Annie and her Granny

By Susannah Donim

Steve’s mother runs the secretive Transformations consultancy. This means he has a number of interesting jobs over the years.

Chapter 5 – The Substitute

Steve has qualms about the propriety of the favour his mother asks of him, but he has no idea of where the deception will lead.

“No, no, no!” I shouted in the car on the way home. “It’s a mad idea; completely bonkers; and almost certainly illegal!”

“You said you’d think about it,” my mother said accusingly.

“Well I couldn’t turn Dolly down flat, not with her lying half-dead in hospital!” I realised that was a poor choice of words. I turned to Annie. “Sorry, I…”

“It’s OK. You were being insensitive for emphasis. I get it,” she said sarcastically.

“It’s perfectly feasible,” my mother argued. “You know our system can make you an exact replica of Dolly…”

“I know it can,” I said, before realising I had walked into her trap, “but that isn’t the point.”

“It’s one weekend of your time…”

“It’s not that I couldn’t do it,” I blustered, “I just shouldn’t. It’s unethical, immoral…”

My mother thundered on as if I hadn’t spoken.

“…and you like playing Bridge. You’re always saying you don’t get to play enough against decent opposition. These will be the cream of the County players,” she continued as if I hadn’t spoken.

“Women players.”

“Are you saying that women Bridge players aren’t as good as men?”

“No!” Was she accusing me of sexism now too? “It’s wrong because it’s the Ladies’ Pairs and I’m not a woman!”

“But you could be, for one weekend, easily. No one would ever know.”

“I’d know. It’s cheating!”

“How? We’re not arranging any secret signals or fixing the cards somehow. You’d be in exactly the same position as every other lady player.”

I paused for breath. Could she really not see this was wrong? Or was it me?

“Why can’t you just find another woman to play with?”

“That wouldn’t be allowed. Dolly and I qualified as a pair. If either of us is unavailable, the first reserves get to play.” She paused, trying to think of another persuasive argument. “You know… I bet you wouldn’t even be the first!” she added, slyly.

“Huh?”

“I bet some male Bridge player has entered a Ladies’ Pairs somewhere in disguise, if only for a bet. If it comes to that, I’d wager some woman has entered a Men’s Pairs somewhere.”

“Oh, you’re just making things up now,” I said. “Are you really so determined to play in the County Final that you’d enter with your son in drag?”

“You wouldn’t just be doing it for me. It would be for Dolly too.”

Ouch! Low blow.

“She was really upset at having to let me down – as she saw it,” she hastened to add. “I just hope it doesn’t affect her recovery…”

My mother’s hypocrisy was breathtaking. This was such a completely stupid idea, so why did I feel like I was losing the argument? I turned to Annie in desperation. She had been uncharacteristically silent throughout.

“Oh, just say yes, Steve,” she said, to my horror. “You know you’ll give in eventually.”

I stared out of the window for the rest of the journey, not trusting myself to say anything more. But if I had to do this, by God I would get something out of it; something my mother didn’t want to give.

* * *

She really didn’t like my condition.

“There’s a reason we no longer see your father,” she said.

“Don’t care,” I said. “I have the right. Besides, you’re obviously in touch with him.”

“I haven’t seen him for years,” she insisted. There might have been a slight, almost undetectable, emphasis on ‘seen’.

“But you know how to contact him. You must do, as he owns this place, not you.” She didn’t deny it. “So that’s my condition: I get to meet with my father, or you find someone else to dress up as Dolly next weekend. Maybe Fred will do it.”

“This is blackmail,” she said weakly.

“It certainly is. Well spotted. So what?”

She sighed. “All right, I agree – but I’m not telling you anything till after the Ladies’ Pairs Final.”

“So you’re asking me to trust you to keep your word?” She actually looked shocked, and maybe a little hurt. “All right, I suppose,” I conceded.

“If you do this for me, I’ll tell you how to find your father,” she said.

“You mean you’ll tell me why he left? Why you two split up?”

“No, that story isn’t mine to tell. I’ll help you meet him. If he’s prepared to talk to you, I’ll fill in the gaps afterwards…”

I think she understood that if she reneged on her promise, she wouldn’t see me for dust. Now there was just the little matter of becoming a seventy-year-old tea lady for a weekend’s Bridge.

* * *

I grudgingly admitted that it might take me a few days to get used to being Dolly so the process started on the Wednesday morning. As usual I had to undergo an all-over waxing, but it was less painful than previously because it was only three weeks since I’d had it done to become my mother. Or maybe I was just getting used to it. Or maybe my body was taking the hint and not producing as much hair.

My 3D image was already stored in the computer, so I didn’t need to go through the embarrassing naked photography session again. Dolly’s image had been taken earlier too, while we were building up the database, so it was easy enough to print the prostheses required to turn me into her. So there I was, sitting in front of the mirror in Vera’s room, wondering how I let myself get talked into these things. I was pretty sure it wouldn’t have happened if Annie hadn’t joined the opposition party.

First, Vera marked guidelines on my face using the computer-printed template, as she had when turning me into my mother. This enabled her to position the facial prostheses correctly. She could then glue them on in the right places to turn me into Dolly. There were far more pieces than there had been for my Ingrid disguise, because Dolly’s skin was thinner and floppier and more wrinkled. This, plus the fact that she was significantly overweight, meant that any differences in our ‘facial architectures’ – which fortunately were not too noticeable anyway – were easily concealed.

I now had wrinkly bags under my eyes and many deep lines across my face. Dolly’s plumpness gave me a double chin, not a scrawny neck, so the prosthetics easily hid my Adam’s apple.

It was fascinating, though grisly, to watch my twenty-year-old male features slowly turn into those of a seventy-year-old woman. Dolly’s face sat incongruously between my male haircut and my male body.

Vera pronounced herself finished and Sharon appeared carrying a grey wig. It was styled in a short bob which Dolly liked because ‘it kept her hair out of her eyes while she was working and was no trouble to look after’. Sensible lady. With my wig cap and wig in place, Sharon began applying some limited make-up. Dolly never wore much when she was working.

The most unpleasant part was when she painted my teeth. She cranked the chair down so I was practically horizontal, like at the dentist’s.

“Dolly still has her own teeth; well, most of them,” she said. “But yours are too white for an old lady, especially one who smoked heavily for years. I don’t think she ever did anything to remove the nicotine stains, and although they do fade after a while, her teeth will always look a little yellow.”

Sharon picked up a photograph and studied it carefully. When she put it down on her table I saw that it was of Dolly with a wide, friendly smile. It was true that her teeth were not her best feature.

Sharon dipped her fine paintbrush in a pot of yellow paint and bent over me to get a closer look.

