Blimey, she just lost it
“Who’d even want you, you miserable old bat? You’re nothing but a burden. Dragging yourself around, stinking up the place. If it were up to me, I’d… Ugh, but I have to put up with you. I can’t stand you!”
Polly nearly choked on her tea. She’d just been video-calling her grandmother, Eleanor Margaret, who’d stepped away for a minute.
“Hold on, love, I’ll be right back,” Eleanor had said, groaning as she got up from her armchair and shuffled into the hallway.
Her phone stayed on the table, camera and mic still on. Polly had switched to her computer screen, but then—it happened. A voice, coming from the hall.
At first, Polly thought she’d imagined it. She might’ve convinced herself of that if she hadn’t glanced at the phone. The sound of a door creaking—someone had entered the room. First, unfamiliar hands appeared on-screen, then a side profile, then a face.
Olive. Her brother’s wife. Of course—the voice had been hers.
The woman walked over to Eleanor’s bed, lifted the pillow, then the mattress, rummaging underneath.
“Sitting here sipping tea… I wish she’d just drop dead already, honest to God. What’s the point dragging it out? You’re just taking up space, wasting air…” Olive muttered.
Polly froze. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe.
Olive left soon after, never noticing the camera. A few minutes later, Eleanor returned, smiling—but her eyes stayed empty.
“There we are. Oh, I meant to ask—how’s work? Everything all right?” she asked, as if nothing had happened.
Polly gave a stiff nod. She was still processing what she’d heard, fury simmering inside her, screaming at her to march over and throw that brazen cow out. Right now.
Eleanor had always seemed unshakable to Polly. Not the shouting sort—just that unyielding, teacher’s sternness, honed over decades in school corridors, dealing with children and their parents.
She’d taught literature for forty years. Pupils adored her—Eleanor could make even the driest classics fascinating.
When Grandpa passed, she didn’t collapse, but her once-perfect posture sagged. She went out less, fell ill more. Her smile wasn’t as bright. And yet, she never lost her spirit. She believed every age had its joys and still found ways to savour life.
Polly had always loved her grandmother for the unshakable safety she offered. With her, no problem felt insurmountable. Years ago, Eleanor had given her grandson the summer cottage to pay for university, and her savings—every last penny—to Polly for a mortgage.
When Polly’s brother, George, complained about rent after his wedding, Eleanor insisted they move in. “It’s a three-bed, plenty of space. And it’s company for me—what if my blood pressure spikes or my sugar drops?”
“Anyway, it’s lonely alone. Young folks could use the help,” she’d say cheerfully.
George was supposed to look after her, while Polly handled groceries, medicine, even the utility bills. Her salary allowed it, and her conscience wouldn’t let her stand by. Sometimes she gave cash, sometimes bank transfers, sometimes—knowing Eleanor’s habit of hoarding for emergencies—she just brought food herself: fish, meat, dairy, fruit. Anything to keep her grandmother well-fed.
“It’s your health. Especially with your diabetes,” Polly would say.
Eleanor would thank her but avoid her eyes, as if ashamed to be a bother.
Olive had struck Polly as slippery from the start. Honeyed words, sickly politeness, but her eyes were cold. Assessing, devoid of warmth or respect. Polly stayed out of it—not her marriage. She only asked Eleanor if things were okay.
“We’re fine, love,” Eleanor would insist. “Olive cooks, keeps the place tidy. Young still, of course, but she’ll learn.”
Now Polly understood: it was a lie. Olive played the meek lamb in company, but when no one was watching…
“Nana… I heard everything. What the hell was that?”
Eleanor went still for a second, as if she hadn’t heard right, then looked away.
“Oh, it’s nothing, Polly. Olive’s just tired. George is always on those work trips. She snaps sometimes.”
Polly narrowed her eyes, studying her grandmother like she was seeing her for the first time. Every new wrinkle stood out, the lively spark in Eleanor’s eyes now gone. The stubbornness remained, the exhaustion too. And something new—fear.
