My grandfather was around 75 years old when he found himself in charge of the said grandaughter during her school holidays. He had had that dubious pleasure on and off since she was nearly three when her father had become ill and her mother had moved back to her parents' home so that she could go out to work to keep herself and me until my father was fit to work again. Papa (pronounced to rhyme with cuppa) was my favourite person. I loved my mother dearly and Nanan, my grand-mother,too; but she was a very busy lady and was out a lot. So Papa was It with me.1
We lived in a tall house with steps up to the front door and a married couple who rented two rooms at the back on the first floor. Nanan and I shared the bedroom in the front, opposite the Electricity showroom which was in the process of being built. Papa slept in a small room next to ours because he snored so loudly that Nanan wouldn't have him in the same room as her. Mother's bedroom was on the third floor at the front. As with all working class families, the kitchen was the centre of the home with its huge black-leaded range with an oven and coal fire for cooking. That is until mother persuaded Nanan to instal a GAS COOKER. A dangerous and highly uncertain way of producing either pots of tea or a full meal. Nanan stuck to the range. Papa brewed endless pots of tea from the large iron kettle which stood on top of the range and he toasted innumerable slices of white bread in front of the fire at the end of a long-handled toasting fork. More of this later.2
We ate all our meals in the kitchen, even at Christmas when it was difficult to fit all the grown-ups round the large wooden table.Most of the time one end of the table was permanently covered with layers of cloths on which Nanan did the ironing, or pushed the cloths away in order to make cakes and puddings or pastry. She heated the iron on the open top of the fire and spat on it to test when it was hot enough for the clothes. The table was definitely an all-purpose one. When I was tall enough to put my arms on it, I had my own piece of pastry cut off from the main dough with which I made offerings for my mother when she came home from work. They were grey and rather hard when they were cooked, but I stood over her while she ate every single piece.3
Gradually I am getting round to my grandfather, but I needed to establish the setting before doing so. My earliest memory at all - and not very early compared with all those wonderful people who can remember their first breath almost - was of being able to touch the kitchen ceiling. And how did I, all of 18 months and probably no more than 2 feet high, manage to do that? Papa was tall and he used to place my feet firmly in the palm of his left hand, plant his right hand in the centre of my back and slowly, gently lift me up until I could touch the ceiling. He was not only tall, he still had considerable strength for the legend has it that I looked like a fragile piece of china but weighed a ton when picked up.4
One night just before mother had to send me away to live with her best friend in Bexleyheath, I threw up all over my cot. Papa was the only other person in the house at the time.When he heard me crying he came upstairs, changed my pyjamas, washed me, brought me downstairs into the back parlour (we would call it his study these days) and told me a story about fairies and trees. It was not until I was in my teens that I was told why mother sent me away from my grandparents. Not long before that, however, is my first memory of my father. Nanan, Papa and mother were in the front parlour with the gas fire full on, with me sitting on a tiny stool at mother's feet. She had just come home from hospital after (I was told later) a sinus operation. As they sat talking we heard a strange series of bumps somewhere in the hall. I got up and trotted out to see what it was and ran back into the room: "Mama, Mama, Daddy's lying at the bottom of the stairs!" That was the last time I saw my father for two or three years. I went to live in Bexleyheath with Auntie Betty, Young Betty and Peter and came home to Nanan and Papa for the school holidays. School holidays was when life with Papa really began. Telling you about it will make up the next chapter.5
Author notes
This is really Part I of a series about my grandfather.As well as telling about him, what I am doing also is describing life in East London (Walthamstow) between both world wars.
What did you think? Please comment!
Comments
1 - 8 of 8
-
wonderful
A wonderful read of life in another time. Thank you so much for sharing this. I am headed off to part two.
thank you.
Talia -
I really am glad you like this. It's my first attempt at trying to get the grandfather I adored down in print for other people to get to know. Part II coming up fairly soon, I think, before I get cold feet and leave it in the air. However I shall try to let your encouragement anchor me for a while.
-
As usual you take my breath away and I am not affraid or too arogant to get emotional over a poem or story that moves me, anyway I have never been a cold fish,I love it , love it ,love it.It's a wonderful story very rich on visuals, next chapter PLEASE .
-
Sorry, I didn't make it clear enough, should have put "Auntie" in quotes, as just now. She was my mother's best friend (whom I hated because she did nothing but nag day in day out)and her children were 2 and 4 years older than me.I didn't have brothers or sisters, and no cousin appeared until I was 5, which meant that they were pretty useless as playmates until I was about 10, by which time it didn't matter anyway. All of this section happened before the war: I was born in 1926 "you came with the General Strike", as mother always said! Thank you for your encouraging comments. Writing stories has never been my forte, so your appraisal is much appreciated.
-
Very interesting.
I liked this a lot, and I am anxious to see how it develops. I am intrigued by something...when you talked about being sent off to live with your aunt, I am guessing it was during the war. If this is correct, then your cousins came to visit during school holidays prior to that...am I correct in that understanding?
As I said, I am anxious to see how this develops. -
Hallo, there, it sounds as though you liked this first part. I'm glad.There are many strands to the story and keeping them tethered is goiong to be quite a challenge. The exile to Bexleyheath was due to one of the most difficult things my grandfather ever had to do in his long life. I don't know precisely what my grandmother did but grandfather told mhy mother in all seriousness that, if she didn't want me ruined for life, she had to get me away from my grandmother's influence. My grandfather adored my grandmother: in nearly every letter he wrote his love for her shone through. It must have broken his heart to suggest I be sent away. My mother must have been at her wits' end, but she trusted her father implicitly and knew he would not make such a suggestion unless he meant it very seriously. So, off I went. About my father has to be dealt with by IM. All for now, talk soon. Joy
-
We forget now just how many people, both family, extended family and 'lodgers' used to live in houses that now are bemoaned 'too small' for a couple. And just how much time and effort went into washing ironing and cooking. Looking forward to the next installment- what happened to Daddy, why the exile to Bexleyheath...Thanks, Joy!
-
I read your comment - apparently you're somewhat pissed off at the fact that I don't like comments like 'I love it!'? I think you misunderstood - I meant that when I write comments, I don't like having only 'I like it'. I mean, I'll do praise, but then I also write what I think can be improved, or what I like specifically. I don't mind how other people critique; that is just my way of doing things. Sorry if that bothered you.
Adding your comment:
1 - 8 of 8