“This would last about a month, I think,” she said. “But I can remove it whenever we want with the right solvent.”

“Thank Heaven for that,” I said, when I was allowed to speak. “This is only till Monday morning, remember.”

Sharon changed brushes and picked up a little pot of some black substance.

“I’m putting a little shading down the sides of the front teeth and on the gums. At Dolly’s age there are gaps between her teeth as the gums have receded. I obviously don’t want to do any real damage, but we need to make your smile look like that of a seventy-year-old. That means I need to fake broken and cracked teeth.”

She kept referring back to the photo as she worked.

“I think that’s pretty close,” she said eventually. She returned the chair to the upright position so that I could see myself in the mirror.

Once again, the Transformations 3D printing process and Sharon’s hair and make-up skills had triumphed. There was no doubt at all who I was looking at in the mirror: Dolly Thompson, elderly cleaner, tea lady, and aspiring Bridge champion. It wasn’t that bad, I decided. I knew from her old photos that Dolly had been something of a beauty in her youth, and she had aged quite well. Then I tried smiling and immediately wished I hadn’t. My teeth looked awful.

The rest of me still needed to change. No one had asked Dolly to be photographed naked, but Annie was able to provide her measurements in detail, and we had access to all her clothes, so it wasn’t too difficult to create a prosthesis for me. It was a one-piece like Jennifer’s, though fortunately not as fat. Also it had long sleeves and came down to well below my knees, to provide realistic seventy-year-old skin all over me. So it was more like a lumpy, wrinkled full body suit, cut off at the wrists and ankles.

“I’ll have to put age make-up on your hands, of course,” Sharon said.

With Vera’s help I struggled into the suit, and tried to remain calm while she did the usual embarrassing thing with my testicles and penis. When she finally had them securely tucked away, she dropped a major bombshell.

“Since you’re only going to be wearing this from now till Monday morning, I hope you won’t mind that I’ve applied the adhesive all over you. It’s always better to secure your prosthetics firmly, and as you know, it controls your perspiration.”

“You might have told me first!” I protested.

“You might have said no,” she grinned.

She started the lengthy process of smoothing my new skin down all over me.

“Just lie back and enjoy a little massage,” she said. “We need to smooth out any air bubbles. They’d look really weird, like you had something alive and moving under your skin.”

When she was satisfied that the adhesive was set and my elderly, wrinkled skin was as well attached as possible, she went over to her desk and passed me my new underwear.

“As for your impersonation of Ingrid, these are new, and the same brands and sizes that Dolly wears – Annie checked her drawers and went into town to get them for you. She also picked up a few of Dolly’s clothes from home.”

I dropped down off the table, my new droopy breasts swinging uncomfortably. I immediately felt the weight of Dolly’s excess flesh. I was now heavier than Ingrid, though still lighter than Jennifer. The key difference was that my new body was soft and floppy. I would need some hefty shapewear to achieve a decent figure.

“You’d better not move like that from now on,” said Vera sternly. “A seventy-year-old lady can’t jump down off a table! In future, you need to let someone help you with any energetic physical manoeuvres – and stairs. Dolly has bad knees. You know she walks with a stick, don’t you? Actually she can manage without it well enough. To be honest, I think she uses it to get sympathy.”

I’d forgotten that. She didn’t use it round our offices, claiming it just got in the way, but she leaned on it when she went in and out of the church hall where the Bridge Club met, because there were some awkward steps. Inside she would always claim one of the stationary pair seats, propping her stick up against the wall.

I acknowledged Vera’s warning but still got my bra and knickers (tight, voluminous granny panties) on as quickly as possible. This was far worse than seeing myself in my mother’s naked body, awkward as that had felt. I wondered if Dolly had realised the implications of asking me to impersonate her?

I stopped and examined my new body in Vera’s wall mirror. Apart from the all-over wrinkles, and the flabby cellulite from my waist down to my knees, the main thing I focused on were my breasts. Milly’s had been small and perky; Jennifer’s had been massive, but still firm; my mother’s a little smaller and only slightly saggy; but Dolly’s clearly needed a stiff bra to have any respectable shape at all.

Vera saw the horrified expression on my face.

“Growing old is the worst,” she said, “until you consider the alternative.” I was still speechless. “It’s just as bad for men, you know,” she continued, not unkindly, “just in different ways. But of course, you tend to die off earlier, so you’re spared the worst of it. And in fact Dolly’s not in bad shape at all for her age. It’ll be another ten to fifteen years before the rot really sets in for her.”

“What happens – happened – to…” I found I couldn’t frame the rest of the sentence. I raised my hand to my chest.

“Your dangly boobs?” she said, without a hint of embarrassment. “It’s mainly falling oestrogen levels after the menopause, and maybe also some sun damage from UV radiation. The skin and connective tissue of the breast becomes less hydrated, making it less elastic. With loss of elasticity, the breasts lose firmness and fullness and can develop a stretched, looser appearance. It’s not uncommon to change your cup size as you age. Dense breast tissue is replaced by fat as the aging process continues. I understand it was quite a clever bit of programming by Fred to make the tissue density vary for elderly flesh.”

He hadn’t mentioned he’d done that! I held up my arms, fascinated by the soft flesh that dangled loose. I pushed my left underarm with my right hand; it wobbled like jelly in a polythene bag.

“That’s called a batwing,” Vera said helpfully. “Most women over forty have them. Fat and sagging skin starts appearing under your upper arms. It’s a combination of factors: increase in overall body fat mass, more of which localizes to the arms in some women; loss of muscle mass in the arms, causing the skin to hang more loosely; and the loss of elasticity in the skin.”

I had quickly got used to my three previous female impersonations and even started to enjoy myself a bit, but this was different. I was very fond of Dolly, but actually being her…! Oh well, at least it would only be for a few days, and I wouldn’t have to show myself in public much – just the weekend playing Bridge with strangers. Then I remembered Harriet Bairstow would be there. She was always condescending to Dolly. I hoped I’d be able to keep my temper. It would be a dead giveaway if frail, seventy-year-old Dolly knocked Harriet on her ass – highly popular, no doubt, with everyone who knew her, but a dead giveaway.

Vera gave me a pair of thick support tights. I sat back down on her stretcher table to pull them on. They were tight (hence the name?) but surprisingly comfortable.

“These are great,” I said to Vera, “they feel like they’re holding in all the wobbly wrinkled flesh on my bum and thighs.”

“I think Dolly wears them for her varicose veins actually,” she said. “They improve the blood flow by putting pressure on your legs to help the blood vessels work better. The arteries that take oxygen-rich blood to your muscles can relax, so blood flows freely; and the veins get a boost pushing blood back to your heart.”

