The Words

His grandmother reaches out and the boy catches a smell of lavender. He holds his breath as she puts her letters on the Scrabble board: 

R

O

S

E

She can feel the petals in her hands, feel the warm flesh of a rose between her fingers. She wants him to win, but she doesn’t want him to go.

The boy exhales, wondering why she’s wasted the ‘S’. He sits back in his chair, studying his letters. There’s a word. It isn’t here yet, but he can feel it coming. For now, this will have to do:

	C
R	O	S	E
	O
	K

His grandmother teaches him how to cook succulent Ragu and tells him it is ‘never bolognaise’, she teaches him the magic of fresh tiramisu and he learns that it’s all in the cream. They bake their own biscuits and warm their hands on the soft-scented dough.

His grandmother shifts her letters and rubs her nose. He’s up to something, she thinks. He never moves that quickly unless he’s up to something. Her options are few so she bides her time, sacrificing her ‘S’ to triple her ‘C’.

					C
				R	O	S	E
					O
					K
D	A	N	C	E	S

The boy and his sister laugh at their parents dancing to ‘Grease’ in the kitchen, but they copy their moves, and when the boy tries to teach his grandmother how to wriggle and slide she resists, laughing.

He has a seven-letter bomb building up on his pallet but she’s too canny to give him the space he needs. The boy dips a biscuit in his tea and holds it there long enough for it to grow soft without breaking off. 

He sends out a smaller word, waiting for the right space to appear: 

Her father was Bavarian and there are wolves in her forests. She tells tales of her youth in the woods, hunters and flowers and treachery; her grandson wants to protect her from the wolves, but he’s reached his final word.

She misses her turn, and he pounces.

					C
				R	O	S	E
					O
	T				K
D	A	N	C	E	S
	L
T	E	L	E	G	R	A	M

   

‘You know what that means?’ she asks.

‘…it’s like an e-mail…like a letter…’

‘It means,’ she says. ‘That you have to go.’

 ‘Why can’t I stay?’

‘You’ve won. Now you’re going home.’

‘But you’ll be alone! We can play more games, we can cook, you can teach me—’

‘Go home. It’s sick outside.’

Her eyes are glistening. 

‘But thank you for asking.’

He knows he’s wrong but she has to push him to the door with the firmness in her voice. ‘Go,’ she says. ‘Play against your mother and show me the words, write me some sentences. Write me a telegram and send it in an e-mail. Write me a story.’

ENDS