SEVENTY-EIGHT-YEAR-OLD BRIDIE BEAN was gliding around the room, her grandson Jeremy leading her in an old-time waltz. As Maisie looked on, Bridie counted to three, then pivoted. It was beautiful to watch and it seemed as though the old woman hadn’t a care in the world. Maisie had spent most of her early morning bathing her mother, then dressing her in a crisp white shirt, a soft grey cardigan and her favourite tweed skirt, which came to just above the knee, then pinning her long white hair neatly into a smooth bun. Bridie liked to look nice so her daughter made sure that she was always pristine. It was the least she could do for her: despite her advanced age and mental condition, Bridie still enjoyed an innocent flirt and was full of fun. She was what the locals would refer to as a ‘game old bird’ and everybody loved her. As she twirled, her skirt lifted to reveal her twig-like legs moving in time to the music. She had no trouble keeping pace with sixteen-year-old Jeremy, and even though her mind was cluttered and foggy, ex-army nurse Bridie Bean was as fit as a flea. Vera Lynn’s ‘We’ll Meet Again’ played and she hummed along.

‘Ah, it’s just like the old days, Arthur – you, me and a bottle of rum.’ She giggled to herself.

‘Grammy, it’s me, Jeremy!’ Jeremy said. The last time he’d allowed her to think he was her long-lost husband, she’d mentioned how much she missed his manhood – and when the word ‘vagina’ fell out of her mouth Maisie’s first-born complained of battling a combination of nausea and light-headedness. It was clear to Maisie that he wasn’t willing to go through that trauma again. She smiled to herself when he stopped dancing and pointed to himself. ‘Jeremy, your grandson, so don’t be mentioning your bits.’

‘I know who you are, sunshine,’ Bridie said. ‘Just talking to your auld gramps in the sky.’ She held out her right hand and he clasped it in his left. ‘Once more around the table for luck.’

‘All right, but then I’m off. It’s me last day of holidays and I have a life, ya know.’

‘Oh, I know,’ Bridie whispered. ‘Very exotic, filled with girls and secrets.’ She tapped her nose with her index finger. ‘I have a few secrets of me own.’

‘Ah, Jesus,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘please don’t start.’

‘All right, love.’

Jeremy often feigned exhaustion, because it entertained his gran. It was a game Maisie often watched them play, a role reversal: he was the adult and she the bold child. She smiled at him and pushed his sandy hair away from his eyes. She didn’t speak, just sighed contentedly, then tapped him on the shoulder.