I must have started to look bored, but Vera was unrepentant.

“Any old lady with bad legs would know this stuff, so you should too,” she said. “To summarise, the tights keep your legs from getting tired and achy. They can also ease swelling in your feet and ankles as well as help prevent and treat varicose veins. They may even stop you from feeling light-headed or dizzy when you stand up. The blood keeps moving, so it’s harder for it to pool in your veins and make a clot.”

“OK, got it,” I said, impressed by Vera’s detailed anatomical knowledge. “Can I get dressed now?”

She sighed. “The impatience of youth…” she began, and laughed. “…and of old age, apparently. You’ll need a slip first.”

She handed me a cream underslip. I pulled it on over my head and tried to wriggle into it, but it was tight and I found it difficult to get it over my bust. Vera helped me, pulling it down to my waist, but then even she struggled to get it over my huge butt.

“You’re going to need a lady’s maid to get dressed in the morning, aren’t you? I hope Annie will volunteer.”

“I imagine she’ll insist on it.”

“Good! Here – pick a dress.”

Annie hadn’t brought much of a choice: three, all with long-sleeve, high-collars, and floral designs. I chose a dark blue silk dress, with a design of yellow flowers and green leaves. It was quite pretty actually.

“Let me help you on with that, Dolly,” said Vera, emphasising my new name. “I know you’ll struggle with zipping it up.”

“Thank you, Vera dear,” I said, trying to get into character.

The dress came down to mid-calf on me. It would have been nearer the ankles on the real Dolly.

She had also provided a pair of shoes from the company wardrobe. They were the kind Dolly would wear, but in my size and with low heels. I stepped into them.

“You need to stay sitting down as much as possible so that no one notices you’re taller than you should be.”

“Hopefully I won’t meet anyone who knows Dolly that well,” I said.

I discounted Harriet because she was so self-obsessed, she probably never noticed anything about anyone else.

“Right – accessories,” Vera said.

While Vera was decorating me with bracelets and a pretty pendant necklace, Sharon returned to attend to my hands. She began by painting my nails in a subdued pink – Dolly’s favourite. Then she stuck thin latex strips all over the backs of my hands and painted them an aging darkish brown colour. Then she added additional darker blemishes.

“Liver spots,” she said to my enquiry. “They’re harmless and quite common in older people.” She was copying from photographs again. “Annie took these yesterday on her phone. I’m trying to make exact copies of the spots on the real Dolly’s hands – just in case some sharp-eyed observer notices. Very unlikely, I know, but it costs nothing to be precise. And don’t worry: none of this will wash off.”

I hadn’t been worried till she said that. For how long would I have the hands of an elderly lady? Vera slipped an old wedding ring and a cheap engagement ring on the third finger of my left hand.

“That means you two are engaged,” Sharon quipped. “No – married!”

Vera chuckled. I glowered.

“OK, you’re done,” said Vera. “I’ll call your mother for her inspection.” She passed me a slightly worn tan handbag. “Annie picked this up from Dolly at the hospital. She doesn’t need it there. It’s full of her – now your – belongings, so make sure you look after it.”

“I’ll put the make-up I used on you in there too,” said Sharon.

I opened it and found an array of feminine paraphernalia including some tissues (clean), a hairbrush, and Dolly’s purse, in which were her driving licence and car keys. She drove a ten-year old Mini Cooper very slowly (though she was probably a safer driver than Fred in his monstrous Jag). Not that she drove anywhere much these days, just between her home and the office or the shops. If I did take it out, I would have to remember to drive like a little old lady.

There was a pair of glasses in there too. I put them on. They didn’t seem to make any difference to my vision.

“How will Dolly – the real Dolly – manage without these in hospital?” I asked.

“No, she still has her own specs; those are plain glass copies,” said Vera. “Don’t let anyone else get their hands on them. They’ll see they’re not prescription.”

My mother came in as I was rummaging in ‘my’ handbag.

“Come on then, let’s have a look at you,” she said, leading me back to Vera’s mirror.

There I was again: unmistakably Dolly in every way.

“Oh yes, that’s really good,” my mother enthused. “You’ve done a marvellous job on her, girls.” She turned back to me. “Now, Dolly, you’ve got three days to get into character. For a start you need to stoop. You have a bad back and sore knees, so you should bend forward a little and hunch up your shoulders.”

She took hold of my shoulders and pulled them down into what she judged to be the right posture. Vera came over.

“Here,” she said, “this will help.”

She handed me Dolly’s stick. I took it in my right hand and leant heavily on it.

“Other hand!” my mother said testily. “Now, hobble around a little. Try to copy Dolly’s walk, if you can.”

It took me a while but eventually the ladies agreed I was duplicating Dolly’s stiff gait well enough.

My mother looked at her watch. I instinctively tried to check mine, but of course found an unfamiliar ladies’ watch on my wrist. I struggled to decipher its tiny face. I could barely see the minute hand, let alone the hour. How on earth did Dolly manage with this? I guessed she thought of it as jewellery, rather than as a timepiece. She rarely needed to know the time anyway these days.

“Lunchtime,” Mum announced. “Let’s go up to the flat. There are a few more things we need to discuss before you bump into any of the other staff here.”

* * *

My mother and I shared a light lunch in the flat’s kitchen. She started on her instructions straight away.

“Your big problem will be your voice, obviously,” she said, through a mouthful of cheese on toast. “Fortunately, Dolly’s is deep for a woman and hoarse, because of her age and the years of smoking. You should try to say as little as possible. As long as we’re together, I can do all the talking and explain that you’re getting over a cold and have virtually lost your voice. If you have to speak, just try and keep it to a throaty whisper. Try it.”

I thought for a moment. What did Dolly sound like?

“The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog,” I rasped.

“Yes, well, that phrase is a typing test rather than a vocal exercise, but never mind. That wasn’t at all bad actually. It was strained and breathy but quite feminine. It even sounded a bit like Dolly’s Norfolk accent. You’re quite the mimic, aren’t you?”

I accepted her praise graciously. God knows it happened seldom enough.

“Now the only people who know about the deception apart from you, me and Annie, are Vera and Sharon. Oh, and Fred. I’d like to keep it that way, so if you bump into any of our other staff during the rest of the week, you’re really Dolly, all right?”

“Don’t worry,” I said in my normal voice, “I’m going to stay up here till it’s time to get into the car to Peterborough.”

“Actually I think you should go downstairs and show your face to the catering staff and the other cleaners. You need to practise with a real audience, and where it won’t be a disaster if you make a mistake.”

“But won’t they expect me to start cleaning and making tea?”

