“Mummy, why haven’t I got a granny?”

Angelie has just put her tired little Eugenia to bed—and not a moment too soon: her daughter has been moany and cranky ever since she came home from playing with her friend Paula. And she seemed so chirpy when Angelie dropped her off at Paula’s mum earlier this afternoon!—dropped her off so that she could go and get her hair done…

Paula is Eugenia’s best friend at nursery school. They’re always so happy playing together. What could have gone wrong?

Eugenia is still wailing loudly. Something has evidently upset her badly, and it’s not going to be at all easy to get her to go to sleep. Should I leave her to cry herself to sleep? reflects Angelie—or should I give in and go and give her a cuddle?

Angelie decides to give her another ten minutes. Firmness. That’s my way with the little ones. Don’t yield to the child’s whim and spoil them. She remembers how her own parents dealt with her, and she’s determined to follow their good example. Eugenia is being ‘difficult’—that’s all. She’ll cry herself to sleep, given time.

Fifteen minutes. Eugenia is still sobbing. Neil won’t be home from work for another half hour—how late he’s working, these days! If he is working, that is! Angelie should be getting ready the dinner for both of them, but she can’t focus on it.

And all because of an annoying four-year-old child who won’t quieten down!

Angelie stomps into the bedroom. Be firm with the child, that’s what’s needed. Eugenia looks up at her mother and checks herself in mid-sob. She reaches up with her arms. All Angelie’s firmness, all her anger, melts away in an instant.

“What is it, my little one?” Softly and soothingly. “Why are you crying all this time?”

“Mummy, Paula’s Granny came round while I was playing with her. She’s awfully nice. She brought a lovely cake, and Paula and me both got two slices. It was super! And I haven’t got a granny to bring me cakes and nice things. Paula says she’s got two. The one who came, she’s her mummy’s mummy, Paula says. The other one is her daddy’s mummy—she says she’s called Grandma, and she’s also really nice.

“And I haven’t got neither…” Eugenia bursts into yet another piteous wail.

Angelie checks herself. Has she been too harsh? Eugenia is certainly very precocious for her age. She can read as well as any six- or seven-year-old, and has made pretty good progress with her handwriting. She can count up to thirty with great ease, and can even manage simple sums. All in all she’s the star pupil at nursery school, and will be just as much a star when she starts at Primary next September.

Is it time to treat her as a ‘young adult’ and to talk with her about difficult subjects?

Angelie makes up her mind. “Let me explain why you haven’t a granny, my dear. Both your grannies are dead.”

“Yes, Mummy, I know they’re dead. You’ve told me before. But … why are they dead?”

Angelie hesitates. “My mummy—your granny—she died when I was expecting—when you were still in my tummy.”

“How old was she when she … died, Mummy?”

“Fifty-four years.”

“That’s not many years, Mummy. Paula told me that her granny is seventy-one years old. And seventy-one is a lot bigger number than fifty-four—I know that, Mummy, I’m very good with numbers. Mrs Barker always says so!”

Mrs Barker is the teacher at nursery school. She has a very high opinion of Eugenia’s abilities—higher even than that of Angelie and Neil.

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“You’re quite right, my dear. Most people live till they’re eighty or more. But my mummy had cancer.”

“What’s cancer, Mummy?”

“Cancer is a horrible illness, ’Genia. It makes lumps grow all over your body.”

“Like when I got chickenpox?”

“Much worse than chickenpox. It hurts terribly.”

“Oh dear, Mummy! Did Granny hurt terribly?”

“No—not after they gave her special medicine to stop the hurting. And they had to cut off her—” Angelie stops. She has let her talk run away from her, and she’s let out more than she meant to—but it is too late.

“They cut off her what, Mummy?”

Angelie thinks hard: how much will her daughter understand? Better come out straight. “You know what these are?” she says, pointing to herself.

“Your titties, Mummy.”

Angelie is aghast. “You mustn’t say naughty words like that, Eugenia,” she snaps, furious. “Who told you that word?”

Eugenia is sobbing once again. “It was—Ollie—Mummy—I’m sorry.”

I might have known, Angelie realises. Paula’s older brother Oliver. Capable of just about any mischief imaginable. She has always been hopeful that Oliver will be away at school whenever she takes Eugenia around to play at Paula’s—but she can’t be sure he’s out of the house every time.

“ ’Genia, my darling, it’s not your fault—but please don’t say that word again. The proper word is ‘breast’. And if Oliver teaches you any other words that you haven’t heard before, just you tell me.” Oliver is going to be a problem, she reckons. Should she slip a word to his and Paula’s mum?

Eugenia has stopped sobbing. She looks thoughtful, as if she has something on her mind. How grown-up she seems!

“Mummy, there’s something else Ollie told us. About the goblins. There are lots of goblins in the woods, he says. He said that if a goblin spits on you, a nasty lump will grow on your skin. Is that what happened to my Granny? She went into the woods and a goblin spitted on her ti— … on her breast?”

“It’s ‘spat’, not ‘spitted’. And that’s nonsense, ’Genia my dear. There’s no such thing as a goblin. It’s just a fairy-tale.”

“Oh, but Mummy, Ollie says there are! He wanted to take me and Paula down to the woods to show us, but Paula’s mummy said no.”

“Well thank God for Paula’s mum, that’s all I can say. And you’re not to go anywhere with Ollie without his mum’s permission, do you understand?”

“Yes, Mummy.”

“All right. Will you go to sleep now?”

“But why don’t I have another granny? Daddy’s mummy?” Eugenia persists. Angelie realises that she’s not going to be shot of this question that easily. But explaining about Neil’s mother is going to be much more difficult. Neil had a difficult childhood: his mother, a single parent, was a drug user who neglected him, and overdosed when he was in his early teens. He was then sent to foster parents but didn’t get on with them. It was only when he and Angelie met and got engaged, that he was able to settle down. And at least he’s hold­ing down a steady—if not very well-paid—job at present. Luckily he hasn’t inherited the heroin habit from his mum … but Angelie wishes he could cut down on the drinking…

Definitely Eugenia is far too young to understand such things. Neither Angelie nor Neil have ever spoken of them to her.

“I’ll have to explain to you about Daddy’s Mummy when you’re bigger, Eugenia dear. Do you understand?” she said for the second time that evening.

“Yes, Mummy.”

“And I promise, I’ll think of a way we can make up for you not having a granny. Promise! Now go to sleep.”

“All right, Mummy.”

Goblins and Grandmas!—Angelie thinks to herself when she’s alone in the kitchen, slicing up onions and carrots. Whatever will be troubling the little one next? Should I do something about it? What would Neil suggest? Can’t really put a stop to this ‘goblin’ idea, but perhaps we can come up with some sort of ‘surrogate grandma’…

I do wish Neil would come home sooner, she muses. I need to talk to him about these things. Why is he so late? Is it that Veronica again? she wonders.

She has had her suspicions for a long time…