Days like these by Jennifer Miller
A great sea of faces turned round and stared as we entered the chapel. I looked into each one, and saw the sympathetic glances and averted eyes beginning to look away, embarrassed. The pew was callous and unforgiving, pressing hard against the small of my back. My hands clasped tightly in my lap, I sat motionless and waited. The coffin stood stark at the front of the chapel, a cold, cruel reminder of why I was there. The pungent scent of the waxy flowers made my stomach lurch.
He was inside. I tried to concentrate on the minister's words, but my thoughts were filled with our last meeting. He was sifting old and frail in his chair, as helpless as a child. His face was pale, his brittle, trembling fingers twisted anxiously as he looked at me with sad eyes. I took his dry, withered hands in my own, sensing it would be the last time. He had no appetite for life, not without her. He was living without purpose, imprisoned in his frail body.
It was time for the first hymn. I had to sing. I had to - for him. The congregation rose, and I, with them. The tears I had been fighting to hold back now began to flow freely down my cheeks and into my mouth, the salty taste nauseating to my churning stomach. I tried again, concentrating fiercely on biting back the tears which were threatening to course down my face in black rivulets. The last line of the hymn echoed around the walls, "For those on peril on the sea." One of his favourites.
buring the Second World War while the rest of the crew calmed their nerves by chain-smoking, he exchanged his cigarette rations for chocolate which he brought home to his eager (and adoring!) children. Although most people in the 1940s remained blissfully unaware of the dangers of smoking, Grandpa seemed to have an in-built sense that it was dangerous. He was always careful to look after himself and he famously declared, "It cannoe dae yae ony good tae be fillin' yer lungs wi' smoke like that."
Grandpa's liking for chocolate is something that remained with him throughout his life. The first word my dad gurgled was, I'm told, "coclate" and whenever we visited my grandpa he would always give me and my brother each a shining slab of Dairy Milk, glistening inside its purple wrapper. This tradition prompted me to christen him "Chocolate Grandpa", a name that I continued to call him almost until he died.
After Grandpa lost his wife, he was never quite the same. I often wondered about the first day they met. She was a young "ragamuffin" called Jessie with torn clothes and tousled hair, wandering barefoot in the fields his family owned. She was trying to surreptitiously steal a few turnips to help feed her family. Her mother was an immigrant from Lithuania, and they struggled to make ends meet. He was a farmer's son, comfortably off, although life was physically hard. Despite their differences, they fell for one another and used to meet secretly in the fields as both families were opposed to their relationship. Grandma was a Catholic and Grandpa had a staunch Church of Scotland upbringing, but Grandma eventually abandoned Catholicism to marry the man she loved. Grandpa's family still opposed the union, and he was cut out of his father's will, forced instead to seek work in Parkhead Forge, far away from the farm he loved. My grandparents were happily married for over 60 years but a few years before Grandma died, Grandpa became confined to a wheelchair because of nerve damage to his legs. The success of their marriage proves that true love can triumph over significant differences in background and religion.
After his wife's death Grandpa moved to Dumfries to stay with my Aunt Jessie and her husband. Although they looked after him cheerfully and without complaint, Grandpa could be difficult. He would whine, "Ah cannae drink ma tea like this, it's burnin' ma mooth," and when his daughter returned a moment later with a cup hopefully more to his taste, he would complain "Och Jessie, its gone cauld." After six years he moved to a nearby nursing home, and was visited every day. Over the years he began to forget things. He would ask me the time, and then five minutes later his expression would become anxious and he would ask me exactly the same question. Part of me struggled not to laugh, yet I felt guilty because Grandpa was old, and his memory loss an inevitable part of ageing. Nevertheless, his memory remained sharp when he was talking about his youth. His blue eyes sparkled with pleasure as he animatedly related tales of life on the farm. His smile was one I will never forget - his whole face lit up, his eyes shone with a child's excitement. I'm told that as he took his final breath he gave one last smile. I like to think he was meeting his beloved Jessie again, amongst the turnips.
As the minister talked about Grandpa's life, I realised with a stab of regret, how little I really knew him. He was an avid reader and he particularly loved poetry, especially Keats. It never occurred to me that we might share a love of literature and I wish I had made time to talk to him about novels we'd both read. Grandpa loved Dickens, and I wish I could have told him I was studying "Great Expectation" for my dissertation. I know he would have been proud.
But as I gulped back the tears and walked out of the chapel into the spring sunshine, I realised that perhaps death is not really the end after all. I will never forget my Grandpa. His love of the outdoor life and of reading lives on in me. His beautiful smile will remain in my heart for all time.
