My
mother and grandfather got on far better than she did with my grandmother. My
father also got on very well with him. My grandfather had a very extensive
knowledge of wine and had a large wine collection. They would sit and sip wine
after dinner as I grew gradually sleepier. Eventually we would make the trip
home to get ready for the working day the next day.
They
died when I was about 7. My grandfather had a history of heart problems, and
had a pacemaker. He had a heart attack while cleaning the kitchen floor and
died soon after. My mother has never forgiven her mother, convinced that my
grandfather shouldn’t have been on his hands and knees on the floor cleaning
it. She’s always felt that if my grandmother had bothered to clean the house
herself my grandfather probably wouldn’t have died.
My
grandmother and uncle David continued to live in the house alone. David has
severe learning difficulties and required 24 hour care at that time. My
grandparents did it themselves without any specialist help. After visiting them
one day my parents saw just how much my grandmother was neglecting herself and
David. They took them both in to look after them until a more permanent
arrangement could be sorted out. It was hell for my mother. My grandmother
would take things out of the rubbish and hide it under her pillow. She would
berate my mother for our nightly baths, telling her that she was scrubbing our
skin off. My mother couldn’t cope with it and told my father that it was either
her mother leaving or she was leaving. And so my grandmother and David ended up
back in that house.
However,
her children obviously didn’t want that to be the end of it. None of the others
were willing to take her in. Instead they went to the court to have her declare
mentally unfit, which she was, in order to then be able to get her into a home
where she would be properly cared for. She hadn’t washed in days. Her hair was
matted and she obviously wasn’t caring for herself. My mother has described the
way she was to me, as obviously I didn’t see it at the time. It all went on
away from mine and my brothers eyes, so that we didn’t get upset by it. The day
of the court case her sister went to visit her. My mother and her siblings had
explained what they wanted to do and said that it is for the good of my
grandmother. The judge should have taken one look at her and realised that she
was unable to care for herself. Instead her sister washed her, brushed her hair
and put her in some clean clothes. She turned up looking like a perfectly fine
elderly woman, capable of living on her own. The case was thrown out of court.
A
few weeks later my grandmother was in hospital. I don’t know what for. I don’t
really think my mother knows what for, but it was more than likely related to
the fact she was malnourished and unable to look after herself. A week later
she died. I don’t think that my mother has ever forgiven her aunt. Even though
she had less than fond feelings for her mother, she and her brothers and sister
had tried their best to help her. Had it not for her being cleaned up and
showed off to the court she probably would have been able to receive the care
that she needed.
The
stuff in their house was sorted out and spit between the siblings. There was a
will, but it hadn’t been signed by my grandfather, and so it was invalid. The
house remained with my uncle Terry. I remember seeing it for the first time
after it was cleaned up and cleaned out. It was absolutely massive. Underneath
all that dirt and rubbish there lay a beautiful family home. Due to my
grandparents hardly spending everything the inheritance was enough for us to
emigrate. It was enough to put my uncle David into a home that could care for
him and give him the treatment he needed. He’s made so much progress living
there, has made some wonderful friends and is able to look after himself to a
certain extent. It makes me wonder how he could have been had my grandparents
bothered to get him the help he needed.
Growing
up we were much closer to my father’s side of the family. We would see my
cousins on my mother’s side perhaps once a year or so. On my father’s side it
was every other weekend. My father played football for a particular club near
to our house, and every Friday evening we would head down to the clubhouse. My
cousins Heather and Shannon would be there, too, and we’d run across the
fields, playing various games while the adults stayed inside, chatting. As it
got darker we’d move inside and run around the club house. We would inevitably
be barefoot and our feet would get dirtier and dirtier. It would take the
entire weekend to clean it off our feet, but it was a sign of the fun we had.
My grandparents would often be at the club, too, and as the evening drew to an
end I’d beg my parents and ask if I could go and spend the evening with them.
They’d inevitably say yes, and off we’d go, overnight bag (which was always
kept in the car as impromptu overnight visits were quite common) and off we’d
go. Often my cousins would ask, too, and so we’d have a sleepover at my
grandparents’ house.
Those
weekend stays were wonderful. Alistair was still quite young, and so he would
often go home with my parents while I’d get to be an only child again. When my
cousins came too we’d share the double bed in my grandparents’ spare bedroom
and giggle until we fell asleep. I loved their house. I spent so much time with
them that it was like a second home to me. My grandfather would sometimes play
us his accordion and guitar, as my grandmother sang Irish and Scottish folk
songs. It was magical hearing him play and her sing.
