Granny and the Homeless Boy

"It's supposed to be Summer!"

I shouted into the wind, complaining to no one but the unheeding sky-gods. I made sure I wasn't actually talking to myself like a madwoman when the lone jogger puffed past me, my only companion of the dawn. I wrapped my windcheater tighter around me as I pounded along the promenade in my expensive sneakers, getting my daily exercise over early. I grumbled at the blustery ocean breeze that swept the wide walkway.

As I came up to the playpark at the end of my walk, I tugged from my pocket a bread-bag of crumbs and crusts and the knowing pigeons and seabirds were suddenly upon the ground before me. I scattered the morsels and chuckled at their brazen antics as they stole and fought and pecked. Then I chuckled at my chuckling, that this was what passed for entertainment in my sad, lonely life. Since the recent death of both my little dog and my old, fat cat, this was the nearest I got to having pets these days. Just an old woman with only wild birds for company. Suddenly the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end and a suspicion made me turn around and scan the area. Sitting atop a wooden playhouse was a young man, he smiled at me as we locked eyes. This was the first time I saw that warm, shy smile. I'll never forget it. He waved and I took a few steps closer.

"What're doing up there?" I asked, stuffing the empty bread-bag back in my coat pocket while the birds continued their feeding frenzy.

"Was just waiting to watch the sunrise."

I looked around, the rising sun was barely making an impression through the white coastal mists.

"Bit of an anti-climax," I suggested.

He looked confused. I stepped closer and rested my hands on the railings of the play area.

"I mean disappointing," I said, "Too misty."

"Oh. Yeah."

He nodded in agreement then climbed off the roof of the wooden toy house and came down the slide like a child. He went to walk away but I called him back and we stood facing each other on either side of the railings.

"Did you..." I hesitated, "Were you here all night?"

"Um?"

I looked him over, this young unshaven man with scruffy hair, his clothes all ruffled and grubby. He looked as adorable as an under-fed stray.

"You haven't got anywhere to go, have you?" I asked.

He looked at me with that darling confused frown again. This was when I noticed his eyes. They were the colour of the sky: a vivid summer blue veiled by a chill mist; they held me quite entranced. Then he smiled that heart-lifting smile again and I knew we'd become easy friends.

"I have some coffee brewing, at home, if you'd like...?"

"Don't like coffee. Thanks though."

"Tea then. Hot chocolate. Let me give you something to warm you up. Some food?"

He leapt over the railing and grinned at me. I turned to walk and he followed.

"Yuh-yuh-yuh-you're..."

His words seem to fail him so I turned around, encouraging him to speak.

"You're taking me home with you? How do you know I won't...?"

"Won't what?"

"You know, ah-attack you? You don't know me."

"Why would you attack me?"

He shuffled his feet and stared at his grungy sneakers, the unseasonal wind whipped our hair into our faces.

"Look," I said, "You don't seem like a violent lunatic. And you'll see I don't have much worth thieving. And if you need a little money, just ask. I'll be happy to help."

"But what about...?"

I grasped the meaning of his unasked question.

"And you certainly don't look like a sex maniac. Your eyes are too kind. You have lovely eyes."

He smiled shyly at my compliment.

"And even if you were a pervert," I continued as I turned to take the path back around the buildings away from the shore, "I'm sure I'm far too old and wrinkly to provoke any notions of that kind."

I glanced at him as we walked and he seemed to be looking me over just as I had assessed him. He smiled as he caught my glance and looked away. Had he been staring at my legs? No, of course not, that'd be ridiculous.

*******

My house was small and crowded with the detritus of a life spent being a wife and mother but now festering in a slow decay of isolation. I hadn't the heart to chuck out all these meaningless items left behind, it would somehow mean it all hadn't happened; I feared I wouldn't exist if I didn't live with the memory of coats that will be never be worn hanging behind the door where I hung my own. I kicked off my shoes and added them to a box full of shoes worn by people who longer needed them. My new friend closed the door behind him and stood peering about my cluttered but comfy home.

"S'nice," he said.

"Thank you."

"Yuh-yuh-you're very ku-kind."

"Thank you. Don't be nervous, honey. Phew, isn't it good to be out of that wind!?"

I walked through to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. I offered him one of the two seats but he remained standing, looking a little lost and unsure.

"So, tea? Chocolate?"

"Um, hot chocolate'd be great. Th-thanks."

