Grandpa

Contrary to my sister’s belief my grandfather did not deliberately die on her birthday.  I guess, if he’d have had a choice, he would’t have died at all - although, who would want to live forever? Well, perhaps we all would if we could sustain a semblance of youth, but then, by the time my grandpa died he was, largely speaking, past his best. 

I have a number of memories of him - probably the earliest memory was him arriving to babysit the 3 of us (before my younger brother was born) because my mother had a shift at Smith and Nephews, working on the Nivea line. He arrived in his trilby hat (which I was given at his death and which lasted years, eventually found rotting in my cellar and thrown away in the great clear out of 2014 before moving lock, stock and barrel to the south west.)   He was also wearing his overcoat (in  my memory it was summer) and although not the tallest bloke he was nonetheless austere - it was hard to square this man with the coal man that my mother talked about or the boy soldier, who rose to non-commissioned officer rank captain.   When you’re a child, it is hard to reconcile that adults have any previous life at all.  And yet, his by all accounts had been eventful. 

From his undistinguished birth: the bastard child of a scullery maid and a math’s professor (though no on has ever found the proof of this) through to his days as a lollipop man. He was called Andy by the world at large (although his name was Arthur) because he was handy with the ladies. He met my gran at 28 and she was was 18.   He was born within the sound of the Bow bells - so I’ve got some of that South East blood, that London stuff running through my veins two generations removed though I’m not convinced many of his genes made their way to me.  I’m of the other side I think, all angled cheekbones and word obsessed.

On the baby sitting night, we ran the poor bugger ragged.  My sister and I had  a wind-up record player and we played “Shoo fly don’t bother me” and “Skip to my lou my darling” on it so often, that he was probably close to throttling us. Every time the refrain, Skip to my lou came on, that’s exactly what we did... skipped enthusiastically and with a degree of gusto belying the fact that we were way past our bedtime, crashing into each other in our eagerness to get to the toilet first.  He tried telling us it wasn’t that kind of loo but we ignored him getting giddier with each turn. 

He never looked after us again. 

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