Gramps
No matter what is happening in the world, you can always rely on The Butters Family to be consistent.
Josh always parks behind his dad’s white van in the driveway.
Gary goes berserk as soon as the engine is cut, and then the red door of the terrace house opens, and Josh’s parents appear arm in arm.
His dad, Jason Butters, is bald with a surprisingly gentle face.
He lives for Man United, Saturday fry-ups and his kids.
Linda Butters was born to be a mother. She is cuddly, floral and likes her tea milky with three sugars.
She may have had wild nights in the eighties, but there are no signs of them now.
‘I hope you guys are hungry,’ Linda calls out from the doorstep. And I get that feeling that I always get when I see Josh’s family, of being wrapped in a crochet blanket.
I wasn’t used to seeing myself in a frame.
My parents were never the type to capture and cherish memories.
The family photos we did have were kept in a photo album on a shelf in the dining room, next to the encyclopaedia set.
The walls of our house were used to display The Elmans’ achievements.
Mum’s dentistry certificate was in the lounge.
Dad’s Gynaecologist certificate was awkwardly placed in our kitchen.
Where there wasn’t a certificate, there was an oil painting of a landscape.
Dad would find them in antique stores and charity shops and prided himself on having a ‘good eye’.
Mum silently disagreed, and when they broke up, she found great joy in throwing all the landscapes away.
I go into the kitchen and, as always, it’s alive and kicking.
Empty New Year’s Eve Prosecco bottles line the bench and gold confetti pieces in the shape of 2025 are sprinkled across the floor.
The Christmas tree is struggling in the corner, and Robbie Willims is playing.
Jason believes nineties pop was the best era of music. I don’t fully disagree with him.
‘Hot! Hot! Hot!’ Laura’s husband, Ray, shouts as he rushes past me.
He squeezes a tray of brown balls onto the kitchen table, which is already full of food.
There are different-sized sausages, a half-eaten classic dip selection, a plate of bashed-in mince pies, slices of dried-up beef, broken-up pieces of bread and a bowl of Pringles.
On every place mat, there is a Christmas cracker ready to be cracked.
‘What’s that?’ Laura asks, gesturing towards the cabbage in Josh’s hand.
She is sitting at the end of the table on her phone.
Laura likes nothing more than scrolling through videos on Instagram, most likely titled things like, ‘POV: You’re Married’ or ‘POV: You Hate Your Job’.
She met Ray on a dating app and moved him from Kent to Maidenhead so she could be close to her parents.
He paints Warhammer figures and earns a heck of a lot of money in IT.
Laura works as an HR person for a pharmaceutical company.
She hates every second of it but is staying for the maternity leave package.
Recently, she dyed her hair blonde and cut it into a bob, turning her straight into her mum.
‘Our contribution to the lunch,’ Josh says, proudly lifting the cabbage. It was the only thing we had other than protein bars.
‘A cabbage? You are useless. My stuff is from M Man United must have scored.
Is it bad that my fiancé makes more noise while watching football than in our bed?
‘Where’s Ellie?’ a croaky, small voice says.
I turn to see Gramps staring vacantly around the kitchen.
Gramps hasn’t been ‘with it’ since Grandma Ellie died five years ago.
He looks about 105. There’s a white crust around his mouth, a ring of cloudy hair from ear to ear, and he is practically blue from all the veins poking out from his skin.
He always wears a suit and tie, and today his tie has a dancing penguin on it.
‘I hope you like M&S food, Gramps,’ Laura says. Gramps squints like he can’t detect where the voice has come from.
‘Where’s Ellie?’ he repeats.
‘Let’s sit you down, Dad.’ Linda parks him at the end of the table. I open the oven door to put the chicken doughnuts in.
‘Who’s that girl over there, the one with the big bottom?’ Gramps yells.
‘Dad, don’t say things like that,’ Linda loudly whispers.
‘Who is it, though?’
‘That’s Amy, Josh’s fiancée.’ Still loudly whispering.
‘You’re not allowed to say things like that anymore.
