The Key to Finding Jack Ewa Jozefkowicz (books to read for self improvement TXT) 📖

of slate that Charlie had put there when she and Keira had first moved in. Their spare front door key was kept underneath. I considered letting myself in and waiting for Keira in her room, surrounded by her old unicorn wallpaper and fairy lights. I could have sent Mum a message; she was so preoccupied she wouldn’t have known there was nobody in next door. I was about to pick up the key when something brushed against my leg. A black and white smudge crossed my path and bolted in through the cat flap. I breathed out. It was only Gilbert, Keira’s cat, who was surprisingly fast for his old age, and horribly grumpy. He’d known me for years, yet he would still hiss and claw at me if I dared to sit next to him on the sofa.

Spending any amount of time alone with Gilbert didn’t seem so appealing. I thought of Keira with her mum and grandpa and I felt terribly lonely. Suddenly I knew what I needed to do – I would go for a very overdue visit to Grandma Sylvie’s. And as she was one of the S.F.s that we’d identified, I would ask her about the key.

Her house was only a ten-minute cycle ride away. Realising this made me feel guilty for not seeing her in so long. Over the past year, she’d become quite ill. It began with pains in her knees, and then her arthritis got so bad that she couldn’t leave the house. Eventually she couldn’t get out of bed without help. Now, Mum visits Grandma every other day, often with some new medication to help ease the pain in her poor legs. I think she wishes she could spend more time with her, and she’s already cut down her days at work. For the days she’s not around, she’s found Grandma a nice French carer, who she’s really pleased with. I used to see Grandma once a week with Jack, but recently, we’d gone less and less.

I went to collect my bike from the shed and messaged Mum to tell her my plans.

As I turned into Grandma’s street, a memory resurfaced. I was about five years old and running down this same road with Jack. We were racing to our grandparents’ door. He was pelting down the street, his trainers thudding on the pavement and I was giggling, desperately trying to catch up. When I thought he was miles ahead and that I’d never be able to shorten the distance, Jack slowed down, panting heavily. I saw my opportunity to overtake, using my last reserves of energy to run as fast as I could, and slammed the gate triumphantly. Jack had obviously let me win but I didn’t think this at the time. He slapped me on the back to congratulate me. I tried to recall his exact words, but the memory was gone as quickly as it had come, and I found myself standing alone outside Grandma’s glossy black door.

I rapped on the brass knocker before I could change my mind. I heard chatter in the hallway, someone laughing, and a tall lady with blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail appeared at the door.

‘Erm, hi,’ I stuttered, ‘I’m here to see my grandmother.’

The woman raised her eyebrows in surprise.

‘Ah, you must be Felicity, no?’ she asked, ushering me in. ‘I am Gertrude.’ She had a strong French accent and perfect make-up. I noticed the dark cat-eye flicks of eyeliner in the corners of her eyes. I wasn’t sure what I’d imagined when Mum told me about getting Grandma a carer, but it wasn’t this glamorous woman.

Grandma was born and raised in Quebec, the French part of Canada, although she’d lived in England for more than fifty years. Mum must have thought she’d like someone French to look after her, maybe to remind her of when she was young. I’m sure that Grandma approved of Gertrude’s stylish appearance. She enjoyed looking good herself, even in her late seventies.

I followed Gertrude down the corridor. Nothing had changed in the months that I’d been away. Old black and white photographs of Grandma’s French family lined the walls, the lights were dimmed and the place smelled of perfume and cigarettes, which she had never managed to give up, despite a recent incident with one of her rugs catching fire.

‘Qui est là?’

‘It’s your granddaughter,’ Gertrude replied, beckoning me into the living room, where Grandma sat on the sofa in her silk dressing gown, her legs propped on a footstool. She coughed with confusion at seeing me.

‘Felicity? What are you doing here? Is there any update on Jack?’ I’d never seen her look so worried. Grandma could be disapproving, stern, sometimes angry, but never worried.

‘No, nothing new,’ I told her quickly. ‘I’ve just come to visit.’

‘Visit?’ Grandma echoed.

‘Please, sit down,’ Gertrude said, motioning towards the wicker rocking-chair that Jack always sat in when we’d come here together. I avoided it, perching instead on the edge of the sofa, opposite Grandma.

‘Have you had dinner?’ asked Gertrude, looking at me, concerned. ‘We have some tomato soup left, or perhaps you may like some gougères?’

I was about to protest that I’d already eaten, but in reality I’d barely touched my food before running out of the house. Also, hearing the word ‘gougères’ made me change my mind. I hadn’t had them in a long time, but if I shut my eyes, I could still taste the glorious, melt-in-the-mouth French pastry. I once tried to describe to Keira what they were, eventually settling on ‘little clouds from cheese heaven’. The strange thing was that Grandma was normally a terrible cook. These were the only things that she made which were not only edible, but delicious. When Jack was my age now, he could easily eat five of them at once, even if it meant that he felt sick on the way home.

‘Yes, thank you,’ I found myself saying.

‘And if you could bring us some tea, please,’ Grandma said. ‘In