“Well they know you were taken to hospital at the beginning of the week. We’ll tell them you’re still convalescing, and that you only came by to say hello, and show everyone you’re on the mend. You can serve the afternoon tea in the common room, if you like.”

“But I don’t know where everything is in the kitchen. People will be suspicious if I don’t know the routines.”

“You’re right,” she admitted. “I’ll ask the kitchen staff to set everything up in the common room, then you can just serve it. Let’s go down now and you can say hello to everyone. Just remember to look frail and sickly.”

That would be no problem.

* * *

The rest of the staff were glad to see Dolly back. They knew she’d been taken ill, but not the details, and they didn’t get any more from me. I just pointed to my throat and smiled apologetically, showing my decrepit teeth. My mother stayed with me and we did the rounds of the staff areas. She explained that I would serve morning coffee and afternoon tea as usual but that would be all for the moment, as I was still convalescent. She gave instructions for the catering staff to make up the afternoon trolley and take it to the common room at the usual time.

We had arranged that whenever we encountered someone who Dolly should know well, or who she worked with, Mum would surreptitiously squeeze my hand and mumble their name in my ear. She didn’t think anyone would notice, and that way it wouldn’t appear that Dolly’s illness had given her amnesia too.

After I’d said hello to everyone my mother led me into the utility room behind the kitchen. After making sure we wouldn’t be overheard, she said, “This is your little cubby hole, Dolly.”

She opened the door and reached in for a maroon uniform that was hanging on a hook on the back of the door.

“I think Dolly normally uses in the downstairs Ladies, but you might as well change here,” she said. “I’ll close the door and stand guard.”

“Wait – do I really have to dress as the tea lady?”

“Well, of course, dear! That’s what you are, after all.”

I realised she was serious. I sighed and took the uniform dress from her.

“Here, let me help. I’ll unzip you.”

My pretty blue dress dropped to the floor. I stepped out of it, and my mother hung it up where the uniform had been. I put the polyester maid’s uniform on over my head and smoothed it down. She handed me a white half-apron. When she saw I had no idea how to tie the strap in a tidy bow behind my back, she tutted and did it for me. Then she reached into the cupboard for one more degrading item.

“Oh not a maid’s cap as well!” I protested.

“It’s only a headband. Stop moaning! It’s part of the uniform we introduced when we took on full-time catering staff. You know Dolly’s a stickler for looking smart, and you could be seen by a client at any time.”

She fastened the headband over my grey wig, and stepped back to assess the damage she had done to me.

“Smile, dear,” she said. “You know Dolly’s always cheerful.” I complied with ill grace. “Perfect!” she said. “Now you look exactly as Dolly does when serving afternoon tea. Let’s go up there. You can tidy the room while you’re waiting for the trolley to arrive.”

Gee, thanks Mum. So I was going to substitute for Dolly at more than just playing Bridge.

* * *

Annie came in while I was pouring tea for Sharon and Vera. She saw me in my maroon polyester uniform dress, apron and headband, and goggled. Sharon waved and went off to get herself a plateful of cake.

“Wow! I really thought Granny was all better and back at work for a minute,” Annie said. “You look amazing!” She paused to give me a thorough inspection, then said, “Cup of tea, please, Granny.”

That came as a shock. I poured her a cup with ill grace.

“You’re usually much more cheerful when you’re giving your granddaughter her tea, Dolly,” said my mother, coming up behind me. “Are you still feeling under the weather?”

“I’m fine, thank you, Ingrid dear,” I said, trying to get back into character.

I forced a smile. Annie stepped back horrified, her hand to her mouth.

“Your teeth!” she said. “What have they done to you?”

“Don’t worry,” I reassured her. “It’s just paint and blackener. You must have done ageing make-up on actors on your Theatre course…?”

“I have, but that’s much more realistic. You look like you’ve got receding gums and broken teeth, and they’re yellow.”

“Just like your grandmother’s in fact,” said Sharon, slightly miffed. Annie had somehow praised and criticised her work at the same time.

I handed them their teas and looked around. It was early yet and there was no one about who wasn’t in on our secret.

“I still don’t see why I have to dress as a skivvy,” I grumbled.

“Hey, my grandmother is not a skivvy!” Annie protested, as angry as I’d ever seen her.

Before I could apologise, my mother explained to her.

“I want him to do what Dolly does, because only the three of us, Fred, Vera and Sharon know he’s not actually her, or that she’s been in hospital for a week, and we need to keep it that way. The more people who know, the more likely it is that our little deception will leak. So he needs to do most of what she usually does – which includes how she dresses.”

“Well I don’t mind serving tea and maybe doing a little light hoovering, but I’m damned if I’m going to be your maid of all work…”

“We’ve been over this,” my mother snapped. She turned back to Annie to explain. “Everyone knows she’s been ill, so he doesn’t need to work as hard as the real Dolly. It would probably kill him if he tried!” She turned back to me. “I’ll let you off cleaning the big oven until you’re feeling better.” This was her attempt at humour. “You won’t be able to use the computers of course…”

“What? Why on earth not?”

“Because Dolly’s computer-illiterate. In fact, she’s terrified of the things. Have you ever seen her down in the Bunker?”

I hadn’t. She didn’t even go in there to dust. She was afraid of breaking something, or being electrocuted.

“I suppose you can go down after hours when everyone else has gone…”

“So that’s your plan for getting twice as much work out of me for the same money, is it? I do Dolly’s job during the day, and my own at night?”

“Don’t be silly,” she scoffed. “All this will be over by Sunday night. Why don’t you just have a little fun with it? Honestly, you can be so childish sometimes.”

She went off to talk to Charlotte, our nurse, who had just come in.

“She’s right, you know,” Annie said, still smarting from me calling Dolly a skivvy. “I’ll leave you to serve the others then, Granny,” she said loudly.

* * *

We had agreed earlier that we would both sleep at the house Annie shared with her grandmother (i.e. me). Fortunately, she’d got over her anger by the end of the afternoon, and she drove us home. Dolly’s house was a tidy little three-bedroom semi-detached in a cul-de-sac just outside the town. She and her late husband had brought up two children there, and like many widows she was determined to die there, in the house with all her happiest memories in it. Annie’s Dad and her aunt called regularly, but they lived too far away to see her more than two or three times a year, including Christmas. They’d been informed of her current health situation, but Dolly had insisted they shouldn’t come down. She had Annie, she said, and that was all she needed.

When we got home, Annie fetched my stick from the boot and helped me out of the car. She also brought out the suitcase containing Dolly’s dresses and all the underwear she had bought me. I was back in my pretty blue dress, having returned the hated maid uniform back to its hanger in my cubby hole.

