Oh, youll never guess what happenedGranny Polly taught little Alfie to play cards!
“What for?” sighed Emma, exhausted after her shift at the hospital. Alfie had only just turned six.
“Well, imagine it!” Granny beamed. “Hell visit someone, theyll sit down for a game, and hell join in! Proper socialising, dont you think?”
You could understand hershed grown up in post-war Britain, where a round of cards or dominoes was the height of entertainment. And this wasnt now, mind you, but back in the 70s. So, naturally, whist and rummy it was!
Granny Polly was there to babysit her great-grandson, baby Oliver. Alfie, who despised nursery, was always underfoot too. The boy was fiercely independenthouse key around his neck, packed lunch in his Thermos. Perfectly normal back then, unlike today when kids wont leave Mums side till theyre thirty.
Their estate wasnt half bad eithercosy, with blocks of flats enclosing a courtyard. There was even a ping-pong table and a decent little playground with swings and a sandpit.
Then there was the shop, “Bright Lights,” in one of the buildings. Oddly enough, alongside lamps and fittings, they sold furniture. Heavy furniture. Which meant delivery days were… colourful.
Kids would come home with new vocabularywords starting with B, S, even the occasional F. “Mum, what does *that* mean?”
They called them “lightbulb words”suddenly illuminating.
But those were small downsides to a big upsideyou could let your kids play outside without a worry. The delivery blokes even kept an eye on them!
Emma had married firstfell hard for a bloke from her uni group and got pregnant. Later, her mother-in-law, who worked at a nursery, took little Alfie during the week so Emma could finish med school. After that, both she and her husband became GPsback when job placements were still a thing.
Pretty Lucy didnt marry till twenty-fivelate by those standards. The sisters were night and day: quick, slim, dark-haired Emma versus slow, curvy, blonde Lucy. But both were stunnerslike two halves of a whole.
People always asked about their father. “Surely youve got the same dad?”
“Not surely!” theyd snap, though they were thick as thieves.
Dad had died years ago. Mum had moved on, leaving the flat to her grown daughters while dodging questions. “Why dyou care? Of course its the same dad! The very same!”
Till twenty-four, Lucy led men on a merry danceher heart still asleep, though she had her flings. She met her future husband, Peter, at a mates party a few years after school. He was a friend of her classmate, Tom.
She even agreed to a date. Came back fuming.
“You wont believe how *dull* he is!” Lucy ranted. “Guess what he asked me?”
“What?” Emma held her breathmustve been something awful.
“Did I wear *thermal knickers*! Can you believe it?!” Lucy shuddered. “So *pedestrian*!”
The blokethree years older and smittenhad simply fretted over her catching cold. Everyone wore thermals back then, and frost was biting. Nothing scandalous, just concern for a silly girl. But youth is unforgiving. So, sensitive Peter got the bootknickers and all.
He reappeared seven years later. By then, Lucy had played the field but was still alone, living in the same two-bed with Emmas family.
Then it hit hersuitors had dried up. New Years Eve, she stayed home with Emmas lotno invites. Later, Emma found a needle in her blanket. Someone had cursed hera hex, a repel, who knew?
Lucy had heaps of friends who often stayed overthe flat was near the Tube, handy for uni and work.
The needle got binned, and suddenly Lucy bumped into Peterfate, obviously! No refusing that.
And when he asked about thermals *again*, it was suddenly sweet. “Hes so *thoughtful*, Em!” So she married Peter, now a maths PhD.
He moved in straight off, marking his arrival with a new enamel kettle and sofa.
“But weve already got a kettle!” Emma said.
“This ones yours,” Peter said. “The new ones *ours*.”
First rift: his kettle was fancier. And his parents were loadedunlike Emmas husband, the “scrounger,” as Mum called him.
Plans were made to swap the two-bed for two one-bedswith a top-up, since even trades needed cash. Peters parents promised to help.
Time passed. Baby Oliver arrived. Lucy went back to work, and clever Peter enlisted Granny Polly to babysit.
One day, Emma came home earlyfeverish, probably from patients or her husband, John. Her rounds got handed off. “Get well soon, Dr. Emma!”
The flat was darkeveryone asleep?
Nope. A sickhouse: Lucy off work with Oliver, John poorly too, and Alfie always home.
Emma crept in, then frozeodd noises. *Please, not the kids.*
Still in her coat, she peeked into the living room. There sat six-year-old Alfie and drooling Oliver, cards in handAlfie teaching his brother whist “for society.”
“Wheres Dad?” Emma asked.
“Dad and Aunt Lucy are washing clothes in the bathroom!” Alfie said, then to Oliver, struggling with one card: “My gocover!”
Granny Pollys lessons had taken root.
“How long?” Emmas heart lurched.
“Big hand was on six, now its on nine!” Alfie said.
*Fifteen minutes.* Emma felt sick. *Hes never spent that long “washing” with me.*
Now Lucys excuses made sensedoors wrong, too far from the Tube. *This* was why she wouldnt move.
Did Peter know? Unlikely. His parents wouldve tanned his hide. But they were happy to pay the top-upclueless.
Still coated, Emma waited by the bathroom. Out came flushed John and Lucy, stunned.
“Youre supposed to be on rounds!”
“Came to help with the *washing*,” Emma said. “Done already? Hang it up, then.”
“Its not what you think!” John said. What else could he say?
“Fine.” Emma folded her arms. “Show me the laundry. Maybe youll talk your way out.”
*Come on, geniusthink of something! High fever? Delirium? Lucy cooling you with compresses?*
Silence. No backup plan.
“Both of youout.” Lucy grabbed Oliver and fled. John sent Alfie out to playstill lightthen grovelled. “It just happened, love! I only want you!”
*The Italian Job* quotes were old hat by then.
Emma stayed icy. Cuckoldedprobably for ages.
Turns out “Dad and Aunt Lucy” “washed” often. Neat freaks.
Feverish John (37.2°C, *so* poorly) got the boot. Lucy was cut off.
Emma said nothing to Peter. If he knew, hed divorce Lucy, trapping them together in that two-bed indefinitely.
Instead, Lucy took the first flat offertwo one-beds, top-up paid.
Divorced Emma landed a tiny council flatfour-square-metre kitchen, “coffin” bathroom (as everyone called those combined loos). But it was hers. *Better a bad hedge than no fence.*
John crawled back to his parents, begging for forgiveness. No dice.
One day, Emma came home to silenceAlfie playing alone. He was content like that, though he missed Oliver.
There he sat, cross-legged. Propped against a chair leg was his teddy, Mr. Bearington. Cards fanned out before itAlfie teaching him whist “for society.”
Then Emma heard him coo, “Oh, Mr. B., you daft sod, leading with trumps?”
Cheers, Granny Polly. And to the “lightbulb-word” lads at Bright Lightsmiss you loads. Hope youre not sneezing too hard.
