It’s a very different ‘blog’ I write today. You see, I left Shanghai for summer in London and the jet lag barely subsided before we were called to the hospital: my nan had suffered a heart attack and was critically ill. Perhaps one day I will write about tubes, vigils and being lost but for today I copy the eulogy I was asked to write and read at the ceremony where my dancing queen nan was imagined dancing goodbye before her coffin to Frank Sinatra, Bocelli and Glen Miller. What a lady.
‘My nan was by no means a saint. And I don’t think she would want to be described as such. She was extraordinary, but not a saint. Saints are boring. A saint would not ignore air raid sirens during the blitz so that she could watch the end of a show. A saint would not say a very rude word to a man at the top of windmill hill when he cut her up at the lights (even though it was her that had driven through a red). A saint would not gauge the size of a parking space by bouncing off the cars either side or need to drive to Red Cross gigs down the road to deliver dj equipment at the age of 89. And a saint probably wouldn’t eat 99p chicken Kiev’s from Iceland. And a saint could probably pronounce ‘quiche’.
In fact I know she would not have wanted to be a saint. There would be far less sherry (a pleasure she enjoyed and intended to continue enjoying if the shopping list we found at her flat was anything to go by: bread, butter, wine, sherry and chocolate buttons for Taylor). There would be less dancing, probably less laughing, or maybe less laughing so loudly and a saint would probably not care so much about looking smart and chic every single day.
No, she wasn’t a saint. But… she was a legend. Not to labour a point but a legend has many saintly qualities such as a tireless inclination to love, a desire to make people happy, a rather admirable neat and tidy flat… A legend will have all of these qualities, as nan did in abundance, but they will also have an edge. A fun, laughter filled edge. They would inspire stories, unique and shared and I bet that 9 times out of 10, someone will be laughing at the end of them.
There can be no doubt in the minds of nan’s family and friends that her pride in us was infallible. Even though we left her to go off on travels, or did not visit as often as we could, she would never fail to delight in hearing from us even when she would say who’s that? And we would all reply ‘your favourite’.
When I used to visit nan we tended to watch a video in the afternoon, and that is an actually video. It took her so long to figure out how to use that that introducing her to a dvd player seemed rather too ominous a task. After making sure that I had everything I needed: tea, biscuit, chocolate etc, she’d settle down into her arm chair hold the remote as far towards the telly as she actually could from a seated position then holster the same remote in the strange fluffy cat thing that she had hanging off of the arm of the chair. Ultimately and often, I would end up on the floor at her feet, next to the poof, and she would have her hand on my head, and would be stroking my hair like a natural reflex, those soft beautiful hands making me safe, relaxed, a child again.
We would hang out, listen to the music she loved, we’d watch tv in the evening after nan had cooked a dinner, taking her time, preparing everything, folding empty plastic bags with precision, storing boxes for recycling and ensuring that every scrap of food that could be used, was used. There was to be no wastage, a lingering habit perhaps from the war days. And then perhaps when we would finish dinner and polish off the last of the warm Liebfraumilch (cold if I was lucky) we would head off to bed, me going first so that I could try to fall asleep before she started snoring but ultimately failing. I would lay beneath those covers, sheets and blankets, in a bed so thoughtfully and carefully made that I would promise myself every time that I’d do away with the duvet and invest the time and commitment of a blanketed bed. Anyway, when she’d get in, ultimately those hands would pad around until she’d find my face, tap me gently tell me good night and then turn to sleep, not quite as talkative when she’s taken her teeth out.
In the morning was the fry up. Windows open throughout the flat, underwear, nighties, yesterday’s clothes already hanging on the window catches to dry after an early wash. I sat atop the little stool in the kitchen, not allowed to do anything except tell her stories about my adventures or the naughty kids at school which she delighted in. Nan would diligently take out the frying pans, remove the piece of kitchen roll that separates them and lay them out on the electric rings. Those beautiful and precise hands would select a specific knife for the tomatoes, get the scissors for the bacon, take her time over the mushrooms and set the plates out ready for warming before breakfast would be served. Cold plates were unacceptable.