“The neighbours might be watching, so you need to stay in character,” she said.

“Understood,” I said. “I definitely saw a curtain twitch next door.”

“That’s Mrs Davies. She’s a nosey old cow. Granny can’t stand her. She’s sure to have noticed you’ve been away from home, but if she calls round ‘to see if we need anything’, I’ll deal with her. You can be in bed, convalescing.”

I hobbled into the house, leaning on my granddaughter-girlfriend. I continued to walk and talk like Granny Dolly, until we were inside, with the curtains closed.

“Should be OK now,” Annie said. “Just be careful in the dining room and the back bedroom. Those are the only two rooms that share walls with Mrs Davies’ house. Mind how you talk in there.”

First, Annie showed me round. I’d been in the sitting room and the kitchen on previous visits, but I needed to know the house a little better if I was going to be able to find anything over the next few days. We then spent a very pleasant evening doing not very much. I cooked spaghetti Bolognese and we opened a bottle of wine, a decent chianti. After dinner Annie fetched me one of Dolly’s old lady nighties and her dressing gown and fluffy slippers. I looked at her sceptically.

“Well what did you think you were going to wear to bed?” she asked. “You didn’t bring any pyjamas, and Steve’s wouldn’t fit you now anyway. And I’m certainly not having my grandmother sleeping in the nude. Not in my bed anyway. I assume you do want to sleep in my bed?”

I reached for the nightie before she could change her mind.

“Of course I do. I just thought you wouldn’t want to sleep with me when I’m… like this.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re still you underneath. It’s hardly gerontophiliac incest, is it?”

“That wasn’t what I was afraid of,” I said, “mainly because I don’t know what it means.”

I took my wig and wig cap off to go to bed, of course.

“You look totally weird like that,” Annie protested, “with Granny’s face and Steve’s hair.”

“Sorry, but I couldn’t possibly sleep in those things.”

“Hang on! I’ve got an idea.”

She rushed out of the bedroom. I followed, puzzled. I found her rummaging in a large chest of drawers in Dolly’s room.

“Ah, I knew I’d seen this somewhere.”

She was brandishing a strange-looking frilly pink nylon thing.

“What the hell is that?”

“It’s a sleep bonnet. You wear it to bed when you’ve got curlers in. Put it on.”

“I haven’t got curlers…”

But she was already forcing the silly thing down on my head and tucking my hair under it.

“That’s better. Now you look like my lovely Granny again, instead of some horrid hybrid.”

She gave me a chaste hug and a kiss on the cheek.

I caught sight of myself in Dolly’s mirror. In my nightie and bonnet I looked like Red Riding Hood’s grandmother before the wolf got at her.

* * *

So we slept in Annie’s bed, but of course we couldn’t ‘do anything’, thanks to Vera sticking this damned prosthesis on me. Thankfully Annie wasn’t fazed by my disguise and was as affectionate as ever, even if all we could do was kiss and cuddle.

In the morning I soon realised my mother was right. Getting dressed as Dolly was a lot easier with Annie helping me. She also knew much more about make-up and how to dress a wig than I did, and she was determined that her Granny would look her best every day. I tried to watch what she did carefully. I would have to do it by myself at the hotel on Sunday morning. I didn’t want to rely on my mother to help me.

“I’m really enjoying dressing you up,” Annie said on Thursday morning. “Don’t forget – I never saw you as Milly or Jennifer. I’d love to see you as a pretty schoolgirl.”

“There may be photos… somewhere,” I said vaguely.

I knew exactly where they were, because I had lifted them from the safety deposit box. I had intended to bin them, but in the end I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it.

“But it’s too late now anyway,” I continued. “I was a skinny sixteen-year-old when I was Milly. I’m much bigger and stronger now.”

Well I had broadened out a little, but not much, to be honest. I posed like a circus strongman, which looked ridiculous in my little old lady dress, support stockings and heels. Annie laughed.

“That just means that Milly would be a grown woman now,” she said. “I wonder what she would be? Secretary? Nurse? Waitress? Flight attendant? Ooh – bunny girl!”

“Sadly, we’ll never know, will we?” I said.

“Never say ‘never’, sweetie,” she said.

* * *

Thursday and Friday passed smoothly. I got used to being Dolly; imitating her walk; doing her chores in the kitchens and around the office; and perfecting my Dolly voice while talking as little as possible.

Annie seemed to be enjoying herself ‘looking after me’, and my mother was sweetness and light (for her) as she became more and more convinced we were going to get away with it.

Saturday morning finally came round. I wasn’t going to be a housemaid-cum-tea lady today so we got out Dolly’s best clothes. We chose a silk blouse in silver and a black skirt suit. Annie found a matching broad-brimmed hat with a black band and a white chiffon rose. I’d liked wearing a hat at the mayor’s garden party. I decided Dolly would wear a hat to go to church, so why not for Peterborough?

Annie helped me with my hair and make-up again, but ‘for best’ this time. She did it almost as well as Sharon would have done. She found some clip-on earrings for me too.

My mother came to collect me at just after nine o’clock. Annie helped me into the car and put my stick and overnight bag in the boot.

I kissed her goodbye (not on the lips – the neighbours), and said, “Now don’t you go finding yourself another young man now that your boyfriend has been turned into an old lady.”

“I promise, Granny,” she giggled. “Anyway the spell will be broken on Monday morning, won’t it?”

“Assuming Fairy Vera hasn’t run out of magic solvent, yes.”

My mother interrupted our banter impatiently.

“Oh close the door, Dolly, for heaven’s sake,” she said. “We have a long drive ahead of us.”

All the world loves a lover, except my mother.

* * *

The playing area at the hotel was a quiet function room on the first floor. We went in to check out the format of the competition. Fourteen pairs had qualified. We would play two boards against every other pair; that is, twenty-six deals in each session.

There were two sessions on the Saturday, one in the afternoon and one in the evening, and one on the Sunday afternoon. So we would play every other pair three times over a total of seventy-eight hands. That was quite a lot of Bridge for one weekend. Stamina – mental and physical – would be a factor, so the competition probably favoured the younger players. That was another reason why our competition might underestimate an old dear like me.

Nevertheless I found that people treat frail old ladies very well. I had doors opened for me. People got up to help me to a seat. They fetched me cups of tea. Even better, when the Tournament Director saw me and my stick he kindly allowed us to sit at Table 1, North-South, which made us the only pair who didn’t have to move at the end of each round. So hopefully no one would notice my excessive height.