His speech bore the phrasing of an under-educated, working-class man and he seemed only to stammer when agitated. I gave him a warm, accommodating smile to help him feel at ease. I caught him looking me over again and I smoothed down my dress self-consciously. It had been a long time since I dressed thinking anyone would see me and I was wearing a shapeless shift from which the pattern had faded to almost nothing. I became aware that the pair of tan pantyhose I was wearing that day had a ladder up one of my calves and holes in the reinforced toe. I looked down and wiggled my exposed toes. The boy followed my gaze down and laughed but then caught himself and frowned. I made him a frothy chocolate the way my children had always enjoyed them then I sat down at the small dining-table with my coffee. The boy prowled up and down, blowing across the top of his froth.

"What's your name?" I asked.

He rolled his eyes and groaned.

"What?" I laughed, "Is it a tough question?"

"People call me Jetski."

"Do you ride jet-skis?" I asked slowly.

"I've never even seen a jet-ski."

My confused look dragged an explanation out of him. He sat down at the table with me.

"My name is Polish. Puh-people can't say it."

"It can't be that complicated, surely?"

He then pronounced a sound that I'd never heard before, a single stream of alien consonants that did indeed seem to end in the word 'jet-ski'. It had sounded like he was chewing on a mouthful of wasps. I laughed and he took offence. I laid my hand on top of his on the table.

"Sorry. Really. Say again for me, slower."

"Zdzisław Dzieci," he said with deliberation, like he was speaking to a moron.

I tried to say it and mangled it into an incomprehensible mess.

"Jetski's fine," he sulked with a gorgeously kissable bottom-lip.

Kissable? Did I just think that? What was I thinking? What did I think was going to happen here? Why have I invited this cute, dirty boy into my home? I noticed him watching me ponder so I collected my thoughts and introduced myself. He was sullen as we sipped our drinks.

"What does your family call you?" I asked.

He looked through me with a coldness that gave me goosebumps.

"Je-J-J-Je-Jetski's fine," he repeated eventually, looking downcast.

We talked only a little. All I could find out was that he was eighteen and he'd been in the city only two months. He wouldn't say where he was from or why he had left there; he clammed up tight when I asked about his family. He asked me not a single question about my life.

"Erm, well, that was..."

His words deserted him again as he plonked down his empty cup. He looked like he was readying to leave and, for some reason, I didn't want that.

"You probably didn't sleep much, in the park?"

He shrugged.

"Get some sleep here. My couch is very comfortable. I've often fallen asleep on it"

He was assessing me suspiciously, like I was the lunatic risk.

"You'd let me... sleep here?"

"You look exhausted."

I could see him thinking it over, he was half convinced but was obviously troubled by accepting charity. I decided to decide for him.

"So that's settled then," I said, standing and taking our two cups to the sink, "But first I think you should make use of my shower."

"Urm..."

"No offence, but you are a little stale, a bit whiffy. Come on," I took him by the hand and lead him to my narrow staircase, "Up you go."

I shooed him up the stairs and he smiled as he obeyed my inescapable maternal mode. I showed him the bathroom and where the towels were kept and assured him he could use any of my shampoos and soaps.

"Afterwards, I'll wash your clothes while you sleep then I'll feed you before... well, before you head off to wherever it is you're going."

"Wash my clothes?"

"There's no point getting clean if you're just going to put on dirty clothes."

"What'll I wear?"

"My daughter left some clothes here, they'll do."

"Guh-guh-girl's clothes!?"

That look of suspicion flashed across his face again and I enjoyed watching him think I was some whackadoodle wanting to dress him up like a little girl.

"She had lots of joggy bottoms and teeshirts," I smiled reassuringly.

He still looked worried and confused so I gave him another broad smile, waved my hand to gesture 'It'll be fine' and exited, closing the door behind me.

I loitered, feeling jittery about having a man in the house. The random stranger-ness of Jetski didn't bother me in the slightest, I felt zero threat from the shy, sweet boy. I grinned as I heard the shower burst into life beyond the closed bathroom door.

*******

When my youngest daughter left home, we'd turned her bedroom into an office for my husband and now it was just a jumbled storeroom of odds and ends that gathered dust. I found her box of clothes she didn't want but had forbade me donate to charity. I rummaged until I found a couple of teeshirts and a pair of suitably masculine sweatpants. Another box caught my eye. I pulled it out of the pile and opened it to retrieve a photo album. Right at the front of the book of snapshots were a few pictures of me at the same age as Jetski. I took one with me as I carried the clothes into my bedroom. I gazed at the young me and then at my reflection in my mirror; the comparison was not favourable.

