What Not to Do If You Turn Invisible

‘I’ve never ’ad a suntan,’ he said. ‘Never even been abroad.’

If he was hinting that he’d like to come and use it, then I was going to pretend that I hadn’t understood. Even he wouldn’t be crass enough to ask directly.

‘I was just wonderin’, seeing as I’m helping you home with it, if I could come and use it sometime?’

Hmm. Subtle. I found myself totally unable to say no. It would have been kind of rude, and he was so pleased, he babbled on – suggesting when he could come round, and saying how tanned he’d be – and I just switched off, heaving the thing along the pavement.

Fifteen sweaty minutes after that, I’d cleared a space in the garage. I propped the sunbed upright and covered it with the sheet, it kind of blended in with the old wardrobe, a pile of boxes and other garage junk destined for a church bazaar.

Gram and Lady were out. And it’s not like we ever use the garage for anything other than storing stuff.

In fact, given that Gram hardly ever even goes in the garage, I thought I might just be able to get away with not telling her at all. The very last thing I wanted was her forbidding me to use the sunbed, either because it’s ‘common’ or unsafe, or uses too much electricity, or … I dunno. Gram’s odd sometimes. You can never tell.

Boyd was red-faced and sweating.

‘You’ll get a nice tan,’ he said.

He was kind of making conversation and it was nice of him to help me carry it, so I said, ‘Yes. Erm … thanks for the, you know …’

There was one of those awkward silences before I said, ‘Soooo, erm … I’d better, you know … erm …’

And he said, ‘OK, erm … I’ll be … you know … erm … See you.’

That was it. He was off.

By the time Gram let herself in the front door, I was trying not to gag as I forced down my daily dose of some Dr Chang His Skin So Clear (it had been three weeks with no sign of improvement).

‘Hi, Gram!’ I said when she came into the kitchen.

Gram looked at me with an expression that could easily have been suspicion. Was I being a bit too enthusiastic?

But perhaps I was overthinking stuff.

Later on, I remembered Elliot Boyd’s round, sweaty face and it occurred to me that I was very close to him and he didn’t smell.

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The next day, Saturday, I was dying to try out the sunbed, naturally, but I couldn’t do it because it was Great-gran’s hundredth birthday and there was a bit of a party on in her care home.

I say ‘party’ like it was going to be a wild affair, but of course it wasn’t, seeing as me and Gram are about the only family Great-gran has. There was a cake, a few people from church, the other residents and the staff of Priory View, and that’s about it.

Great-gran has been in this home as long as I can remember. Apparently, when Gram first moved back to the north-east, Great-gran was still living in a big old house in Culvercot on her own. Great-grandad had died years ago, and then Great-gran fell over in her kitchen. (Gram always says ‘she had a fall’, which I think is odd. I never ‘have a fall’. If I ever fall over, I just ‘fall over’.)

The house was sold and turned into flats and Gram moved here. The home overlooks a little beach and the ruined old monastery on the clifftop.

It’s very quiet, and very warm. As soon as you go in the big front door, the cold seafront breeze outside is swapped for a hot, stuffy blanket of air that manages to smell both super-clean and a bit dirty at the same time. The clean smells are disinfectant and wood polish and air freshener; the less-clean ones smell of school dinners and other stuff that I can’t identify, and probably don’t want to.

Along the thickly carpeted corridor is Great-gran’s room. The door was half open. From inside I could hear the cheery Geordie nurse talking to her loudly.

‘There you are, Lizzie, sweetheart. You’re gerrin’ some visitors now, you lucky birthday girl. No misbehavin’ now, eh? Ah’ve got me eye on yuh!’

The nurse winked at us as she left the room, and once again, I found myself baffled as to why they talk to her like that. I wanted to follow the nurse and say, ‘She’s a hundred! Why are you talking to her like she’s six?’

But of course, I never do.

Great-gran’s name is Mrs Elizabeth C. Freeman. Gram told the staff that she was never called Lizzie, and would prefer to be called Mrs Freeman but I think they thought she was being snooty.

I know I shouldn’t dislike going to see Great-gran, but I do. It’s not her. Great-gran is a sweet and harmless old lady. No: what I dislike is me. I hate the fact that I find going to see her a chore, that I get bored, that I feel uncomfortable.

What’s worse is that that day should have felt special. One hundred years old? That’s pretty awesome. I was wishing I felt more stoked about it.

Then Gram started talking. It’s nearly always a monologue, because Great-gran so seldom responds, preferring instead to look out of her window and nod, a little half-smile sometimes appearing. Sometimes she even falls asleep. She looked tiny in the big armchair, propped up with cushions, her little head with wispy white hair emerging from a woollen blanket.

‘So, Mum, how have you been keeping? Have you been out for your walk today? It’s some blustery weather out there today, isn’t it, Ethel?’

‘Yes, very windy.’

Usually I’m not required to say much, and I just sit in the chair by the window, looking at the waves and watching the minutes tick by on the clock next to her bed. I’ll chip in a comment now and then, and sometimes I’ll sit next to Great-gran and hold her thin hand, which I think she likes because she responds with a weak squeeze.

That’s basically how it went this time too, except at the end when something weird happened.

After a few minutes of talking, Gram said something about heating up the sausage rolls and she left to go and talk to the kitchen staff.

That’s when Great-gran turned to me and for a moment her watery, grey eyes seemed to sharpen and she was really looking at me carefully. At first I thought she was looking at my spots and I shifted my position ready to move away, but she gripped my hand a little tighter so that I stayed, and I realised she wasn’t studying my skin. Instead she was looking right into my eyes, and she startled me by coming out with a whole sentence.

‘How old are you, hinny?’

(Hinny is Great-gran’s name for me. It’s an ancient Geordie term of affection. I reckon Great-gran is the only person left alive who uses it. She never calls me Ethel. Only hinny.)

The words came out as a very quiet croak – the first that Great-gran had spoken to us all morning.

‘I’m nearly thirteen, Great-gran.’

She gave a tiny nod. Gram had come back into the room, but Great-gran hadn’t seen her.

Great-gran said, ‘Tiger.’

Just that: ‘tiger’.

And then, with a huge effort, she said, ‘Pss-kat.’

I leant in a bit and said, ‘What was that?’

Again, slightly more distinctly: ‘Tiger. Pussycat.’

She pointed to me and gave a weak smile.

I looked up at Gram, and her face had gone white. I mean really – the colour had drained from her face. And then, as if she’d caught herself out, she went super-loud, super-energetic, and all ‘Right, the party is about to begin. Let’s sort you out, shall we, Mum? I’ve told them we don’t want the sausage rolls straight away …’ And so on. A long monologue of busyness that was obviously meant to distract from what Great-gran had just said.