LITMIR.BIZ

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of our family has ever pursued good health but then no one ever goes to a gym unless they’re a professional athlete. We only ever jog or run anywhere if we’re late for work, or have a bus or train to catch,’ Gramps explained with a half laugh. ‘I cycle to work on an ordinary black-framed bike with a large wicker basket on the front. It’s good enough for me. I don’t need anything fancy. I wear cycle leg clips to keep my uniform trousers from flapping into the well-greased chain. And when I return home from work I hoist my bike crossbar up onto my shoulder and carry my bicycle up a single flight of stairs to our flat on the first floor at 8 Barlby Road.’

      I’m sure the concept of riding a bicycle in a stationary position for exercise purposes would have caused Gramps great merriment, as would have aerobics, step aerobics, step jump, pump, power pump, step, step attack, or hip hop. Gramps may have preferred the gentler approaches of yoga, Pilates, tai chi, or moving slowly beneath the spread of an old oak tree after a day’s work.

      Most people smoked but Gran and Mum never did. Otherwise my family were ordinary people in their habits who drank and ate pretty much whatever they could afford.

      I never knew about the origins of my grandparents on Dad’s side and even less about Mum’s side of the family. They were born in the late 1800s in the slums of Notting Hill, London. Otherwise they were never mentioned.

      When I asked Gramps, he said, ‘Oh, them. Don’t concern yourself. They weren’t worth knowing, were they, Girl?’ Gramps often called Gran, ‘Girl.’

      ‘None of them were,’ Gran sniffed.

      Whereas Dad was an only child Mum was ninth in line. But that particular father wasn’t keen to hang around. Mum never met him.

      ‘He was as much use as a cardboard spanner,’ Gran said.

      Gramps told me, ‘The world is set for major problems the way life is unfolding after the war. It might be over but it isn’t done with yet. Mark my words young, John, the only thing wrong with the death penalty, is it’s not used often enough.’

      Gran added, ‘I know we’re supposed to be charitable but after starting two World Wars I still say the only good German’s a dead one!’

      ‘You can add Japanese to that list, Girl.’

      My grandparents’ backgrounds were working class. Both grannies worked as charladies cleaning other people’s houses. Their lives were uncomplicated. Provided there was food on their table, coal to burn in their hearth, and a clean bed to sleep in, they were happy.

      ‘It’s a nice change after the shortages of war,’ Mum said over a hot, sweet cuppa during a visit to Barlby Road.

      ‘Nice not to be rationed, love,’ Gran reminisced. ‘Those ration books were a nuisance.’

      ‘What’s rationing?’ I wanted to know.

      ‘Rationing meant we couldn’t get rationed goods,’ Gramps explained. ‘All the good things like butter, ice cream, eggs, meat, and even milk were rationed.’

      Gran smiled at me. ‘You were lucky never having to wear a gas mask because you were too young.’

      ‘What’s a gas mask?’

      ‘It was to protect people should Hitler drop bombs with poison gas in them,’ Gran replied.

      ‘Gas masks came in a tin with a strap to sling over your shoulder, didn’t they, Girl?’

      ‘To make sure your mask fitted properly,’ Gran continued, ‘you strapped it tight over your face and plugged off the air intake.’

      Gramps smiled. ‘If you turned blue and your eyes disappeared from their sockets you knew it was a proper fit. We hated the damn things especially their awful rubbery smell.’

      When I screwed up my face, they laughed at me.

      Gran and Gramps led a cash existence. They never had a bank account. Their bills were paid, as they were due from little jars and tins on their mantelpiece; the ‘rent’ jar, the ‘insurance’ jar for the Prudential man who collected one penny a week, the ‘food’ jar, the ‘electric’ jar. Those jars drove Dad mad. Small differences between his thoughts and theirs became bigger ones. Unspoken resentments often chilled the air.

      Gran and Gramps believed those jars provided a measure of comfort, a kind of caution for those who had known hard times and feared their return.

      Gran filled her large kettle with water from the tap to have a cup of tea. ‘We expect little or nothing from life and so far have been suitably rewarded,’ she said with a chuckle. ‘But we’ve learned the secret of true contentment is not so much getting what we want, but appreciating what we have.’

      ‘That’s right, Girl,’ Gramps added, ‘we feel privileged to have friends, family, love and a healthy grandson,’ and he gave me a big wink. I tried to wink back but couldn’t without both eyes closing, which caused Gran and Gramps great amusement.

      I tried to get Gramps to tell me more about Dad.

      He shook his head. ‘Your dad went to war and fought the big fight and wants more,’ he said, ‘in that regard we’re different your dad and I.’

      ‘Do you think there’s another reason why Dad changed his name?’ I asked.

      Gramps and gran exchanged looks. ‘You’ll have to ask your dad that,’ Gramps said.

      That worried me even more because I loved them both.

      I was fearful Dad’s reason was to gain separation between himself and Gramps because he disliked what his father was and had remained.

      When Dad collected us for home he stopped long enough for a cup of tea. Gramps asked me to show Dad my wink, but when I did, Dad was unimpressed. I don’t believe he saw my inability to close one eye independently of the other as amusing as my grandparents had.

      

      Mum worried herself sick when Dad came home later than usual from a US base.

      She’d imagined the worst and became frantic only to find him arrive in one piece but drunk. To make matters worse Mum saw what looked like lipstick on his handkerchief. She accused him of having an affair. ‘It’s all starting to add up, Bill,’ she snarled.

      ‘Not good timing, Alice,’ Dad said, with a hint of sway.

      Mum didn’t care. She was angry. ‘No Yankee bitch is going to steal my husband from me. You’re lying like a cheap toupee.’

      There was a frightful row, which Dad was incapable of winning. Instead he lashed out and hit Mum full in the face.

      Wide-awake I cowered under my bedcovers, but Mum tried to give as good as she got. Dad in his drunken rage nearly put her and their dressing table mirror out through the rear bedroom window. Mum was left shaking and in tears. She ran from the bedroom in that stumbling way women sometimes do in heels—only she wasn’t wearing any.

      Next day Dad apologised to Mum. ‘The last thing I wanted to do was hurt you, Sweetheart.’

      After that brawl I had trouble sleeping. Mum insisted I stay in and read rather than play outside. My eyes passed over the pages of my books but I read nothing. Even the works of Lewis Carroll and my favourite Alice in Wonderland did nothing for me.

      Mum had a telltale black eye for several days and spent lots of time cuddling me and crying. I enjoyed her cuddles, but sensed Mum’s fear of Dad. My heart beat twenty to the dozen and I thought surely Mum would hear it.

      After a few days Mum waved her white flag. The ruckus blew over but Mum remained unhappy about Dad’s late nights out.

      ‘I have no choice, Alice. Only the Yanks are in a position to spend up big on jewellery. Our British economy is shot to buggery. I’m worried about work

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