'Come on, don't be too harsh on yourself!'

I tried to look objectively. In my early seventies now, time was certainly taking its unavoidable toll. The girl in the photo had legs longer than a midsummer day, hair that gushed in golden waves and skin that shimmered with electric youth; she looked elastic and gymnastic, she looked like she could leap the moon. She had the whole world at her feet and her whole life ahead of her. I stiffened my back, standing upright before my haggard reflection and assessed the damage of the passing decades. Held in place by the supporting tightness of nylon hose, my tummy wasn't too flabby, my bum wasn't too saggy. Three children had expanded my hips so I carried a wide berth but my legs were still long and... desirable? What was happening? Why was I hoping that I was desirable? I sat on the bed and looked at my care-worn face and at the rosy-cheeked glamourpuss in the photograph.

'I remember that dress. Dad said it was way too short but that was why I loved it. All the boys couldn't help looking.'

It was back before I'd married. Before I became a mother, before the subtle slide towards middle-age, before discovering I was over-the-hill and descending into obscurity. Nobody needed me anymore. Jetski spoke and his voice made me leap out of my skin. Seeing my alarm, he stepped back, looking very apologetic. He looked so serious that I forced a pleasant laugh out of my jazzed nerves.

"You made me jump! I forgot you were there," my heart was thumping, "I've lived alone for so long."

It dawned on me that a damp, almost nude, eighteen year-old was standing just outside my bedroom. He was holding on to the towel he'd wrapped around his waist. I could smell my raspberry scented shower gel emanating from his glowing skin. His smooth, flawless skin. His begging-to-be-touched skin. He had tufts of tightly curled chest-hair that trailed down in a single path, down... beneath the towel.

"What were you looking at?" Jetski asked.

"Oh? This."

I held up the photograph and beckoned him closer. He stepped into my bedroom.

'Calm down' I told myself, 'You silly old fool.'

But somewhere in the rear of my thinking, a cackling voice: 'Come into to my parlour, said the spider to the fly.'

"Is that you!?" Jetski asked, grinning, peering at the photo and keeping a tight grip on the towel.

"You recognise me?"

"Of course, you've haven't changed much."

"Oh, shush, child. I was your age in that picture. It was a long, long time ago."

I looked again at the old lady in the mirror with the crow's feet around her eyes and the hollowed out cheeks, once so full and, well, cheeky.

"I can still see you, her... in you," he said, "You're still a babe."

I was shocked, I looked at him blinkingly. He stepped back, thinking maybe he'd insulted me. He seemed genuine. I ran my fingers through my bedraggled grey hair and actually blushed. At my age! Blushing like a schoolgirl! I cleared my throat and offered him my daughter's clothes. He took them from me and walked back into the bathroom, I followed him and picked up his stinky, clammy clothes from the floor. The smell was unpleasant but I made no comment.

"Thank you. For this. For everything."

He looked so earnest, standing there in my steamy bathroom clutching the bundle of clothes to his chest. I tried my absolute best not to allow my eyes to roam over his skinny near-naked body or linger on his scrubbed-clean, kissable flesh. Just for a moment I imagined putting my lips to his flat, furry belly then kissing a path downwards. He watched me with those sky-blue eyes and I... I walked downstairs in a bit of a haze. I threw his clothes into my washing machine and added plenty of detergent and my most aromatic conditioner. I leaned back against the kitchen counter and utterly failed to remove from my skull the image of the naked, handsome man that was in my home. I looked in the hallway mirror. A 'babe' he'd called me. He came down the stairs, clothed now but barefoot and with damp, unkempt hair. I showed him into my lounge and ushered him on to the couch while I went to find blankets and pillows. When I returned he was already fast asleep. I woke him enough to slide a pillow under his head. I lay a blanket over him and went to make some soup.

'You're old enough to be his mother. Old enough to be his grandmother!'

Somewhere in my busy thoughts a voice of immoral dissent argued: 'You're never too old.'

