Today is the one year anniversary of my Nans passing, and here I wanted to share the lighthearted autobiographical piece I wrote about her and read at her funeral. It's comforting to remember her as she was, I hope you like it.
My Gran and Other Animals.
We’re in
the kitchen Nan and me. Its morning and there is a small long haired Yorkshire
Terrier sitting with it’s nose pressed against the radiator behind the kitchen
door. I do not know this little animal.
It’s not
a new experience, finding mystery furry creatures in the house. In the 70’s Nan
was always bringing home strays of the four-legged variety. One actually rang
the doorbell one night, a small pregnant tabby cat we named Mitsy, on account
of her soft mitteny fur. She stayed about 15 years and took her last breath in
Mum and Grans arms.
Nan
never could resist a furry face.
She once got in a fight with a very large man on Cloudsley Road because
he hit his dog. “Pick on someone your own size!” she said.
“What are you like
Nan?” I said, “Giving me a heart attack with the fighting with big men over
dogs.”
If I
grabbed one of her jackets to pop to the shop, I would always find the
following in her pockets; Tatty bits of tissues, monkey nuts for squirrels,
special dog choccy buttons and smelly biscuit animal treats, particles of which
would inevitably end up under my nails.
“Nan”
I’d say, “Its like pets-R-us in these pockets, what are you like?”
“Well, I
have to have something for all my furry little friends” she’d say.
These
days Nan had moved from bringing home strays, and feeding any living thing that
showed up (including a wounded pigeon that got stuck in a neighbours airy for a
week, “I gave it boiled chicken and ham” she told me) to looking after other
peoples animals, mostly without mentioning it to me or mum beforehand.
On
occasion she would hide them in her room, then release them quietly into the
house hoping we wouldn’t notice (It’s hard not to notice a black and white
mongrel watching your telly with it’s paws up). She was afraid we would say no,
a word foreign to Gran.
“Nan,
why is there a small dog staring at the radiator?” I say.
“Oh it’s not
staring,” she says, “It’s blind.”
“Right,” I say,
“Who’s is it?”
“It’s Eileens, she’s
visiting relatives in Wales.”
“What’s its name
then?”
“Ooo, I don’t know,”
she says, ‘”I’ve forgotten it.”
“You don’t know its
name?” I say.
She’s
not really concentrating. She’s looking in draws, sorting and rummaging,
apparently trying to find her lottery ticket. The sun newspaper is open,
waiting, with the numbers ready for her to check. She is wearing a pair of
wonky glasses, having only one arm on them, they are the most recent victim of
her propensity to sit on things.
She
actually sat on mums cat ‘’Rhettmans’ once. We feared for his organs. Mum cried
out in panic. “I’m nowhere near him,” Nan said. The cats face expressed adamant
disagreement, and he velcroed himself to mum, who spent the evening kissing
him, rolling her eyes at Gran and making jokes that I should watch myself or
nanny might squash me.
“I do
know it’s name, it’ll come to me in a minute,” Gran says, having located the
lottery ticket, “wont help anyway, it’s deaf.”
“It’s deaf and blind,” I say, “how does it know
it’s alive?”
“I don’t know,”
she says, “it’s very old, it’s got no teeth either.”
“Poor thing,” I say,
wanting to stroke it but fearing I’ll give it a heart attack to add to it’s
troubles.
“Oh that’s it name,”
she says, having finally sat down, “it’s Wanda.”
“Wanda,” I say, “It’s
a wonder all right, a wonder it’s alive.”
She
can’t help laughing, and gets up to open a pouch of food.
“How’s
it gonna eat that?” I say, watching her intently, as if waiting for a magician
to perform a trick.
“Aah bless It,” she
says, giving it a little stroke, and gently putting it’s face in the juicy
meat, “it’ll have to gum it I suppose.”
It’s
present day, the phone is ringing. Someone answers, there’s a silence, a
rustling, and a pressing of buttons. I know this drill, so I wait. “Hello,” she
says finally.
“Oh hello,” I say in
a posh official voice, “I’d like
to speak to Smuffy Gran please, is she available?” (Smuffy is my nickname for
her) I hear giggles down the phone followed by a little snort of laughter.
She
tries to put on the same voice, “Yes, Muffy Gran speaking,” she says. She
always misses the S, but her willingness to play along delights me.
“How are you Gran?” I
say.
She does
another big snort laugh and I know what’s coming, her latest faux pas. Examples
of which include; riding her bike wearing her jacket upside down, putting the
cat food in the tumble dryer and then not being able to find it, realising at
3.30pm whilst standing in front of the fresh meat section of Marks and Spencer
that she has been wearing odd shoes all day, and spending a whole weekend
looking for her false teeth only for mum to spot them hanging off the back of
her cardigan when she gets up to close the shutters Sunday night.
“What have you done
this time Gran?” I say.
“I tried to ring
Barbera on the sky remote control,” she says laughing, “I wondered why the
telly kept changing channels.” I crack up, this is possibly my favourite to
date. “ Nan,” I say, ‘”they broke the mould when they made you.”
They
did.
By Kelly
J Hitchen July 2013.
