I could not convince the girls at my new school about Granny. In the photograph I had of her in the dorm, she stands behind me and my brother George. She’s smiling, her hand on our shoulders, her expression protective and fond, her large bosom comfortable-looking. The other girls told me she looked like a darling.
‘But she’s not,’ I told them. ‘Not all grannies are cuddly!’
‘You’re right there, Cora,’ Rose said. ‘My grandmama’s a terror, always slapping our hands if we ask Cook for anything. But mine looks like a dragon, whereas yours looks like a sweetheart.’
‘I’ve met yours, Rose,’ Estelle agreed. ‘Her Marcel wave is so sharp it could cut you, and her knees are worse.’
There was a lot of giggling at that, and I…
