Leather Frames and Memories

My mother and father were killed in a car accident. They were on the way to visit me at college.

I wasn’t to blame for their deaths but felt that it was at least partly my fault. They were coming to see me and now… I would never see them again.

My only remaining, living relative was my Nan. She was my maternal grandmother. My mother had been her only child and I her only grandchild.

Nan doted on me; always had, as far back as I could remember. She did not blame me for my parents’ death; she told me often in the days, weeks and months immediately following the accident. She was, of course, doing her best to dispel any guilt that I might be carrying.

I remember vividly some of the ‘chats’ we had.
On one particular Sunday afternoon a couple of weeks after the funeral and on the eve of my first day back in college since the accident - around the time that mum would, ordinarily, have been insuring that I had clean socks and underwear packed – Nan sat beside me on the old leather settee in her ‘parlour’ and sensing my sadness inquired as to what I was thinking about. ‘Just remembering’ I had replied.
‘Ah! …Memories!’ She said. ‘Memories I have always found are like people; at least that is how I treat them.
‘People, how do you mean?’
She laid her old hand on mine.
‘There are friends, strangers and enemies among my memories. The friends are the ones that I visit often; I am glad to see them and they make me happy.
The strangers are the ones that don’t mean anything to me, they are just there and have their own space; sometimes I bump into them without meaning too.
Then, - she looked down and sighed – there are the enemies! I try to avoid these and not visit them at all but they visit me! I do not invite them in and I do not entertain them but they barge in and bully their way into my life; into my mind. They bring with them presents of doubts and fears; they fill their visits with, ‘what if’s’ or ‘if only’ and they sadden me.
‘How do you deal with them…the enemies?’ I enquired, immediately identifying.
‘I call on the friends and they help me to drive them out.’ She stated.
‘But they come back, don’t they?’
‘Oh yes...usually, at special times, on special days…but sometimes for no reason at all.’
‘Can you ever defeat them?’ I asked hopefully.
‘Not really, no, I don’t think so but you can lessen their impact and the friends help! Gather your friends, for you will find they are numerous and will make your enemies’ visits shorter and – eventually – less effective.’

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Nan would have been in her early Eighties at this time; somewhere between eighty and eighty two. She wasn’t sure herself; there had been a mix up in her birth certificate but her mother had assured her that her birth year was 1896, making her eighty two and as Nan had said; she should know!

She had had very little formal education and was ‘put into service’ when aged just thirteen years. She maintained, that she had taught herself to read and write – neither of her parents having mastered either discipline too any degree. For all that, her intellect lacked nothing and her forthright pearls of wisdom, based solely on life experience and logic, were forever a surprise and enlightenment to me.

I had moved in with Nan, although only there on weekends and holidays.
I had wanted to sell the house that my parents had left behind and that was now officially mine. It was Nan who advised against this move. I had argued that the money would be handy and that I could afford to give her some home comforts and maybe buy myself a car with the proceeds. Her answer;
‘It is easier to sell a house, than to buy one! Why not rent it and make money, while holding onto the collateral security that the house provided?’
I followed her advice – I sold the house some years later at a price that equated to an increase value of two thousand percent, from that date.
As for ‘home comforts’, ‘what had I meant?’ She had all that she required! ‘…and don’t even think of suggesting one of those cursed television sets. If you want one for yourself, by all means put one in your room; my books and I will not be begrudging of it.’
I declined to invest in a T.V. and still, too the present day, consider it one of my better decisions.

Nan read voraciously and consumed books as though her life depended on it, as in many respects, I suppose it did. Her depth of knowledge was astounding and made conversations with her not only interesting but educating and thought provoking. She knew no boundaries and could converse with confidence on subjects as varied as there were books available to be read.

Nan’s favourite pastime was poetry and prose; she could quote from the classic and modern era with like fluency and appreciation. I marveled at her understanding and at how animated she would become during our discussions. She conceded that she considered, ‘…the older ones far more fulfilling; poems really should rhyme. It shows discipline! Any fool can warble on, as if having a one-sided conversation,’ she would claim.