Younger players also underestimate us little old ladies – I used to do it myself when I was Steve – and that creates a lot of opportunities at the Bridge table. No doubt some of our opponents would overbid against us, thinking the harmless old biddy wouldn’t double and couldn’t defend. Wrong! We hoped for some good scores that way. They would also assume that I wouldn’t be any good at playing the contract, but I was ‘good’ before I went up to Cambridge, and since then I’d played at the University Bridge Club regularly for two years – against junior internationals. This old lady was determined to show her opposition a thing or two about declarer play.

As we sat down to start the first session, we looked around to assess the opposition, as did everyone else of course. My mother recognised several pairs and suggested we use the same code we had adopted at the club when I played as Jennifer. She reckoned there were only three or four ‘Able’ pairs, but also far fewer ‘Charlies’ than at the club.

I only recognised four players. There was Harriet Bairstow, whose partner was the American professional, Jane Campanella. Jane was by far the best player in the room. I remember seeing her picture in an old Bridge World magazine. She had won various big tournaments in the States and once played for the American Ladies Team. What on earth was she doing here?

The other people I knew, to my horror, were two earnest young ladies from Cambridge: Janet Lee and Sheila Musson. They were third years; that is, they had just graduated. They both played in the university first team with male partners. I hadn’t seen them playing together before. I told myself there was no way either of them would recognise me unless I gave myself away. My disguise was too good. They were starting only one table away from us, but to my relief they showed no interest in me. My mother didn’t recognise them because they didn’t compete in our local club events, so I told her how I knew them and warned her they were ‘Able-plus’.

We played them on the second round. I knew that left to themselves they were unlikely to make mistakes, so we could hope for averages at best, and if they found some expert play beyond the rest of the field, we would get a poor score. Some people believe that you should tighten up your game against strong opposition, but I think that if they’re going to beat you anyway, it’s worth taking the odd risk to try and disrupt them.

They played a fiendishly complicated bidding system, as many undergraduates do, but I suspected they wouldn’t know it that well as they hadn’t played together much. So when on the first board my mother passed as dealer and Sheila opened One Club, their system’s strong bid, I made a pushy pre-emptive jump to Three Diamonds, to rob them of bidding space and jam their communications. If it went wrong, and they doubled for penalties, I would just have to hope that it would be a good sacrifice; that is, that the penalty would be less than the value of the enemy’s best contract.

Unfortunately this time my suit wasn’t as long as it should be and my overall values weren’t really good enough, so it was an awful bid and very risky. My mother would undoubtedly rip me a new one if it went wrong, but I hoped the girls would never imagine a little old lady like me could do something so bold, and they wouldn’t double. If they ‘took the money’ it would probably be too expensive for us, unless my partner had a miracle fit for my diamond suit.

Janet on my left turned to my partner.

“How strong is that?” she asked.

You are entitled to ask questions about the enemy’s bidding system, though you have to be careful…

“Weak,” said my mother. “As it says on our convention card,” she added in a slightly acid manner.

My mother’s irritation was justified. By asking that question in that tone, the girl had communicated to her partner that she had a decent hand. That’s ‘unauthorised information’. If her partner took advantage of it, that would be cheating.

But Janet laid down the red ‘Double’ card, which gave the same information legitimately. This just showed a decent hand. It wasn’t for penalties, although her partner could pass if she deemed that best. I mentally crossed my wrinkled and painted fingers.

Sheila was a good player but she was now facing a difficult decision. She knew her side had most of the high-card strength but there wasn’t enough bidding room to find out everything she needed to know – how high to bid and what suit to play the hand in. That’s the trouble with artificial systems: her opening bid showed strength but didn’t say anything about her best suit.

Four Hearts was the bid she chose, giving up on a slam hunt, and that ended the auction. I led a top diamond and Janet put her hand down as dummy – it only had two hearts. Sheila’s disappointment was palpable.

“Oh, I thought you’d have more hearts,” she said.

“Normally I would,” her partner agreed, “but what do you suggest I bid? I hoped you’d pick a black suit.”

It was true. She had to show strength and her partner might have spades or clubs. Then everything would have worked out. My pre-emptive bid seemed to have done its job. Five minutes later they were two down, vulnerable. This would surely be a good score for us. It might even be the only plus score our way. I calculated that Three No-trumps or Five Clubs would have been easy. Sheila could have tried Four Clubs; that might have worked out better.

“Did you see what she had for her pre-empt?” Sheila hissed to her partner.

“It was a bold bid at just the right time,” said Janet magnanimously, smiling at me. I liked her much more than the aggressive Sheila.

“Have I done something wrong, dear?” I asked innocently in a throaty whisper.

When you get a bad result at this form of Bridge, it’s best to forget it as quickly as you can – just like an unforced error at tennis. Dwelling on it only leads to making mistakes on the next hand. I knew Sheila was prone to flights of fancy and suspected she might try and recover the lost ground somehow.

On the second board of the round neither side was vulnerable and Janet was the dealer. She and my mother passed. Third to bid, Sheila opened One Spade. This is a classic position for light openings to make life more difficult for fourth hand, who presumably was strong. I had no other reason to suspect shenanigans on her part. I did indeed have a strong hand with a singleton spade, so I made a normal takeout Double, asking partner for her best suit. I don’t know whether Janet suspected her partner might be spoofing, but she had four-card support and a few high cards, so she had to jump to Three Spades. There is a convention that enables you to check on the strength of a third-in-hand opening, but it’s not much used in England, and the girls weren’t playing it.

My mother passed, as did Sheila, and I doubled again, still for takeout. Everyone passed this. Did I detect the ghost of a smile on my partner’s face?

I led my trump to stop them making tricks by cross-ruffing. It was a bloodbath. Sheila’s One Spade was a full-blooded psychic bluff bid. She had a small doubleton in spades and a very weak hand. She hoped that would stop us finding our best spot, or maybe misplace the cards when we eventually played the contract. But my mother had six spades to the King and Jack and was more than happy to pass thereby converting my Takeout Double into a Penalty Double. Sheila now found herself playing in a 4-2 fit for the second deal in succession. She was four down, doubled. That was worth 800 points – more than the normal Three No-trumps our way. Another likely top.

Why did Sheila, a good player, make such an outrageous bid? She thought that we wouldn’t know how to deal with the psych. She wouldn’t have tried it against opposition she respected, but she still thought we were two old ladies without a clue. She didn’t know it but we were actually good enough to deal with much tougher problems than that. The girls were very quiet after this. I almost felt sorry for them.

Having made such a good start we were on a roll. Bridge is like that. Sometimes everything you try turns out badly; other times you can’t put a foot wrong. We had an edge against all the ‘Baker’ and ‘Charlie’ pairs and held our own against the few ‘Ables’.

At the end of the afternoon session we were in second place. The only thing that marred my mother’s satisfaction was that the American pro had managed to carry Harriet to first. The Cambridge girls were just above half way, which must have been a big disappointment to them.

