I parked in the hospital car park, and gently woke Trish. “Come along, sleepy head, we’re going to see Grampa Tom.”

She yawned and stretched, then looked around in bewilderment. “Where are we, Mummy?”

“In the hospital car park, we’re going to see Grampa Tom, remember?”

“You were telling me about having babies…”

“Yes and it was so interesting, you fell asleep.”

“Oh, sorry, Mummy.”

“It’s okay, any time you can’t sleep, let me know and I’ll describe in great detail, the embryology and development of the mammalian reproductive system–it’s positively riveting.”

Trish laughed and then said, “Mummy, I need to wee.”

“Okay, let’s get inside and find the toilets.” The air was cold outside the warmth of the car and Trish wasn’t the only one who needed to wee. The only advantage was that I could watch her while she was in the ladies. No I didn’t actually watch her, I watched that she wasn’t hassled by anyone. She wasn’t, the event was completely un-eventful; except, I realised I hadn’t put any makeup on.

I’d forgotten the fruit, so we had to buy some from the hospital shop at a rip off price, the only consolation being that it helps fund the ‘Friends of Portsmouth Hospitals’, who raise money for various things for the hospital and local health providers. It’s always struck me as strange that a nationally funded healthcare system needs charities. But then, as more and more things are funded by the NHS–such as my surgery–I suppose I shouldn’t complain. Instead, I also donated the change I was given–the money, not plumbing–duh!

Trish carried a magazine for him, a magazine for herself, and a comic for Mima. I bore the bag of grapes and apples. We went in the lift, squeezing in behind some rather large people. We made faces at each other and held hands. I kept thinking about the article on blushing I’d seen on the net by Adam Hart-Davis, who seems a bit like an oversized schoolboy, as he suggested farting in a crowded lift as the cause of embarrassment.

Mind you, as the presenter of a programme called, What the Romans did for us, tends to suggest he’s a plonker anyway. The Romans didn’t do anything for us Brits, they did loads for themselves and our gains were spin offs from their needs. Okay, they built roads, but only so they could supply logistics to support their legions, or transport goods back to Rome.

The same sort of logic should suggest, the British Empire was a good thing, teaching those fuzzy-wuzzies a thing or two, eh Carruthers? We did much the same as the Romans, provided a transport system and a civil service–oh, and gave them a common enemy.

Much of the problem in places like Africa, is from the artificial boundaries the western imperialists set up, enabling the emergence of monsters like Mugabe. Still at least we were better than the Belgians, who chopped off the hands of anyone who upset them. Imagine trying to feed yourself without hands, or grow food or even wipe your own bum! It’s monstrous, who’d have thought the Belgians capable of such things? I wonder how Tom Boonen would manage to ride his bike without hands?

Tom was sitting by his bed, not looking at all sick or unwell. “Hello, Grampa,” called Trish trotting to see him. She hugged him and kissed him on the cheek, “I’m going to school.”

“Well, well, aren’t you a big girl.”

“Yes, Mummy organised it.”

“You mean you needed a middle man?”

The term obviously threw her because she looked disconcerted then said, “No a man didn’t do it, Mummy did.”

Tom realised his joke had fallen flat. I’d explain it later, how he was complimenting her as being capable of doing it herself, probably without my help. A slight exaggeration, she’s clever, I’m grown up–in places.

I handed him the fruit, and she gave him the BBC Wildlife Magazine. He thanked her and she then took it back to ‘read’. “Mummy, what’s a dromouse?”

“Do you mean, dormouse?”

“Oh yes, silly Trish.” She blushed and held up the magazine.

Pictures of cuddly dormice as Wildlife Magazine, previews the forthcoming documentary on one of Britain’s shyest mammals, presented by Portsmouth academic, Cathy Watts.

I glanced at the photos, I’d taken half of them and Des the rest. The article was by Erin. Okay, it was a good way to stimulate interest but, she could have told me she was doing it. I’d have something to say about that to her later.

I handed back the magazine to Trish and she did manage to read some of it to Tom, who was most impressed. I perched on the bed watching them interact, it made me feel really good, they were so natural together. Tom was brilliant with small children, I remember him with Pippa’s two, he was good then, as was Simon; but with Trish and Mima, he transcended the caring elderly adult, he became their granddad. It was lovely just to watch both of them getting so much out of each other’s company. Maybe I should just push off for a couple of hours and collect Trish when they both got tired. Pity I couldn’t lie down on the bed, it looked so inviting–until I recalled my own stay in one of them in this hospital after the attack on me.

“What are you thinking of?” asked Tom, noticing my vacant look.

“Nothing,” I shrugged but blushed. He knew damn well what I was thinking about. I’d looked at the bed and felt the scar on my chest through my top. It didn’t need Sherlock Holmes to deduce my thoughts.

“Trish’s new school, has she told you about it?”

“I was just going to, Mummy,” she asserted. “I’m going to go to St Claire’s Convent School for Girls.”

“A convent school?” said Tom, looking at me in surprise.

“It was the only one with spaces.”

“But you’re not…”

“They seemed happy about that, they may need the money.”

“Oh, it’s a private school?”

“Yes, Grampy, Mummy has to pay. Will I need to get a job to help?”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at this, but it’s only a hundred or so years ago that children her age were exploited for work in factories and mines.

“I think I might need someone to polish my desk everyday,” said Tom.

I shuddered, a five year old playing about in his sacred space, even I didn’t touch anything there. “Is that wise, Daddy, perhaps we should find somewhere with less to disturb or lose?”

“No, she can start tonight or tomorrow,” he continued and I found myself wishing he’d shut up, he wasn’t the one who’d have to deal with the consequences of mixed up papers or worse–lost ones.

“You’ll have to get Mummy to show you how to take things off my desk and lay them on the floor, then put them back in the same place after.”

“Oh, goody. Mummy, I have a job. How much will you pay me, Grampy?”

“I thought you were going to do it for nothing,” Tom teased the youngster. Trish’s face fell.

“How can I help Mummy pay for my new school?” Trish dropped the magazine and came over to hug me. “I’m sorry, Mummy, I won’t be able to help you, after all.” She started to cry a little and I held her.

“That’s all right, I expect we’ll manage somehow. Don’t cry, sweetie, Gramps was only teasing you.”

“Yes, I’ll give you fifty pence a day for keeping my desk polished; and I’ll give Mima twenty five pence for helping you.” At least he was remembering there were two children, but this was going to be a five minute wonder and creator of great chaos, and it would be me he shouted at, for allowing it to happen.

“If Mummy keeps a tally of how many times you’ve done it, and done it properly mind you, not a quick flick with a duster, but real beeswax polish, not these spray things, then I’ll settle up each weekend, once I’m home from here.”

“I’ll give you a pound each week, and the same to Mima, if you both keep your bedroom tidy.”

“Oh thank you, Mummy.” She stopped crying and hugged me.

“Where’s my hug, it’s going to cost me a load more than a pound to get my desk polished all week.” Trish went over and hugged him.

“Thank you Gramps,” she kissed him on the cheek, which he loved.

“Right, Little Miss Beeswax, let’s get home and see what Mima has been up to. Bye, Daddy.” I kissed him on the cheek, so did Trish and we left.