’ I carry on as if I haven’t heard anything, but turn away so that my bum is out of Gramp’s eyeline.
Josh and Jason pile back into the kitchen on a high.
Man United won. Good for them. Josh comes over, peers at what I’m doing, and picks up one of the M&S canapé boxes.
‘Did you know there are 200 calories in that chicken doughnut?’ he says.
‘Joshy! Please, I do not want to hear a word about calories or carbs or that macro malarky,’ Linda says, pointing at her son with a spoon. ‘And you, Mr . . .’ She turns to Jason, who is taking a can of Budweiser out of the fridge. ‘Slow down. We don’t want a dizzy Butters on our hands.’
There is a loud bang. I jump, Linda yelps and Gary barks. Gramps is unpacking his now-cracked cracker. He inspects a tiny pack of cards with dissatisfaction and then places a purple paper crown on his head.
‘I want to eat now,’ he says.
Ray’s OCD doesn’t let us sit until all the food has been arranged properly. Eventually, after a lot of slotting here and there, everything just about fits. Just. Linda digs in first, poking a podgy cocktail sausage with her fork.
‘Diet starts tomorrow,’ she announces to everybody. The smell of experimental canapés wafts up my nose and stirs up the warm puddle of last night’s Prosecco in my stomach.
‘Beef ?’ Josh asks, hovering a slightly grey slice over my plate. I shake my head, feeling sick, and then tear off a chunk of stale baguette.
‘Where’s the turkey?’ Gramps asks.
‘Dad, we ate the turkey,’ Linda replies.
Gramps chuckles in disbelief. ‘What kind of woman doesn’t have a turkey at Christmas?’
Linda sighs and puts her knife and fork down to explain. ‘We had Christmas, Dad. I got you that penguin tie you’re wearing right now. This is The New Year’s Leftover Lunch. Mum used to do it, remember?’ She picks up her fork again and stabs another sausage.
Gramps looks down at his plate like it’s a puzzle. To be fair to him, considering there is a pile of mash, two balls of stuffing, a prawn-in-blanket and a couple of Ferrero Rochers, I would be confused too.
‘Why don’t you try an M&S blue cheese ball?’ Linda says and puts one on his plate. Gramps tries to scoop it up with his fork, but instead, he pushes it off the plate and it rolls onto the floor. Gary eats it.
‘What was that favour you wanted to ask, Mum?’ Josh says.
Gramps slams his fist on the table. ‘Where’s the turkey?’
‘Dad,’ Linda moans. Gramps stands up. ‘Dad. Dad. Sit down. Here, have a chicken doughnut.’
‘No.’ He shuffles out of the kitchen and continues his rant down the hallway. ‘I won’t have this family going without a turkey this Christmas.’
Josh gets up.
‘Leave him,’ Linda says, waving her son down. ‘He usually goes to the end of the road and comes back.’ The front door slams, and the only noise left is Robbie singing ‘Old Before I Die’.
The song ends. A pause, and then ‘Angels’ starts to play.
Jason gets up. ‘I’ll go find him,’ he says.
Josh stands again but is waved down once more.
‘Stay, Josh. Your mum needs to talk to you.’ Jason pats Linda on the shoulder before leaving the kitchen.
‘Ray, come,’ he demands from the hallway.
Ray’s only protest is a small sigh before he leaves the table.
As soon as the front door closes, Linda bursts into tears.
‘Mum, are you okay? What’s wrong?’ Josh asks. It’s as if it’s the first time he has seen his mum cry, which is odd because she cries at everything: a royal parade, The Bake Off final, or having to parallel park on a busy street.
‘Sorry. Sorry. Oh dear. This is not how we want to start the new year now, is it?’ She wipes her cheeks, but then begins sobbing again.
‘Mum, I think you should just ask them,’ Laura says.
‘Ask what?’ Josh says.
‘Go for it, Mum,’ Laura says encouragingly. Linda takes a long, shaky inhale through her nose. I stare at the torn-up piece of bread on my plate, mentally preparing myself for whatever this may be.