We were about to head off to a quiet restaurant my mother knew – and where she was sure we wouldn’t meet any other Bridge players, which might have put pressure on me to speak – when another familiar face appeared. George Bairstow was coming up the hotel’s main staircase, no doubt looking for his wife.

“George!” said my mother in surprise. “What are you doing here? Don’t tell me Harriet made you give up your Saturday afternoon golf to come and watch her?”

“Hello, Ingrid… Dolly,” he said. I smiled to acknowledge his greeting. I had nothing against George. “No, I’m here playing. Didn’t you know? They hold the County Men’s Pairs Final at the same time and in the same hotel. We’re downstairs in the ballroom. This is the first time both Harriet and I have qualified for the Finals. The boards are all computer-dealt, and we play the same hands as you ladies. So I’m taking Harriet out for dinner and we can compare results.”

“I’m sure she’ll be keen to do that,” said my mother with an ironic smile. “She and her American friend did very well.”

“Why don’t you come with us?” he said. “The more the merrier!”

Good old George! He was such a sweetie himself that he had never noticed the bad blood between his wife and my mother.

“That’s very kind of you, George,” Mum said, “but we’ve made other arrangements. Have a nice dinner.”

At that point she caught sight of Harriet heaving into view. She waved in what someone who didn’t know her might have thought was a friendly fashion and dragged me off to the lift. Well I couldn’t manage the stairs with my knees, could I? As it was, I struggled to keep up while leaning on my stick and trying to maintain my Dolly persona.

* * *

After a very good Italian meal with only a very little red wine, we returned for the evening session. This didn’t go quite as well. We didn’t do anything obviously wrong, but we were a little unlucky on a couple of hands and we didn’t get as many free gifts as we’d had in the afternoon. I suppose the other players must have realised they needed to take us seriously. A couple of the ‘Able’ pairs had good sessions and stormed past us. We slipped to fourth. Happily (for my mother) Harriet and her partner also failed to live up to their early form and fell to third place. Still, we’d done well in a high standard field, and it was a very good day overall.

I’d noticed my mother tiring a little at about ten o’clock. She didn’t make any horrible mistakes but there were a couple of hands where she might have competed further and given the opponents a more difficult decision, which they then might have got wrong. Naturally I didn’t say anything. There is never anything to be gained by criticising your partner’s play. But I was glad that she would have a good night’s sleep before the third and last session.

We were sharing a twin room of course. We were both a little coy about getting undressed in front of each other. I pointed out that I had seen her naked a lot lately – in the mirror. For some reason that didn’t make her any more relaxed.

Meanwhile I was embarrassed showing her my wrinkles, cellulite, and droopy boobs and buttocks. I only took my blouse and skirt off in front of her, and went into the bathroom to remove my bra, panties, girdle and stockings, and put my nightie on.

I also removed my wig and wig cap there and put on my sleep bonnet. I’m not sure why. It just felt odd now having Dolly’s face and Steve’s hair. My mother looked at me sceptically, but didn’t ask.

That was definitely one of the weirdest nights I could remember.

* * *

At most Bridge congresses one can enjoy a little gentle sight-seeing on the Sunday morning (assuming you don’t go to church), but this was Peterborough. It doesn’t really have sights to see, unless you like ring roads and roundabouts. So we had an excellent and very filling buffet breakfast, and checked out of our room as late as we were allowed.

As Dolly, I couldn’t really go for a bracing walk, in case we encountered other Bridge players who might wonder how my legs got so much better overnight. So we spent an hour looking round the magnificent 12th Century cathedral. Sitting in a pew at the back of the nave, resting my feet which were sore from the still unfamiliar high heels, I saw a lot of old ladies like me admiring the grave of Henry the Eighth’s first wife, Catherine of Aragon; the original burial site of Mary Queen of Scots; and the commemorative plaque to Edith Cavell, the nurse shot by the Nazis. I reflected ruefully that looking round churches was about my limit now that I’m in my seventies.

We actually spent a really nice morning together, leaving me to muse over how we got along so well as Ingrid and Dolly, when we argued continually as Steve and his mother. What was that about?

Mum was raring to go when we took our seats at two o’clock on the Sunday afternoon, but before the last session began, the Tournament Director had an announcement to make.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said. “I’ve just been on the phone with the Chairman of the Selection Committee of the English Bridge Union. As you may know, they are very keen to encourage more strong ladies pairs to try out for our national team. So she has promised that the top three in each county’s Ladies Pairs competition will be invited to play in the pre-trials for the English Ladies’ Team next year.”

There was a little buzz of excitement at this news. Then the session was under way.

Half-way through we faced Harriet, who was puffing and blowing a little, and Jane, who was maintaining the poker face of a true expert. My mother couldn’t help rattling Harriet’s cage a little.

“Such a shame you and your partner won’t be able to play in the England trials, Harriet – if you do finish in the top three, that is,” my mother said, trying her best to sound sincere.

“Why on earth not?” Harriet bristled.

“Well… you’re American, aren’t you, Jane?”

Mother smiled sweetly. Jane smiled back but said nothing.

“Actually, she’s married to an Englishman and has been living in London for five years,” Harriet said. “That fulfils the residence requirement. I checked.”

Her smile reminded me of those Siamese cats in Lady and the Tramp.

Jane did very well on the first board scoring an overtrick by squeezing me in the minors. My mother could have prevented it by leading a different suit and breaking up the squeeze, but this required a little more imagination and card reading than she was capable of. The cards lay their way on the second board too, but Jane wasn’t able to manoeuvre the auction to ensure she played the contract, and predictably Harriet messed it up, making a trick less than the field. So in the end it was a more or less average round; honours even.

And so the afternoon wore on. We were still getting the better of most pairs, and by the end I reckoned we might have moved up, or at the very least held our position. My mother was keeping an eye on Harriet and was delighted to point out quietly that she was looking rattled.

Finally it was all over. Predictably two of the best Ladies pairs in the county finished first and second. They were popular and worthy winners, highly regarded by the majority.

We were third! We won a mixed case of Tesco wine between us, and even got a little cheer from some of the other players. Brilliant! Even better, we had pushed Harriet and Jane down to fourth – just out of the prizes. The Cambridge girls were fifth.

We managed to dodge the Bairstows and hurried back to the car as quickly as I could walk without raising suspicion. As soon as we were on the road I called Annie to tell her how we did. She was delighted and promised to have a bottle of wine open and ready for when we got back. I forgot to mention that I was going to get a trial for the English Ladies Team.

“When are the Trials anyway?” I asked my mother after ringing off.

