(As it happened, in a Tyneside flat in Heaton, Newcastle, in the 1960s)
A knock on the door. I’ll get it.
It’s Grandad cadaverous on the doorstep. Behind him Grandma, distressed. And Uncle Ralph, who gave them a lift, his concern nudging Gandma to tears.
Concentration from Grandad shuffling over the top step and two paces into the passage. Before me the working class, World War One face, shrunken and mud yellow. Shake his hand. Compassion lifts my other fingers to grip bone where biceps should be.
“All the very best, Grandad.” Not “Many of them,” although the irony would be lost on the unsubtle good man.
Little Grandma’s cold, red nose and dry kiss on my cheek, eyes moist.
Help him down the passage and into the Christmas dining room to the family, shocked to look at death in the doorway.
Overloud greetings: “Halloh Grandad. How lovely to see you.” Then a short silence, the tired head trembling. But no silences. No silences.
“Come, let’s take your coats. Merry Christmas Grandma. So glad you and Grandad could make it. David, take these clothes to the bedroom.”
Mam, seeing Grandma’s tears. “It’s all right Dave. I’ll take them. Come on Gandma, I’ve something to show you.” Off to the bedroom and words of comfort and weeping, with mam in ski-pants mothering sweet, old funny-faced Mary Jane.
Contrast in age and texture as golden Karina greets him with gentleness, but thank goodness no kiss to make him feel young again. That would be ghastly. But kisses are not our Grandad’s concern.
He’s thinking of bowels that ruined the night and hopes they don’t ruin the party. He’s remembering teetering from bed to the loo and “Eeh Mary, who wid hev thowt yu’d hev to dee things like this for me,” and “Now Jack, while aam here nee stranger’s ganna dee it, are they?”
Dad speaks: “Well, Pa, and how are things.?”
And the old man, on the sofa by the fire, tells, through catarrh, of the events of the night but not the things that Mary must do.
“And the water gans straight through iz.”
”Well you know what you should do.” Dad giving advice. Don’t reject it; he’ll be hurt. “Get a po for under the bed.” Sagging Grandad, licking lips, adds to the list of his symptoms. Dad insisting: “Get a po then. Will you get a po?”
Grandma, back with us and comforted: “I’ll get him a bucket,” placating her son. “Listen, get him a po.” Grandad explaining, a jerry’s too low, but Dad once again: “Will you get him a po?” A chorus from me and my brother who know of Dad’s weak points as well as our own: “A jerry’s no good for him.”
Admonished and red-faced: “Will you get him a pail then?” “Aye,” snub nose bobbing. “A big one on Monday,” says Grandma., and honour is satisfied.
It’s time for the meal and a flurry of fussing from Grandma as she whirls in a tizzy over who should sit where. “Now Grandma, you and Grandad sit down there and don’t bother yourselves.”
Turkey of course, and potatoes and stuffing and turnip and peas and apple sauce and sprouts and gravy on plates that were meant for half that. But Grandad has less.
Bent over plate, speech thick as though food is clogging, he says: “Splendid…it’s splendid …But enough to feed the five thousand lass.” Some words feebly formed, he must repeat wetly, and I chew away selfish wishes that I could eat without seeing him, and smother thoughts of his hidden sores and water filled feet with a deluge of food taken too quickly for tasting.
“Just leave what you don’t want Grandad,” says Mam. And we talk Christmas merry talk and praise the wine, and the old man has three glasses, and I relax, eat more slowly and taste the food again, and again feel compassion for Grandad.
Sit full round the fire and watch tiny Tania pat a doll on the mat as her mother Karina washes dishes, she says, to keep from the temptation of drink.
Grandad, head back, a hand over eyes, must have been watching, for he whispers: “What a canny bairn. She is though. Can ye understand how anyone can harm a little bairn for cryin’ and such, like some of them dee? It makes me wonder.” Shakes his head.
As usual he has said it many times. No-one minds now.
Try out Dad’s new tape recorder – a present from Mam and costly too. “Da da,” says David. “Da, da,” says Grandma. “Da, da, da, da, da,” say I, and look pleadingly at Tania, who smiles, and pats her doll and makes no sound to send on tape to her Granma in Germany. David, whispering to me: “Say, ‘Talk Tania.” I: ”Talk Tania.” David, deep voiced, “Aa’ve been talking all day; aa’m sick of it man.”
Through the laughter comes a droning. “Leave the tape. It’s Grandad singing.” Didn’t know he had it in him.
Almost toneless, Grandad sings at the ceiling, eyes tight shut – one verse, two, three verses of the Blaydon Races because he’s proud of knowing all six. (Dad watching wants to cry and he bites on his pipe with sob-searing mouth, and no-one has noticed but me.)
We shut the old man up by stopping the tape and playing it back. “Isn’t it marvellous,” eyes tight shut, tongue cleaving, listening. “Isn’t it marvellous man what they can dee today.” His cigarette drops from trembling fingers.
Beside him before Grandma confuses with panic.
Now what? Where is that cigarette? “It’s all right now, Grandma.”
“Sit Jack, it’ll be in the crease of his waistcoat,” Grandad, chin-tucked, peering and flapping at his chest. Where’s that bloody cigarette? They’ll think I’m ineffectual.
“Can you stand up a minute Grandad?”
“Is it in his turn-up? Jack, Jack. Perhaps it’s in your pocket.”
“All right now Grandma. Let Grandad sit on your side of the sofa. That’s it. Here it is under the cushion. No damage done.” Thank God it’s found and no need for proving oneself further to company.
Natives perform a dance of death don’t they? But Grandad’s not dancing because he’s dying – Grandad refuses to know that. He’s dancing becaue it’s his habit at Christmas to stand with his hands raised up to his chest and shuffling his feet in a parody of Hornpipe shout: “Eeh mother yer bairn”.
Now shuffle is too strong a word as we watch, upset and admiring. One foot slowly forward. (“He’s stubborn,” Mam had told me alone together in the kitchen.”) Foot back again. (“He’s been determined he was going to be here today.”) He’s toppling.
But no – he continues to the lavatory, the almost disastrous slow-step already, in his mind, a deft demonstration of his perkiness.
Mud yellow, he says to us: “Lad, aa’m enjoyin’ meself.”
Dad says: “Good Pa. I’m pleased to hear it,” and gives us a tune on his mouth organ.
Of the people depicted, only I and adult Tania, my daughter, are still alive
