Hens Reunited by Lucy Diamond Page B

dilly-dally on the way! )
    Her nan smacking ten bells out of the lad who’d tried to grab her fat black handbag one day at the shops. As a kid, Georgia had been thrilled and terrified all at once.
    Her nan’s mince and tatties, steaming gravy, the best Sunday roasts in the world, slabs of fruit cake on plates with doilies.
    Oh, and of course her nan’s cuddles, her great matronly bosoms squashing against you, the smell of ironing and clean laundry . . . For a moment it was as if Georgia were eight years old again, awkward and scrawny with her dark plaits and scabby knees.
    She hoped her nan didn’t die. She hoped this stroke didn’t wreck the end of her life. Somehow or other, she’d expected her nan to soldier on for ever, stumping back from the SPAR with her tinned peaches and evaporated milk, stirring stew at the stove and making that annoying high-pitched tuneless crooning noise, sinking a glass of bitter in the pub . . .
    She gave herself a shake. She was getting horribly sentimental. Nan is not going to die , she told herself firmly. People recovered from strokes, didn’t they? And knowing Nan, she’d be up and about in no time. A trooper, that’s what she was. A hardy lass, tough as old hobnails. She’d outlive the lot of them.
    The more Georgia thought about it, the more reassured she felt. Her mum was a bit of a drama queen, all said and done. Georgia could already imagine her nan rolling her eyes about it. ‘She never went and sent for you, did she?’ Nan would exclaim indignantly to Georgia. ‘By ’eck, she’ll have me at death’s door next! Well, I’ve got news for her . . . I’m not going anywhere!’
    Georgia opened her eyes with a start as someone sat down beside her. Typical! She’d managed to get a double seat the whole way from Euston and now, just one stop before she had to get off, some Stokey bugger had got on next to her. Well, he’d better not start doing that leg-spreading thing men always seemed to do on trains – oof, must just widen my legs to make room for my gigantic cock, darlin’ – that type of nonsense.
    She looked pointedly out of the window as he ferreted about in the bag by his feet, pulled out an iPod and book, stood up, dumped various bits and bobs on the seat, heaved his bag up to the luggage rack . . . For heaven’s sake! Could the man not keep still for two minutes?
    She glanced over, her best withering expression on her face ready to stun the hell out of him, and then stared. Oh fuck. It wasn’t, was it? Surely not.
    It was. Andy Milton, from her class at school. Gob of the North, her dad had always called him. She shut her eyes and pretended to be asleep so that she wouldn’t have to get into conversation with him. She wanted this trip home to be as swift and uncomplicated as possible. Straight there, spend a bit of time with Nan, and then back home to the real world, to her proper life. No getting bogged down with details of schoolmates from her past. No chit-chat with people she couldn’t care less about.
    She sat there as still as she could manage, hoping to remain unnoticed, while the train rumbled and shuddered along, rocking her on her seat as it thundered through the fields and villages, past houses and roads.
    Andy Milton, eh. She hadn’t thought about him for a while. Best friend of Carl Finchley, Georgia’s first teenage love. Better not to think about Carl Finchley either though. He was water under the bridge. Best left there, too.
    The train rattled to a stop. Here at last. She got to her feet, pulled her sunglasses on. All the better to fool you with, Andy. She really didn’t want to get into a long-time-no-see chat with him. Not him, not now, not ever. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, squeezing past his knees. He was plugged into his music, tapping his feet, not paying any attention. She felt the warmth of his jeaned leg as her own bare calf brushed against it. It was a hot day, she had a short skirt on and flip-flops. She reached up for her bag,