My Granddad

There’s a little girl, shielding her eyes from the summer sun, delicately crossing her ankles covered by slightly askew socks.  She’s perched on a stumpy stool, scarcely concealed by some whispering sweet peas; a little pea under some little peas.  She’s avidly watching an older man, brown skin taut over his ribs, focussing on the task in hand.  He occasionally glances across to the little girl, grins a cheeky grin, winks and then continues with his operation.  She sits forwards, anticipating something, then he hands her a bowl, heaped with red, juicy fruit; strawberries, sweet, sweet strawberries.  “Go on Annie, Annie get your gun, take those to your Nanna, and don’t eat any!” He winks.  She skips away, intermittently dipping her hand into the dish and bringing the bulbous, red gifts to her lips.  She giggles and moves a little more slowly towards the house.  That winking man; my granddad; that little girl; me.

As a very shy child my granddad created a fun world of gardening, dancing and jokes to observe.  He would never expect a response from me as he knew the words were in my toes and the journey to my lips was a long and tortuous one.  However, he waited for my giggles, for the mischievous glint in my eye and he would smile his knowing smile and continue with his current focus.  He was always doing, always fixing, always tweaking and absolutely always dancing and being silly.  His other pal, other than me, was his cat, which he just called, Puss Puss.  She was vicious to everyone else but loved granddad.  She would draw her sandpaper tongue down his arm, demonstrating her aloof affection.  He would tell the neighbours on one side that she was called Patch, on the other side that she was called Flannagan; I would giggle.

My granddad would leave the house at first dawn on a weekend morning and run for miles; he would leave the house at first dawn on a weekday morning and climb scaffolding to create houses, extensions, shops.  He would come back to the house and twist his green fingers amongst the flowers creating magic; he would become animated cheering on Coe, Ovett or Cram following his garden adventures; he would twirl me around the kitchen in a silly but very groovy dance.  And I would absorb and absorb and absorb and I would giggle.

My granddad passed away 26 years ago today.  He didn’t see me, with my uncoordinated limbs, complete the London marathon in 2009, crossing the finish line, thinking of him. He didn’t see me scream at the top of my voice, cheering on the runners at the Manchester Commonwealth games, there, live in the stadium.  He doesn’t see me dance around the room enjoying a regular kitchen disco with my daughter, laughing.

My mum phoned me this morning, feeling emotional, asking me to share my memories of granddad.  Well my enduring memory of my granddad mum, is as a magician who welcomed a shy little girl into his world of magic, made her feel very safe there and made her giggle a lot too.