Shifting Sands

I didn't know my maternal grandfather well, I left Scotland at the tender age of eight and he died less than a couple of years later. I have a vague recollection of a thin, bald headed man who would pat me on the head in greeting. I think he meant it as a sign of affection, but his version of a pat usually left me marginally concussed.

He often got my name wrong, but then he seldom addressed anyone  by name, he usually called me "Girl", as in , "Girl, come over here and put some more coal on the fire", or, "Girl, go play outside so as I can hear myself think."

My mother tended to tip-toe around him, it wasn't until later and as an adult that I realised how intimidated she was in his presence. In his younger days Peter had ruled his wife and children with a rod of iron, and despite the onset of age and infirmity, time didn't mellow him.

He married my grandmother when she was barely fifteen, and sired ten children with her. One, Joseph, died as a baby, a sad but common occurrence for those days. I know my grandfather had one main abiding passion, that of playing the bagpipes, and apparently he played them well. This elevated him to the respected position of being the Pipe Major in his Scottish regiment, The Gordons.

Always early to rise, he delighted in rousing the house around 5.30am to the stirring and deafening skirl of his favourite instrument. I've no doubt lesser wives would have cheerfully murdered him in his bed, but my grandmother, Alice, was a passive creature, used to doing as bid.

She died young, well before I was born, but for every week as far back as I can remember my mother took my siblings and myself off on a regular Sunday pilgrimage to tend to her grave.

We also paid a weekly visit to my grandfather's house, as did her three other sisters. They shared in his care, cleaning his house, shopping and generally keeping an eye out for him. Families did that sort of thing for each other in those days, it was never something in question.

I didn't mind going there, there was a huge overgrown jungle in his back yard where I spent many a happy hour stalking savage Indians or hiding from floods of blood-thirsty pirates. I also seem to recall camping out there on the odd occasion under a battered green, army-issue canvass tent. As I say, I didn't know him well, he barely really registered in my life.

That is, until the Summer of my seventh year.

My father wasn't happy, but my mother (unusually for her) stood her ground. After a bad fall, Grandad, complete with a full-length plaster cast welded to his leg, moved in to stay, and overnight our house became a far more interesting place to live. Grandad was a sly old fox, used to having his way, and he effortlessly soon had us all dancing in circles to his fine, merry tune. 

Easily bored, he loved making mischief.

I received quite an education that year, and despite all of his many flaws, I actually grew to love that cussed old man more than I'd ever imagined. We were partners in crime, often arch enemies, but most often we simply settled in to being two good friends, watching out for each other under what was often a chaotic and unpredictable existence.

I didn't chose to befriend him, I actively disliked him from the start. His bed was in our living room (we had no where else to put it) and he smelled. His table manners were disgusting, he drank tea from his saucer and belched over everything, but far worse than any of that, he was frequently the sole cause of preventing me from running outside in the sun to play with my friends.

Grandad discovered a love of board games, Ludo and Snakes and Ladders, as well as of cards - Three Card Rummy to be precise, where he would play for matchsticks.

No one wanted to partner him, so it usually fell to me. He was a sore loser, and a rotten, mean cheat, and no matter how many times I caught him out, he always furiously denied it.

Naturally, when he came to stay, his bagpipes came too.

He wanted to teach me how to play, but the thought of all of his spittle blocking up the mouthpiece simply turned my stomach, although I somehow always managed to come up with a distraction to save myself from this gut-wrenching prospect, I never quite relaxed when he picked them up.

I can relate many a tale of the months we spent together, he was a rogue and not always a good person, but he was also funny, often unexpectedly kind, and a brilliant musician (if you liked that kind of thing). 

I believe I got to know the man my mother never knew.

The odd thing is, that is exactly what my hubby recently said about the relationship his own father shared with our children. My husband has no memory of his father ever hugging him, or of him telling him that he loved him, and yet he seemed to get it so right the second time around. Our Children positively worshipped their grandad, as he did them.

Such complex creatures us Humans, eh?