I had two rather ghastly grandparents, who we had to visit all the time. They were my mother’s parents, and she didn’t like my father’s parents! I deeply regret not getting to know my paternal grandparents better. My grandfather was a slightly eccentric Welshman with slurpy kisses which my sister and I did our best to avoid! He had left school at the age of thirteen, and gradually worked his way up to becoming a Departmental Manager at Cardiff’s best department store. He had gruesome stories to tell about beds, which was his area of expertise, such as how much sweat accumulated over a period of time in mattresses! He was very clever with his hands, and built his own house out of wooden boards, in the countryside, on the Welsh borders.
I loved that house. When I was a child, they had no electricity or running water, and we had to take buckets down the little lane to the well, which was a spring in a field. For lighting, they used oil lamps, which attracted clouds of huge moths at night.
My grandmother was a lovely, round and roly-poly lady: very earthy and motherly. She was of Irish descent, and had been born in Mary Anne Street, in Cardiff, which was the “Irish” sector in the city. She was my grandfather’s second wife. His first wife had born him seven children, including my father, but his second wife had only been allowed to have two children! She remained angry about it, declaring she had wanted at least four! She had pure white hair and large beautiful eyes. I always saw her as a farmer’s wife: very domesticated, buxom, hard-working and capable.
I remember one evening, sitting in the firelight with my Grandfather, while he recited my family history. Which is what the Welsh love to do!
And I still treasure a letter he wrote to me, when I was older and going through troubleous times, in which he encouraged me with metaphors about life, talking about the greenfly on his roses. It was the sort of letter I might write, but which would make most people groan!
I loved that man!