*******

The soup simmered. I was glad I had some fresh bread to offer my guest. It felt wonderful to be cooking for someone again, to feel useful. I poured myself a coffee and remembered it was time for my midday teevee shows. I stood in the centre of my lounge wondering where I was going to sit, the couch being my only seat. The boy looked so thin, I thought, I could maybe squeeze even my fat ass down next to him. I held my coffee cup high and clambered up before flomping down next to his feet. I stretched out my legs and wriggled into a comfy snootch to watch my shows. Sometime later, Jetski stirred and twisted around so that his face was now close to my feet. I smirked as his hot breath tickled my soles. The trashy soaps I was addicted to absorbed me and I hadn't noticed when his hand had moved to cradle my legs like a pillow but I did notice when his mouth and nose pressed against my nylon-clad foot. I should wake him, I reasoned. The poor boy doesn't want to be snuffling my stinky old tights. The sleeping lad crushed his nose against my foot and I felt deeply shocked at how arousing it was to have him breathe in my intimate scent. I should definitely wake him up.

'But what would you say? He'd be terribly embarrassed. He'll turn away again in a minute and then he'll be none the wiser. Just let him be.'

Good point. I agreed my with my logical reasoning and wiggled my toes as he snuffled me. I lied to myself that my delight had nothing to do with how my re-awakening sexuality was stirred by his close proximity. He dragged his nose across the stretchy, sweat-stained material then changed position so he was turned away from me again. I sighed with relief but I was also disappointed it was over; that was the most intimate embrace I'd had in years. My breasts were swollen, my long-deactivated nubs were hard and throbbing. There was a moisture between my legs that comforted me; I was not the dried-up old prune I'd thought I was. I was breathing hard. An hour later he woke; he looked at me fuzzily and I smiled reassuringly at his surprise at finding me sharing the sofa. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. We watched the end of the show together then I switched it off.

"Hungry?" I asked.

"I'm sooooo hungry," he replied, looking at me like a playful, expectant pup.

I sat at my dining table and ladled out the soup into two bowls. I gave him a bowl and a plate of buttered bread then Jetski surprised me. Leaving the spoon untouched on the table, he went and sat cross-legged on the floor. I watched as he began to devour his food. He glanced up and caught me staring; he looked suddenly sorrowful, like he was in trouble.

"What're doing down there?" I couldn't help but ask.

"What?"

Jetski, with soup-soaked bread dangling from his mouth, looked around him like I'd asked a blindingly stupid question.

"Wouldn't you rather sit up at the table with me?"

"Oh," he returned to his slurping, "Always eat on the floor. Always have."

"You didn't have a dining table at home?" I asked.

"Nope. Just sat in front of the teevee."

So there we sat, him on the floor and me at the table, eating and chatting. I could get no further details from him about his curious past but, as he gobbled three bowls he told me he'd been staying for a while with some 'hippy types' in a communal squat in the centre of the city. He spoke fondly about a girl who was friendly to him and I was jealous. Jealous! Silly old bag.

"But they got all snidey," he explained, leaning his back against a cupboard and rubbing his full belly, "And I, er, I said some mean things and they wanted me to go. They didn't say it, but I could tell. Can tell when I'm not wanted."

"What did you argue about?"

"They were all up in my face. Asking me loadsa questions about stuff that's none of their damn business."

I took that as a warning shot across the bows to cease poking my nose in. His washed clothes were now bumbling around in my tumble-dryer, the noise of the vibrating machine filled the silence.

"They'll be dry soon," I said.

"Right. Thank you, again."

The thought of him leaving was disturbing me. I watched the dryer's small timer and wished it was moving slower in its countdown. We were both gazing over at his clothes cascading around behind the round plastic window.

"Do you have plans?" I asked, "I mean, if you... if you wanted... you could stay. Here I mean. For a while."

"Really?"

"I like you. I like having you here."

"I don't know," he said slowly.

"Having company has made me realise quite how isolated I've become. I'm sounding desperately lonely, aren't I?"

He stood and looked down at me with those glittering sapphires. Breadcrumbs and drops of soup had splattered my daughter's teeshirt.

"You mean it?" Jetski frowned at me like he suspected some kind of trick.

"Of course, for a few days, or whatever."

He held out his hand. I was taken by surprise but then I shook his hand, formally sealing the deal.

"I'll work for you," he announced.

"Oh, you don't have-"

"No, I will. I'll, I'll... do whatever you ask."

"You could maybe help with the gardening?"