In the Midst of Life

A NATURAL DEATH
     
    My grandfather died in 1956 at the age of eighty-six. I loved him deeply and was very close to him. I saw very little of my father during the war, and in the years after. Every girl needs a man in her life, and my dear grandfather gladly filled that role. I treasure a Bible that he gave me for my twenty-first birthday, shortly before he died, with a loving message carefully penned by a shaking hand, unaccustomed to writing. He was barely literate, having left school at the age of eleven to work in a builder’s yard, and was the oldest of thirteen children, born in 1870, when every child in a working class family had to labour from an early age. At fifteen he lied about his age and joined the army, ‘So that one of my brothers could have my boots,’ he told me. He had about him a quiet simplicity and wisdom that greatly influenced my childhood, and therefore my whole life.
    I remember his tenderness throughout my early years; going for long walks in the countryside, my grandfather pointing out and naming birds, trees and flowers. I remember going to his allotment to dig potatoes, him pushing me in the wheelbarrow and me shouting ‘Faster, faster!’ I remember helping him to polish shoes, clean the windows, clear out his garden shed, clean the grate and chop the wood and get the coal in. And I remember him growing old.
    It was a gradual process. First it was the wheelbarrow. However much I shouted, he couldn’t go any faster.
    ‘I am getting old,’ he would say. ‘You get out and run. Your legs are younger than mine.’
    As I grew older and stronger, he grew older and weaker, and, after a few years, I was the one pushing the wheelbarrow. Soon,digging for potatoes became too much for him, so I dug up the golden white globes. I had always been told that Grandad was hard of hearing, but I had never noticed it when I was little. I prattled on and he always seemed to understand me. I noticed that his nose dripped.
    ‘Why is your nose dripping?’ I asked, pertly.
    ‘Don’t be saucy, little madam,’ he replied, taking out his handkerchief and wiping the offending organ. From an early age I remember pulling his skin and watching with interest as it settled slowly back into place. I pulled my own skin, and it bounced back.
    ‘That’s as it should be,’ Grandad said. ‘When you are as old as me your skin will be like mine.’
    ‘I’m never going to grow old!’ I shouted confidently as I raced down the garden path to his shed, which was always a place of wonder.
    My grandmother had died in 1943, of a heart attack, I was told. My grandfather and my mother were with her when she died. My mother told me that he held her in his arms during the last half hour of life, tenderly stroking her face and kissing her. She had died as she had lived, in the protection of her husband’s love, and, after her death, he lived alone. They had had eight children, and four of his daughters, including my mother, regularly attended to his needs. Cleaning became a problem. I recall my mother saying,
    ‘Dad’s getting very dirty. I found two pairs of dirty underpants hidden away in the back of his drawer.’
    And, as I grew older, I was aware that his smell had changed. I had always thought of him as a lovely smell of earth and leaves and smoky old jackets. But it changed. Later on I realised the change in the smell was urine. He was never really incontinent, but most elderly men have prostate problems; it was gradual, and never so noticeable as to be offensive.
    Two of his daughters had a small sweetshop at the end of the road. At first, after Grandma’s death, they had let Grandad serve in the shop. He enjoyed meeting the customers, and ‘it gives him something to do,’ my aunts said. A few years later he could not be trusted to give the correct change, and, worse still, he did not seemto notice when his nose was dripping, so in the end he had to be steered gently away. He missed the shop, but said acceptingly. ‘I’m getting old, now. You young people must take over.’
    My grandfather was a Boer War veteran (1898–1902) and he was, therefore, offered a place as a Chelsea Pensioner, but he refused. He preferred to stay with his family – and how grateful I am that he did. My development towards adult life would have been very different, had he accepted.
    The doctor came to see him from time to time. My grandfather didn’t really need medical treatment, but he got ‘chesty’ in the winters and so