Snapshots

My grandmother on my mother’s side had never heard the words ‘cholesterol’ or ‘body mass index’. She never went running or walking or cycling. She didn’t need to. She was strong as an ox and lived to 86. She tended her garden, despite arthritis, and grew her own vegetables, which she picked, peeled, scraped and chopped. She was a stout woman and every day she wore a blue housecoat because there was always work to be done. We feared her slightly, my sisters and I, when we stayed at her cottage in the summer. She wouldn’t tolerate arguments or squabbles, or ungratefulness. I heard her swearing once, when she found us in the woods near the cottage, playing with a gang of local boys. We were only climbing trees but she was furious. All we wanted after that episode was to go home to our carpeted bedrooms in Scotland. We’d had enough of bare floors in our English country prison. Our punishment was to peel the potatoes for dinner, shell the peas and chop the mint. Harsh indeed!

My favourite part of the day when we stayed at my grandmother’s was the afternoon, when the old deckchairs were brought out of hibernation into the heat of the sun. (It was always hot back then.) We flopped down in a sheltered corner and dozed to the sound of bees buzzing gently round the foxgloves. Then the sound of china cups and saucers being carried on a tray would bring us back to blissful consciousness and through half-closed eyes we would watch Granny pour the hot amber liquid from a silver teapot. Then she would cut us a slice of fruitcake, still warm from the oven.

On thundery days we would retreat to the shelter of the cottage, the roof so low that my father, not a particularly tall man, had to bend over to avoid the wooden beams. The adults dozed in armchairs while my sisters and I played or read dusty books.