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Nan passed away in her sleep on a balmy July night at the age of 84.
I had brought her up a cup of tea as usual. I thought it strange that the radio was not rattling out the eight o’clock world woe but it was something aside from that…a feeling I suppose; I can’t really explain it. It should have been a terrible shock but it wasn’t. I leaned over to kiss Nan and went downstairs to ring the doctor and undertaker. I popped next door and broke the news to her neighbour.
From there, everything sort of went on automatic, the professionals took over and the well oiled mechanism and rituals attached to death were cranked into life. It was more or less out of my hands. I was referred too in respectfully hushed tones, with regard to the finer details. The doctor arrived, examined Nan, sighed, shook my hand, commiserated and left; the living and patients whom could still breathe and possibly converse, his priority!
The undertaker informed me that Nan had made all the arrangements for her ‘passing’ and that, ‘her wishes would be carried out too the letter!’ He handed me a large brown envelope with my name, in Nan’s small neat hand on the front. ‘Your Grandmother left this with us, some time ago. I was to ensure that you received it – as a matter of urgency – at the time of her passing.
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It was later; when they had taken Nan away to the funeral home that I sat opposite ‘her’ chair beside the fire in the parlour and opened the large brown envelope. The contents consisted of, one sheet of folded velum and a small key. With the key in my hand I flipped open the carefully folded page and started to read;

My dearest Chris, if you are reading this then I am no longer with you. I would beg you not to be sad but that would be stupid. I will keep this letter fairly short because, as you well know, I hate ‘warbling’ on.
I have made all the arrangements and there should be little for you to do. I have given instruction to Maud, my neighbour as to the dress that I wish to wear on this final journey and as to what other little trinkets I wish to decorate my old carcass. Oh dear, this sounds very morbid, even to me; sorry about that!
The last couple of years (at least) since your mum - my beautiful daughter – died, have been made bearable only by your presence in my life. If ever a gift were sent to me from God, it was you. What pleasure your young mind and heart have given me; what stimulus for a poor old girl who’s brain cells were definitely dimming faster than the stars on a summer’s morning ( I like that bit; sounds poetic doesn’t it, he-he?). I love you and if there is a way to love you after this day, then I will always love you.
There is something that I must ask you to do for me and to which I attach the utmost importance. I want you to take two photographs from the sideboard in the corner of the parlour and place them beside me in my casket. One is of you, on the day that you started primary school. The other is your mum and dad’s wedding snap; these were always my favourites! There is one other photo that I require to take with me but you will not find it with the others. In the envelope, there should also be a key. That key will open the small drawer, just under the top of the sideboard. In the drawer you will find a brown leather framed photo; so old now that you will hardly be able to see it. It is a photo of your granddad; the only one I have or ever had. We had some taken of our wedding day but they were lost somehow in another great mistake. I have never spoken of him much because the pain is as raw as the day that he was taken from me. I do not wish too talk much about him now either, other than to say that he was a lovely man and the only man that I ever loved – as a lover can – or ever wanted; I hope to see him soon.
So that is it, my little angel. My time has been and is now gone and I am not sad. I am weary and in need of rest and I so want to see ‘him’ again. Forgive me for leaving you but all that has a beginning, must sometime have an end. And there is me saying I wasn’t going to warble on…oh well. God bless you always
Nan.
P.S. Tell Maud I want the pink pillbox hat with the little lace veil and NOT the red one that she is so keen on.
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On the back of each frame, written in a small neat hand could be found the documentation relevant to the photograph within; date, age, place and reason for inclusion in this shelved history;

‘Chris, 4 years and 9 months, first day of school,
St. Patrick’s, Griffin Road, Plumstead, 1st. September 1960.
Please God, look after him and keep him from harm.
He is so small and I love him so; my little angel!’

'Joy and David’s wedding day, 21st December 1953. God bless them always.'

I picked up the brown leather frame; made conspicuous by its age and the deeply yellowed and cracking print. The photograph – barely discernible – seemed to be of a young man wearing a uniform and a big smile. I flipped it over and read one more time, written in the same small, neat hand on the back of the frame;

‘Patrick, 19 years and 7 months, basic training completed, Woolwich barracks, 16th May, 1916. Please God send him back to me; he is my love, my heart, my soul, my husband, my everything; I will never love another!’
Patrick 1897 – 1916 R.I.P

I placed her ‘lovely man’, the young soldier; my granddad in his brown leather frame, next to mine and said goodbye to Nan.