The air in the kitchen was thick with the scent of overcooked stew. Agatha Winthrop, known to her granddaughter as Gran, settled onto the creaky wooden chair opposite the girl and peered into her downcast face. “What’s the matter, love? Not hungry? I could fry up some bangers and mash if you’d prefer.”
“Not hungry, Gran,” murmured Imogen, pushing a limp carrot around her bowl with her spoon.
“Something’s weighing on you. Out with it. Maybe I can help,” Agatha coaxed, resting her wrinkled hands on the table.
Imogen sighed and set the spoon aside. “All the girls at uni dress like theyve stepped out of a magazine. They look at me like Im some relic from the charity shop. The lads dont even glance my way.”
“Over clothes?” Agatha frowned.
“Over everything. Im old-fashioned. Plain.”
“Who put that nonsense in your head? Youre my pretty girl. Theyre just jealous. As for clothestomorrows pension day. Well nip down to Primark, get you something nice.”
“No, Gran,” Imogen shook her head. “I want proper jeans. The designer ones. Do you know how much they cost? Wed have nothing left to live on. I shouldve gone part-time, got a job”
“Dont be daft,” Agatha huffed. “While Im alive, youll study proper. What goods a part-time degree? Youll work your fingers to the bone soon enough. And those laughing at you? Small-minded fools. Clothes dont make the woman.”
“Who even cares about degrees these days? Youre so old-fashioned, Gran. Maybe I could find work”
“Not another word,” Agatha cut in sharply. “Theyll stop my benefits if you switch courses. Every penny counts.”
Imogen slumped. Pointless. Gran didnt understand the shame of being nineteen and dressed in her mums hand-me-downs, stitched and restitched until the seams frayed.
“Eat up. Ive an idea.” Agatha rose and shuffled into the bedroom.
Imogen heard the rustle of fabric, the creak of a wardrobe door. When she entered, Agatha sat on the edge of the bed, staring out the window.
“Gran, Im sorry,” Imogen whispered, sinking beside her and wrapping her arms around the old womans thin shoulders.
“For what, pet? Youre right. You need new thingsa proper coat, boots.”
“Gran, dont you dare borrow money. Wed never pay it back.”
“I wont.” Agatha patted her knee. “Ive got that ring your granddad gave me. Not your style, is it? Ill take it to the pawnshop tomorrow. Nowyouve barely touched your supper.”
“Ill finish later. Gran tell my fortune.”
Agatha stiffened. “Whats got into you? Im no fortune-teller.”
“You are,” Imogen insisted. “Mum said you predicted Dad for her.”
“Since when did she tell you that?”
“She did.”
“You youngsters always want to know whats coming. But fates written at birth. She doesnt like being tricked or spied on. And fortune-telling? Even if I saw something bad, I wouldnt sayworries make troubles stick.”
“Then tell me something good,” Imogen grinned.
“I dont need cards to know youll be fine. Just wait.”
“Please, Gran?” Imogen batted her lashes, pressing closer.
“Oh, you little minx. Fine.” Agatha heaved herself up, rummaged in the cupboard, and returned with a fresh deck. “Sit proper.”
She spread a lace tablecloth, shuffled the cards with practiced ease.
“Think of your hearts desire,” she instructed.
Imogen held her breath as Agatha laid the cards face down. The illustrations were strangeelaborate, dreamlike. One by one, Agatha flipped them, pausing to study each before moving to the next.
When the last card turned, Agathas lips curled.
“Well? See here?” She tapped two cards. “Two sevens side by side. Loves coming, and soon.” Her finger hovered over another pair. “The King of Diamonds, and you beside him. So many pairs. Rare.” Her smile faltered.
“What is it?”
“Nothing dire. Dont rush me. Clubs mean worriesbut what life hasnt those? No joy without sorrow. Lose one thing, find another.” Her voice was steady, rhythmic.
Imogen listened, memorising.
“Gran, can I ask”
“Enough. Got what you wanted? Love, wasnt it? Its coming. Soon.” Agatha swept the cards together. “Put the kettle on.”
Over tea, Imogen pestered about the king.
“Works for the Crown, young. Thats all the cards say,” Agatha deflected.
“And the worries? Youyoull be alright?”
“Fretting over nothing. Ive had my time. Yours will be happy. Thats all you need know.”
The next morning, Imogen floated to university. Let them mock her thrift-shop skirtGrans words buzzed in her ears. Love wasnt about clothes.
After lectures, she dawdled home, savouring the rare sunlightuntil she saw the police car outside her building, the cluster of neighbours.
“Imogen, love, such awful news” Mrs. Peabody from flat one dabbed her eyes with a hankie.
“Whats happened? Gran?” Imogen bolted for the door.
Her heart hammered as she raced upstairs. The flat door hung ajar. Inside, drawers gaped, cupboards ransacked. A uniformed man stood.
“Imogen Winthrop?”
“Yes. Wheres Gran?”
“Sergeant Whitcombe. Your grandmother, Agatha Winthrop”
“Is she ill? Whys everythingtell me!”
“Neighbour found her. Struck on the headnot hard. Heart gave out.”
Imogen clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Sit.” He guided her to the sofa, fetched water. “Did she collect her pension in cash?”
“Y-yes. Didnt trust cards.”
“Anything valuable missing?”
Imogen scanned the room. “No. She mentioned pawning Granddads ring last night. Gold, with a yellow stone. Not worth much. She was getting her pension today”
“Neither money nor ring were on her. Likely spotted at the post office or pawnshop. Too many witnesses outside. Followed her up instead.”
“She died over a pension?” Tears splashed onto her jumper.
“Afraid so. Well find who did this.”
Imogen curled inward. Grangone.
The days blurred. Mrs. Peabody helped tidy. Imogen slept in the flatGran would worry if she didnt come home. Then she remembered.
Morning brought fresh tears. How would she manage alone? She spotted Grans glasses on the telly, tucked them into their case. Always misplacing them.
Sergeant Whitcombe returned.
“Neighbours chipped in for the funeral,” he said, laying an envelope on the table. “Youll need to choose an outfit for her.”
Imogen numbly picked a navy dress. Last year, Gran had refused to wear it to a friends party. “Save it for my funeral,” shed said. Imogen had scolded her. Now she folded it carefully.
At the funeral, everything felt distanteven Grans face in the casket, peaceful and unfamiliar.
Next day, Imogen went to uni. Couldnt bear the empty flat. She switched to part-time, took a job at Tesco. The cashiers remembered Gran, offered condolences.
Whitcombe visited often. One day, he announced theyd caught the killerconfessed, though the ring was long sold.
“Imogen, I fancied you from the start,” he admitted awkwardly. “If you need anything, call.” He saved his number in her phone.
She studied himhandsome in his uniform.
They went to the cinema, then walks. He talked of his mum remarrying, his little sister, his law studies. He was steady. Safe. When he proposed, she said yes.
That evening, gazing at Grans photo, Imogen remembered the fortune. The frown, the warning.
“Gran, you knew, didnt you? Said you couldnt tell fortunes.” Her throat tightened. “I like him, but not at this price. Why didnt you say? Id never have let you leave.”
In the frame, Grans smile was soft, knowing. Alive.