“Snaps? Nana, did you hear what she said? That’s not snapping. That’s—”
“Polly…” Eleanor cut in. “It’s no trouble to endure it. Blimey, she just lost it. She’s young, hot-headed. I’m old—I don’t need much.”
“Right. Nana. Don’t take me for a fool,” Polly snapped. “Either you tell me everything now, or I get in the car and drive over. Your choice.”
Eleanor went quiet for a few seconds. Then she sighed heavily, shoulders slumping as she adjusted her glasses. The illusion shattered. Before Polly wasn’t the strong, ever-cheerful woman—just a cowed old lady.
“I didn’t want to say,” she began. “You’ve got enough on your plate. Why drag you into this? I thought it’d sort itself out…”
The truth about Olive ran deeper—and dirtier—than Polly imagined.
The young couple had arrived with suitcases and grand plans to save for a mortgage in six months. At first, Eleanor was happy. The flat felt alive again—footsteps in the morning, the kitchen always buzzing. There was chatter, laughter, even if strained. Olive made an effort early on: baked scones, brought tea, even took Eleanor to the doctor a few times.
Then George left for a work stint, and everything changed.
“First, she just got snappy,” Eleanor explained. “I thought it was the missing George. Then she started taking food for herself. Said you bought too much anyway. Said she needed it more—young, might have a baby soon. Well, what could I say? I don’t need much—losing weight’s no bad thing.”
Turned out, Olive had wheedled money from Eleanor—cash Polly had given for medicine. Olive bought herself a mini-fridge, installed it in her room, and put a lock on the door. All the best food Polly brought ended up there.
The money was never repaid. Instead, Olive started hunting down Eleanor’s secret stashes and pocketing them.
“She took the telly. Said it’d ruin my eyes,” Eleanor whispered, wiping tears with her fingers. “Turns the Wi-Fi off sometimes too. I’m… I’m like a prisoner here.”
“Did you tell George?” Polly asked.
Eleanor shook her head.
“She said if I did, she’d… tell everyone I made her lose a baby. That I stressed her out. I don’t even know if she was ever pregnant. But she said they’d all pity her—and hate me.”
Polly didn’t know what to say. She wanted to scream, curse Olive into the ground. Instead, she spoke calmly.
“Nana, no one gets to treat you like that. No one. Not young, not old, not family, not strangers.”
Eleanor broke down sobbing. Polly soothed her, but inside, she knew—a storm was coming. She wouldn’t stay silent.
Half an hour later, Polly and her husband were driving to Eleanor’s. She filled him in on the way. He was sceptical at first, but he knew better than to doubt her.
Eleanor answered the door immediately, twisting a dishcloth in her hands, avoiding their eyes.
“Oh, you should’ve called! I’d have put the kettle on…”
“We’re not here for tea, Nana,” Polly said firmly. “We’re here to sort this. Where’s Olive?”
“She went out. Doesn’t tell me where… Well, come in, since you’re here.”
Polly headed straight for the kitchen. The fridge was nearly empty: a couple of expired milk cartons, a dozen eggs, a jar of pickles covered in mould. The freezer held only ice.
She glanced at her husband, and he nodded. They moved fast. Olive’s room, as expected, was locked—a cheap, flimsy thing. One twist of a screwdriver, and it was open.
The mini-fridge was there, stuffed with the yoghurts Polly had brought days ago. Cheese, cured meats, even fresh tomatoes and cucumbers.
Polly seethed but kept her cool. She and her husband set up in Eleanor’s room, waiting.
Olive returned half an hour later.
“Who messed with my door?!” she shrieked, fists clenched.
But then Polly stepped out.
“I did.”
Olive froze, eyes darting. A beat of silence, then she defaulted to her usual venomEleanor never had to fear being alone again, because from that day forward, Polly made sure her grandmother always knew just how loved and valued she truly was.