“November, I think,” she said.

“Well Dolly should be fit enough by then.”

She didn’t reply. I looked at her. She was concentrating on finding her way onto the bypass.

“Though I don’t think she’ll be quite up to the required standard…”

Still no comment.

“You do realise I can’t play in the Trials? For one thing, I’ll be back at college, and for another, I’m still not a woman.”

“Yes, dear, I understand.”

But did she really, or was she hatching another scheme?

“We’ll have to withdraw,” I persisted, “due to Dolly’s age and general health. She could never play for England anyway – all that stress, international travel…”

“Of course not,” my mother agreed. “But that doesn’t apply to you, does it? You’d be fine. The Trials will only be one weekend out in the middle of term, and I’m damned if I’m going to let Harriet bloody Bairstow buy her way into the England team!”

It was early evening by the time we got back. Mum dropped me off at my – Dolly’s – house, where Annie was waiting to celebrate both our result and my last night as her grandmother.

* * *

First thing the following morning I reported to Vera’s room. I was getting pretty desperate to become Steve again (and resume relations with Annie). I stripped off my dress, slip, stockings and girdle, embarrassed at exposing my wrinkly, droopy body, even though Vera knew better than anybody that it wasn’t really me. She reached for the solvent bottle. I lay down on her table. Everything was ready.

Then my mother burst in. “Stop!” she yelled.

It wouldn’t be true to say that I had been half expecting this, but I had certainly been afraid of it. My previous transformations had all lasted more than two weeks, to give the various prostheses a rigorous workout. This had only been five days. I was ready to refuse vehemently to go along with any further testing, but I would never have guessed the reason for my mother’s interruption.

“We have a problem,” she said. “George Bairstow has been on the phone. Harriet is convinced we must have been cheating.”

“Huh?” I was baffled.

“You played better than Dolly ever has, and of course we beat Harriet and stopped her getting an England trial. So she’s sure there must have been foul play.”

Harriet’s arrogance and hubris were breathtaking, but surely this couldn’t lead anywhere?

“So what?” I said, scornfully. “She can’t prove anything. She won’t find any evidence, because there isn’t any, because we weren’t cheating.”

“Well you kind of were, weren’t you?” put in Vera. “You didn’t play in the first round, so you weren’t really entitled to play in the Final.” My mother shot her a black look. “And then there’s that ‘not actually being a woman’ thing…”

Vera wasn’t afraid of my mother, and she had her own code of ethics. She was perfectly happy to help me impersonate Dolly, but she didn’t really approve of why I was doing it. If it comes to that, I didn’t either. Mum chose to ignore her comments.

“Of course she doesn’t have any evidence,” she said. She paused. “So she’s hired a private detective to look for some.”

“She’s done what?”

“His name’s Treacher apparently. I looked him up. He mostly does divorce cases.”

“But what could some sleazebag gumshoe possibly find? If we actually had been using illicit signals or something, it’s far too late to prove it now, isn’t it?”

I knew they video all the players in major international competitions, and they had caught some very subtle cheats that way, but there were no cameras at the East Anglia Ladies Pairs’ Final.

“Of course, but according to George, Treacher’s brief is just to watch us carefully, especially you, and report back anything suspicious.”

“Well he won’t find anything suspicious about me, because I won’t be Dolly anymore, will I?”

“But what if he finds out that Dolly’s been in hospital for the last week and a half and has had major surgery? That would certainly have stopped her playing two days of Bridge in Peterborough, wouldn’t it?”

“Shit!”

“Exactly,” she said. “We’re going to have to be even more careful about keeping Dolly’s current condition and location a secret, and you’re going to have to stay as you are until Treacher stops watching you, or till the real Dolly is ready to come home. You’ll have to continue to live her life as normal so that he doesn’t see anything suspicious to report to Harriet.”

“I can’t! I can’t pretend to be a seventy-year-old tea lady for another – what – two weeks?”

“Maybe more than that. She’ll be in hospital for at least another four.”

“I think Dolly’s seventy-six actually,” said Vera, which wasn’t helpful at all.

“You don’t seem to appreciate,” my mother said, “this isn’t just about being exposed as cheats to everyone in the Bridge-playing community. This could be an existential threat to our business. If Treacher finds out you’re not Dolly, he’s going to want to know how you can look exactly like her. He’ll come sniffing around here. That in itself would be enough to scare away most of our customers. They rely on our discretion. And if he finds out what we do here and tells Harriet, she’ll expose us for sure. We’ll lose everything, and we may face conspiracy charges if they follow up on our clients and find that any of them have been using our services for criminal purposes.”

I didn’t know what to say. There was a long silence. I looked longingly at the bottle of solvent in Vera’s hand. A thought occurred.

“Wait a minute… why did George tell you all this?”

“Because he thinks Harriet is behaving appallingly. He called her a sore loser. They had a major row about it.”

I couldn’t imagine George rowing with anybody, least of all Harriet, but good for him.

“Still why did he tell you? Even if he’s cross with Harriet, it seems like a betrayal.”

“Well George and I… we used to… let’s just say we were good friends once. Obviously that ended when he married Harriet.”

Was she admitting to an affair with George Bairstow? Was that before, during, or after my Dad? I was chewing that over, when Annie came bounding in.

“Where is he? Where’s my boyfriend?” She saw I was still Dolly, sitting in just my bra and knickers on Vera’s table. “Oh, is there something wrong?”

“You could say that,” I sighed. “I’m afraid you’re going to have two grandmothers for a while yet. Can you help me on with my underslip?”

* * *

To Annie’s disappointment and my absolute disgust, I had to agree to stay as Dolly for the foreseeable future. Also the excuse of still being convalescent wouldn’t hold any longer, as I had obviously been fighting fit (for a seventy-six-year-old) over the previous weekend. We would have to sell Dolly’s collapse as a blip; nothing to worry about.

That meant I now had to do all of Dolly’s duties. So that evening, when all the cleaning and catering staff had gone home, my mother gave me a comprehensive tour of the kitchens and overnight accommodation areas, so that I knew where everything was, and could take up my role as tea lady and maid-of-all-work without arousing the suspicions of the rest of the staff.

We couldn’t even let Treacher know we were aware of his activities. Presumably he was a good enough private dick that he wouldn’t be spotted by a seventy-six-year-old charlady or her granddaughter? So if we ever did see him, we would have to pretend we hadn’t, or he might realise we’d been tipped off.

That turned out to be difficult, because he wasn’t actually very good. Apparently Harriet was too cheap to hire a real professional. When we came out of our drive that evening in Annie’s car, there was a blue Fiesta parked just a little way along. When we drove past, it immediately pulled out to follow us.