Readings from t' paper wi' Grandma

The grandma in the story is not my real one, she is the mother of Mrs Usher, the family that took me in as a boarder when Dad kicked me out of home. 

Grandma and I would often be on our own; she reading the newspaper and me about my lawful business, eating or whatever. But they were very rarely dull affairs for me for no matter what I was doing, Grandma would be sure to start up a conversation of one kind or another, even if it was rather one-sided.

Picture us both in a small living room, me seated at the table doing my thing, she in her favourite chair giving out all kinds of signals that soon, some gem of historical interest which she knew I ought to know would hit the airwaves. I would finally stop what I was doing, look over in her direction and ask, ‘What is it then, Grandma?’ and the following kind of communication would take place:

‘T council’s going to pull down t’ Jamieson’s Garage. You know, that place on’t corner of Clyde and Everton Gardens?’

‘What Gardens?’

‘Come on Dennis, you know ... Everton Gardens.’

By now I’d got into the mood a bit and would egg her on. ‘Oh, you mean down by Robinson’s factory?’ knowing very well it was miles away from there. She’d give a little chuckle showing her gums off to their full glory.

‘No, down by t’ bus station,’ and then she’d stop, afraid of losing what she’d started to say, and carry on from where I’d caused the diversion.

‘Well Mrs Jenkins, who used to live in t’ flat above the garage is not ‘aving it. It says here ...’ and she would proceed to read whatever Mrs Jenkins had to say about it. If she got through that snippet without another side-track issue, the communication would continue. ‘Anyway there’ll be ‘ell to play if t’ council does pull t’ garage down, because ...’, she’d pause, look over at me and say, ‘Ee, yer not listening are you love?’

I’d carry on with what I was doing, saying, ‘Yes, Yes I am Grandma, go on,’ and thus encouraged, on she’d go, and she could keep it up through several pages of the paper. If I’d had a tape-recorder in those days I could have recorded a potted, convoluted history of all kinds of very humorous but totally useless local information.

Then she’d stop, look at herself and rising suddenly to her feet in danger of bringing on a dizzy spell, and say with a trace of dismay on her face, ‘Ee, look at me, sat wi’ mi apron still on. What will people think?’
‘Don’t worry about it Grandma, nobody’s going to see you.’

But that didn’t stop her, she was now almost upright. ‘Oh, but I know. No, it’ll ave to come off.’

Now a journey would begin from her chair to the kitchen; a matter of about five steps for an ordinary person not anxious to go to the loo or put a fire out but taking her three steps for every ordinary one. I’d look at her and say, ‘Slow down Grandma, it’s thirty miles an hour in a built-up area you know. You’ll have t’ police on to you next.’

She’d stop in mid-track, wobble a little, look at me with a twinkle in her eye and say, ‘Ee Dennis luv, you are cheeky,’ and she’d laugh in her thin, reedy voice, holding onto her side before continuing her trek to the kitchen. I’d hold my breath as I now caught sight of one of her stockings threatening to slide a little further down a thin spindly leg with also a provocative inch or two of pink bloomer showing above the leg elastic.

Thankfully, she was unaware of such erotic revelations and would eventually reach the kitchen safely with no mishaps.

There were many communications like the above as Grandma and I sat together in that little room. She was a warm and lively soul and I must have learnt quite a bit from her ‘readings from ‘t paper.

Dennis Crompton © 2013
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)