the pickle is my queen, the mustard is my king. They are still on their squares – they haven’t moved. But my knife and fork have advanced up the board, and so have my breads. What does Granddad want me to see? His balls of bread are scattered in the middle of the table. His sauce bottles are isolated in the corners and his strawberry jam, his king . . .

‘Do you see it now?’ Granddad releases his grip slowly and the blood rushes back to my fingers.

‘Have I just won my first game?’ My face cracks into a grin.

‘Yes.’ Granddad smiles. ‘You have won your first game.’

Astroboy2008