She would be in her long nightdress, moving back and forth across the floor, her slippers padding purposefully and creating a sound I hope never to forget. Then she would set it all up on of the trays recently pulled from between the cooker and the cupboard, order me to sit down so that she could deliver a feast to her doting granddaughter with a cheeky pat on the cheek and a grin before she oofed into her chair to join me.
I tell you all this because there will be some part of my story with which you will recognise your own experience of nan. When, by simply making breakfast the way she did reflects how thorough she was, how committed to making the best of something and how much we were going to enjoy it, the same can be said of her approach to most things.
No one can deny that she enjoyed life and made the best of situations. When her ears stopped her from travelling by air, she ‘resorted’ to luxury cruises and coach trips. When she finished caring for the injured British soldiers during the war, she went chasing Americans ones with her cousin Sylvia. A Tesco shop would be far less arduous when a pub lunch punctuated the journey home. She had fun, she laughed so so much and that’s something which we should all do more.
In all of this, however, I think it essential to remember that this fun loving lady, the one that actually did run over my dad once, trapping him by the knees between two cars due to a mistimed joke; the one that left Milson trapped in the back of her car because she was laughing too hard to help him, it’s essential to remember that she was a powerhouse. My sisters and my cousins would never misbehave for nan. We would tease her because she loved that but we would never disrespect her. There was a strength in her that she didn’t need to use, we just knew it was there. As the doctors will have done when she was a young woman carrying my aunty with one lung having been collapsed due to TB treatment; like all of her friends when she got through losing her husband, my granddad, when he died far too early; like when she moved to a new area and needed to make friends yet was nervous. Like the bus driver and passengers will have seen beneath the wide eyed wonderment of nan after she had driven into the back of a bus having only recently passed her driving test on the 5th attempt.
I remember talking about fear with her not so long ago. I told her I was tired of being scared about what I was doing, where I was working of what people thought and maybe didn’t think of me. She told me something that surprised me. She said that when she first went to the Red Cross morning on down the road, she was scared to go in. She had loitered at the doorway, unsure of herself and she had turned to leave before someone bumped into her and said something like ‘are you coming in?’ And she did. I had always thought her fearless and strong but far from making me doubt her, it made me admire her all the more. You see it made me see that it is ok to be scared, that actually the thing to ensure is that you face it head on and you grasp it and try anyway. Yes life was sometimes scary but it is also a challenge and something to be embraced and enjoyed.
My nan had a better social life than many of us have, from parties at number 68 to coffee mornings and dances with her friends of Croxley Green at the age of 89. She loved life, especially having met Milson lately so we were never too cross that she was difficult to reach. She loved people, her daughters, her friends, us, even the kids she used to squeeze into the back of the car after school. They would come as much to see her as to get a lift home, even with the screaming engine being driven up the hill in second gear. Her pride in her daughters, grandchildren, great grandchildren and friends was immeasurable. Her life in Cherwell Close, especially since meeting Milson makes me happy as she was. She made us all feel good and happy and loved and in turn we adored her as well she knew. A legend will live on forever with love like that, and stories like our stories which I have no doubt we’ll share. I am thankful that her blood runs through me, I am grateful to have been inspired by such a lady. I am so sad that those hands will not stroke my head again but I will remember the way they did forever.
I leave you with three vital ‘nan rules’ that my sister reminded me of earlier this week. Firstly, never leave the house without having made your bed. Second: always apply a little lipstick once you’re ready to leave the house because you never know who you are likely to meet. And finally, if you want to get really drunk, drink wine through a straw. Take heed, it’s the advice lovingly delivered by my nan, your mum, your chocolate nanny and your companion, your friend: a true legend.’
She went to Shanghai 