some cocoa. Then we can work out how to find your
Gran." She helped me to a chair and brought me a mug of hot, milky cocoa to drink. As I
sipped it, she asked me about Gran and where I lived.
"I think we need to let the police know where you are," she suggested. "Your Gran will
be sure to get in touch with them. What's her name?"
"Gladys Cartwright, she bought me up after my mum died. She runs a guest-house in
Trafalgar Road. The Nest , it's called."
Sue left me to finish my drink while she went to telephone the police station. When she
returned, she brought a sticky bun for me.
"Inspector Randal knows your Gran, so he's coming here himself to help you find her."
She smiled, "You have friends in high places, Belinda."
-♪-♫-♪
I had known Mr Randal since my childhood. He was an occasional visitor to The Nest ,
sometimes bringing guests, sometimes responding to phone calls from Gran about
doubtful characters staying or enquiring. Gran called him Archie, and he always stayed
for a cup of tea and a chat.
He was what I think is everyone's image of a policeman - tall, clean-shaven and smartly
dressed, and he carried himself with a confidence that said "I can handle anything".
He had been offered, and declined, a post as Desk Sergeant; I recall him telling Gran
that he would go mad if forced to stay indoors. But eventually he had promotion thrust
upon him, and found himself tethered to a desk. Even so, he used every excuse to get out
and "do some real policing".
A patrol car pulled up outside the hall doors, and I saw Mr Randal climb out and enter
the hall. Sue escorted him to where I was sitting. He smiled when he reached me, and sat
on the bench beside me. "Hello Belinda, how is your ankle?"
I showed him my bandaged leg. "It's ok, thank you - hurts a bit, but not as bad as it did."
"Good. I've brought you a walking stick, to help take your weight." He produced a
battered old stick with a curved handle. "It has been in our 'Lost Property' cupboard for
over a year - I had to clean the dust off it."
He grinned. "Now, I'm trying to find out where your Gran is. She's not in the guesthouse, which is still flooded, but we don't know where she's gone."
He saw that I was crestfallen. "Don't worry, we will soon find her. In the meantime, you
need somewhere to stay. We have a list of people who have volunteered to offer a
temporary place for folks like you who can't get home. I'm going to take you to a couple
who have said they would prefer young people; their kids have grown up and moved
away, so they have a spare bedroom."
When this scene plays through in my memory, as it frequently does, the next line echoes
round and round my head. As he helped me to my feet, he said: "Mr and Mrs Grainger."
-♪-♫-♪
I wasn't sure about living with strangers, but I could see there was no other way; and it
was only temporary, until Gran came home. Mr Randal took me in his police car to a
smart semi-detached house on the outskirts of town, on the Caister road. There I met the
Graingers, a middle-aged couple. Mrs Grainger ("Call me Phylis, dear.") was a small,
frail-looking woman with her hair tied up in a bun. She wore a long, pleated, tartan skirt,
a plain blouse and a thick woollen cardigan. She seemed nice, when she greeted me with a
hug and a lot of 'oohs' and 'aahs'.
"Ooh, look at the poor thing," she cooed, holding me at arms length to study me. "Don't
worry lovie, we'll soon get you clean and warm and a hot dinner inside you, won't we
Jack?"
"Yes, dear," her husband replied, absently. "Course we will."
He was a plump man, with thinning brown hair pasted back with a shiny, greasy
dressing. In his yellow-stained fingers, he cupped a ragged, smoking cigarette. He wore an
old, sleeveless pullover, dotted with holes, over a grey shirt, and grubby corduroy
trousers. He stared at me in a strange way, as though assessing me, weighing me up."
Inspector Randal left, and Phylis led me upstairs to her cosy bathroom, chattering all the
way,
Gran." She helped me to a chair and brought me a mug of hot, milky cocoa to drink. As I
sipped it, she asked me about Gran and where I lived.
"I think we need to let the police know where you are," she suggested. "Your Gran will
be sure to get in touch with them. What's her name?"
"Gladys Cartwright, she bought me up after my mum died. She runs a guest-house in
Trafalgar Road. The Nest , it's called."
Sue left me to finish my drink while she went to telephone the police station. When she
returned, she brought a sticky bun for me.
"Inspector Randal knows your Gran, so he's coming here himself to help you find her."
She smiled, "You have friends in high places, Belinda."
-♪-♫-♪
I had known Mr Randal since my childhood. He was an occasional visitor to The Nest ,
sometimes bringing guests, sometimes responding to phone calls from Gran about
doubtful characters staying or enquiring. Gran called him Archie, and he always stayed
for a cup of tea and a chat.
He was what I think is everyone's image of a policeman - tall, clean-shaven and smartly
dressed, and he carried himself with a confidence that said "I can handle anything".
He had been offered, and declined, a post as Desk Sergeant; I recall him telling Gran
that he would go mad if forced to stay indoors. But eventually he had promotion thrust
upon him, and found himself tethered to a desk. Even so, he used every excuse to get out
and "do some real policing".
A patrol car pulled up outside the hall doors, and I saw Mr Randal climb out and enter
the hall. Sue escorted him to where I was sitting. He smiled when he reached me, and sat
on the bench beside me. "Hello Belinda, how is your ankle?"
I showed him my bandaged leg. "It's ok, thank you - hurts a bit, but not as bad as it did."
"Good. I've brought you a walking stick, to help take your weight." He produced a
battered old stick with a curved handle. "It has been in our 'Lost Property' cupboard for
over a year - I had to clean the dust off it."
He grinned. "Now, I'm trying to find out where your Gran is. She's not in the guesthouse, which is still flooded, but we don't know where she's gone."
He saw that I was crestfallen. "Don't worry, we will soon find her. In the meantime, you
need somewhere to stay. We have a list of people who have volunteered to offer a
temporary place for folks like you who can't get home. I'm going to take you to a couple
who have said they would prefer young people; their kids have grown up and moved
away, so they have a spare bedroom."
When this scene plays through in my memory, as it frequently does, the next line echoes
round and round my head. As he helped me to my feet, he said: "Mr and Mrs Grainger."
-♪-♫-♪
I wasn't sure about living with strangers, but I could see there was no other way; and it
was only temporary, until Gran came home. Mr Randal took me in his police car to a
smart semi-detached house on the outskirts of town, on the Caister road. There I met the
Graingers, a middle-aged couple. Mrs Grainger ("Call me Phylis, dear.") was a small,
frail-looking woman with her hair tied up in a bun. She wore a long, pleated, tartan skirt,
a plain blouse and a thick woollen cardigan. She seemed nice, when she greeted me with a
hug and a lot of 'oohs' and 'aahs'.
"Ooh, look at the poor thing," she cooed, holding me at arms length to study me. "Don't
worry lovie, we'll soon get you clean and warm and a hot dinner inside you, won't we
Jack?"
"Yes, dear," her husband replied, absently. "Course we will."
He was a plump man, with thinning brown hair pasted back with a shiny, greasy
dressing. In his yellow-stained fingers, he cupped a ragged, smoking cigarette. He wore an
old, sleeveless pullover, dotted with holes, over a grey shirt, and grubby corduroy
trousers. He stared at me in a strange way, as though assessing me, weighing me up."
Inspector Randal left, and Phylis led me upstairs to her cosy bathroom, chattering all the
way,
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