Page 38 of Not Strictly Ballroom

“You can go in.” With her head, she indicates towards the room behind her and turns back to talk with my parents.

The room is in semi-darkness, which lowers my mood again. I’ve always thought low light is bad news, but this might be from watching far too many hospital dramas with Gran. She looks so small in the large bed, not that she was big, anyway. She’s always been a vital force in my life. The hospital bed, surrounded by softly beeping machines and her medicine drip, has stripped that away like it’s a veneer. I see her fragility for the first time and it breaks my heart.

She looks reduced somewhat, lesser and translucent, and I don’t want that. I don’t want the cold realisation that she might not always be here. I blink back tears as I watch her quietly. She looks asleep.

Snatches of conversation reach me from the door. “Discharged in a couple of days. We need to think about a care package for her. She won’t be mobile for a while. I’ll arrange for social services to talk to you.”

Then my mum’s voice, strong and insistent. She might be quiet, but she’s still my gran’s daughter. “We take care of our own. We always have.”

I can hear the long-practised patience, with a hint of exasperation in the doctor’s response, and part of my brain thinks she might not be from Yorkshire herself. “I understand your care, Mrs Richardson, but you really need to consider . . .”

I tune it all out for now and approach the bed.

I reach for her hand, and while it’s still the familiar, warm hand I know, the one that’s cupped my cheek a thousand times, it feels smaller now.

Her eyes open, and she fixes me with her blue eyes—my eyes—my favourite colour.

“Nicholas.” Her smile is strong at least, and I grin back.

“Thought you were leaving us, did you?” I try to make light of the situation, but her fading smile shows that she, too, has been forced to face her own fragility.

She gives my hand a squeeze and I try again, softer this time

“We were worried about you. What happened?”

“I tripped, that’s all. I got up to get a cup of tea and fell. Well, that’s all I remember.” Then she frowns at me. “Haven’t you got a competition? You haven’t missed it, have you?” She gives me a stern look. It’s one I recognise and seems to dispel some of the shadows of mortality that have been circling us.

“I . . .” I actually don’t know. I haven’t thought of the competition once since I entered the room. I’ve only been concerned about her. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

She grips my hand, and this time it’s strong.

“I know how much it means to you, dear. You must go. I’m fine. I’m glad for the rest, to be honest.” This feisty woman is the Gran I recognise.

My parents enter the room and come over.

“Now, go do your dancing. I want you to come back and tell me you won.” It’s a dismissal.

I grab my phone and look at the time, I can’t hold back a grimace as I quickly calculate if I have time to get from the fourth floor of the hospital and across the vast car park to the main road in seven minutes, which is when the next bus is due.

I can try.

I lean over and give her a kiss on her cheek. “Love you, Gran,” I whisper, and receive a twinkling smile in return.

I whirl round and make it to the door, planning to break all the “no running in the hospital” rules.

“Nick.” I spin back at the sound of my dad’s voice.

The retort that I don’t have time dies on my lips as I see he’s holding out some keys.

“Take the van son, it’ll be quicker.”

“But—”

“Your mum and I will be here for a while yet, and we can catch the bus back.”

“Thanks Dad.” I’m astonished as he pushes the keys into my hand. He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Go make us proud.”

I send a text off to Darcy as I ride the elevator down to the ground floor.

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