My grandmother was born on 12 February, 1913. Had she lived, 2013 would have been her 100th birthday. Born in Bury, Lancashire to Richard and Clara Royles, Grandma, also called Clara but known as Clare, was the youngest of eight children. She died in 1988, two days after her 75th birthday and her death had a profound, shattering effect on my life. I still miss her.
I remember going to Lancashire on holiday during the hot summer of 1976 to visit my relatives, Grandma’s brothers and sisters, who were, by then, quite advanced in years. There was the formidable Aunty Florrie, an Amazonian woman with the temperament to match, married to the mild-mannered Uncle Billy, who wore leather driving gloves and drove an Austin Maxi; the gentle and sweet-natured Aunty Emily, with her little round glasses and kindly, smiling face; and the mysterious Uncle George who I met only once before he died. He was bed-ridden and I was ushered into his room to see him in hushed silence and told not to disturb him. There is a photo of me somewhere, standing in front of Uncle Billy’s car in white knee socks and a sun-dress my mother had made, my long, blonde hair tied with ribbons and my eyes squinting against the sun.
I spent most Friday nights at my Grandma’s, sleeping over in a big double bed with cold, cotton sheets filled with hot-water bottles that would burn your feet, in a house with no central heating. In the winter, ice would form on the inside of the windows and the pipes would freeze. I had a grey, overnight case I used to pack with my nightie and slippers and Bruin, my polar bear, a gift from Grandma and Granddad’s trip to Norway. On Saturdays we caught the double-decker bus into town and went for lunch in one of my Grandma’s favourite restaurants; either Crombie’s for fish and chips, served with bread and butter and a pot of tea, or The Blue Lagoon where my Grandma would have moussaka and I’d have liver and bacon. Grandma would leave a coin under the saucer as a tip. It made me feel terribly grown-up.
There are little things I remember. The way the skin on the back of her hands use to crinkle like fine tissue paper. The way she called her corset her ‘stays’ and would ask me to help ‘button her up’. I loved the way she brought out her best cups when the insurance man came and served him Mellow Birds coffee and Abbey Crunch biscuits. I loved her freshly baked scones hot from the oven dripping in melted butter, and her Yorkshire puddings that seemed to defy gravity. She kept the butter in a dish by the fire that would melt into a golden pool.
I loved bringing out her jewellery and playing with it. She had button box I used to love playing with. I’d sink my hand into the mounds of buttons and spend hours sorting them into colours and sizes.
I loved climbing into bed with her on a Saturday morning to keep warm before heading downstairs to light the temperamental grill on the gas oven to grill the bacon for sandwiches.