My
grandmother loved to sing and sang in the church choir. She practiced on a
Saturday night, and as I was usually with my grandparents until mass on the Sunday,
I’d go with her. I’d lie under her chair and listen to them sign Christmas
Carols as I’d drift off. Sometimes I’d go and stand at the railings overlooking
the church and look at the crucifix. It was life size and I was convinced that
they had a man go up there and be tied up there while there were people in the
church. I’d also stare at the sanctuary light, flickering in the corner. We’d
been told in school that that was a symbol of God’s presence in the church. I
believed that that was where God lived, and would look at it and wonder how He
got so small.
A
lot of my childhood was spent around my grandparents. They were like second
parents to me in many ways, and probably gave my parents much needed breathing
space from us. Each year they would get 2 week’s holiday from me during the
Christmas period. At Christmas my entire family on my father’s side, barring a
few who had moved away from the area, would get together and camp for a couple
of weeks. They’d head down on Christmas day, unpack and we’d have a huge
Christmas meal together. My parents would head down, stay the night and head
back to Cape Town on Boxing Day, as the camp site was only about an hour and a
half’s drive out of Cape Town. It was in a place called Onrus, near Hermanus.
Each year the children would conspire to get out of the unpacking. Each year
we’d be grabbed by a relative and made to go back to our respective campsite
and help out. When the tents were up and the meal being prepared, I’d be asked
by my grandfather if I’d want to stay with them for the holiday. I knew my
mother didn’t want me to always do that, so I’d look all uncertain and tell him
I’d have to ask my parents. I’d go to my
father first. The number one rule of being a child was that Dad would more than
likely say yes when Mom would say no. Inevitably he’d tell me that he had no
problem with it, but I’d have to ask my mother. By the time I got to her she
usually knew that she’d be getting my grandfather pressuring her to say yes, as
well as me. So she’d give in, and out would come the bag that she packed, just
in case.
Christmas
day was always wonderful. I can’t remember the food we’d eat. I know it wasn’t
your traditional Christmas food. It didn’t matter, though, because for that
little bit of time all the people I loved were in one place. It’s probably why
I now don’t care for Christmas traditions themselves. We could have McDonalds
burgers, for all I care, and not open a single present. What makes Christmas
for me is family gathering together to share a meal and have fun together. The
two foods that we did always have was my great grandmothers Christmas pudding,
which I hated but would eat to try and get money out of it, and my grandmothers
trifle. I love that trifle, as does my uncle Allan. It’s probably the one food
that makes Christmas, but that’s more for the tradition it’s become over here.
Every year Allan will make the trifle, and we’ll stand over it, portioning it
out to one another. I’ll say I’ll have that half, he’ll say he’ll have the
other and the rest of them can have the crumbs leftover. Yet every year it will
come to dessert and Allan will be too full for much trifle. It will be left at
my house for us to finish over the next few days. While all other houses around
the UK are having turkey with every meal, I’m eating trifle for breakfast,
lunch and dinner, trying to finish it before it goes off.
For
two weeks every year I was an only child. My parents would head back to Cape
Town with Alistair, come up again on New Year’s and then again on my birthday,
when I’d then either go home with them or go home with my grandparents a few
days later. It was wonderful. I’d run around the camp site with my cousins and
second cousins, playing games late into the night, always barefooted. We were
allowed to roam free, with the adults knowing that there was always someone
nearby who could keep an eye on us. The only place we weren’t allowed to go on
our own was the beach, but since someone would take us down there once a day we
didn’t really miss that. We made up games and played some old ones. I got to
stay up later than I was normally allowed, eat bubble gum and live a wild,
grubby existence. It was wonderful. On New Year’s Eve more family would come up
for the night and camp. We’d have a potjie (a cast iron pot put over the fire
that makes the most delicious stews) and Granddad would get out his guitar and
everyone would sing. They would celebrate two New Year’s: the South African and
the Scottish, a tradition going back longer than my grandparents. The children
would often fall asleep long before then, but if we didn’t no one made us go to
bed. The next day Granddad would wake up earlier than everyone else and wake
them up with a cup of tea or coffee, even if they weren’t ready to wake up.
Then we’d all have a champagne breakfast, with the children having champagne
and orange juice mixed together.
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