Bill makes you think of your Nanna, Letchworth Nanna. We grouped our grandparents geographically, Letchworth Nanna, Hitchin Nanna - you get the idea.
They were all lovely, your grandparents, although Letchworth granddad did like to sit quietly pickled most of the time. Each to their own. By the time you were at Cambridge, he had gone on. As Letchworth was only three stops from Cambridge, from time to time you would take the train down and see Nanna, just to say hello. Quiet, not flashy, with little glimpses of determination. One day she did the kindest thing you've ever seen - not being flush herself - and gave you £100. You said no, she snorted and ignored you. You said, OK, but don't do it again, this isn't what I've come for, which seemed to please her. Then you said, you know I'll probably spend it on beer? She said good, although maybe with an eye on the empty armchair in the corner. Then, no doubt, you walked the dogs over the common, to see family, Amy and Sonny, pottered back to the train station, three stops back to a different world, connected only by an unbreakable intersection on the venn diagram.
Later, Nanna moved to be nearer younger family, your Aunt. One day you visited her there, away from her old network, away from Amy, Sonny, the common, away from the empty armchair. Things didn't seem to be working out. You helped her to get her boiler working. She made a cup of tea, then sat down, looked around the place, said, I never see anyone, I don't know what the point is, there's no point to me anymore. Shocked, you can't remember your response. You hope you told her you loved her.
Years later again, she moved once more, nearer to your mum and brother, and it seemed to work out better this time. Then, at the end, cancer. You visit and sit in her little room in the home with her. She is a husk now and she says - I wish someone could end it for me. Gently you explain that that person would get into terrible trouble. She knows, and sighs.
