Grandad

Grandad.
Snuggled about a winding road, deep in a valley of yellow and green, lay a village at rest. Two shops, a church and a quaint cafe that couldn't be seen from just round a bend. Blink and you'd miss it all.
Blink, and you'd miss a little house, nestled back from the road.

An elderly widower lived there alone. Lithe and content in the warmth of his home, he wore a flat cap on his head, baggy twill pants, and a woollen scarf at his neck.

His days began on his four poster bed, in a bedroom tucked under the eaves. He'd stretch and untangle his old linen nightshirt, before sliding from under his sheets.
All morning he'd amble around the house, tending and fixing and cleaning. He'd chuckle, mend a hole in his socks, yet again, before hanging his wash in the wind.
Sometimes in his back room, he carved seasoned wood, or shaped papier maché in his kitchen. And with his hand-made, rugs of rag, he coloured the rough boarded floor.
After supper, he'd often sit down to spin, quiet as a moth in a breeze. But the wheel would whirr in its busy way, twisting yarn from soft, warm fleece.
In late summertime he'd wander the lanes, with a stick to hook prickly brambles. When his basket was full he'd phone his friend, with a promise of blackberry jam.
Sometimes he and his friend shared a nice pot of tea, in the garden behind the house. The old man lay dreaming in long, seeding grass, as the sun dipped low to greet a pale moon.
He dreamt of when his granddaughter was young, and the joys when they flew a kite, of giggling and spinning like sycamore seeds, falling, breathless and dizzy-eyed. Back then the little girl lived with her parents close by, happy secure and at ease.
Then her mother, the old man's daughter, died. His granddaughter was then only three. In his confusion and grief the little girl's father took her far away, across equator, dateline and seas.
*
For nine long years the granddaughter grew, before she came back to Grandad to visit. The visit was meant to be short and sweet, but lengthened with lightening days.
Through wispy snowflakes ease between them returned,
and stayed while forsythia bloomed: an early portent of renewed spring, in their hearts and in Grandad's home.
Together they drew and painted and spun, more than just pictures and rugs made of wool. For when she left, their love held fast like ship's rope, woven and strong.
Through letters and photos they kept in touch, with care rekindled and new. They now understood how close they were, and that no miles could break their bond.
*
On the day the old man turned one hundred, the postman brought two telegrams. The most treasured came from his granddaughter, the other, arrived from the Queen.
He placed them in an old biscuit tin which he kept near his rocking chair. At night he would sit by his hearth and rock, twisting his thinned wedding ring.
*
When the old man died, his friend came in and with care gathered all his treasures. He placed them inside a large cedar trunk, which he locked and hid in a cupboard.
*
Soon the house became occupied by the wind swirling round its walls, in through broken windows, down the chimney and out under the doors. Rain seeped through a hole in the roof and splashed into a bucket below. It often spilled into a meandering stream across the wooden floor. Sunshine streamed through windows, lighting cobwebs strung from room to room, and rays of light surrounded dust, forming shiny, dust-swimming pools.
Scurrying black insects ran from the sun, stray kittens
basked in its heat. They lay before ashes of long since burnt wood, cold and flame-less in brick dust and soot.
*
After a year of neglect, a couple came by. They sniffed at the house, before raising their noses and turning their backs. They were never seen there again.
Months later a family of four looked in. They came back and looked some more. But, rather than buy the quaint old house, they bought a new house in town instead.
Once an old woman crept up the stairs, shuffling through the rooms. Then a bat flew past and a mouse scuttled by. She sat down and took a large pill!
Some tiles on the roof wept onto the ground, the pot fell off the chimney. A crack appeared in the kitchen wall,
and a door dropped off its hinges.
No-one even glanced at the house. No estate agent ever came near. People walked by for several years as the house waited - peeling, long-suffering and still.
*
At last, one day, a lady arrived in a hat with a rose, a long woollen skirt and silken scarves under her chin. She peered round corners and wandered about the house then,clasping long fingered hands, she breathed a lengthy sigh.
She stood by the fireplace and looked at the room,
the wind swirled round her skirt. A big ginger tomcat got up, and stretching, rubbed against her legs. The sun beamed through a window, lighting the smile in her eyes. Last little raindrops plopped from the eaves, as a rainbow formed in the sky.
Insects hurried to find new homes, spiders hid behind cupboards and walls. Dust glittered and shone as sequins do, as she swept with her brand new broom.
A key lay on the mantlepiece: Intricate, large and bronze. She found the trunk in the cupboard, dragged it out, and in great excitement she peeped in.
From that trunk a bowl and a spoon spilled out, bed curtains, slippers and gown, jam pan and bodkins, paints and wool, and a canvas of roses she found. A rug hook, and many wood tools were there, a cap, woolly scarf and a cane.
A nest of sketches in a yellowed art pad, and photos in carved wooden frames.
At the very bottom of the trunk, tied tight, with flaxen string, a very large bundle of letters nestled beside an old battered tin.
As the lady untied the string, a ring fell off. She slipped it onto her finger. Tears ran freely down her cheeks, as she prized the lid from the tin.
*
Now that lady paints pictures in the backroom and she makes many pots in her kitchen. The floors are bright with woven rugs, and the chimney with flame once again. Drying herbs smell sweet in the pantry, strawberries bubble to jam,
washday clothes hang out on a line, while yarn twists as her busy wheel spins.
At the end of each day the lady rocks, and twiddles that ring on her finger. Relaxed, she smiles, strokes the ginger cat on her lap, as she day-dreams of kites in the wind.
*
On the mantlepiece a photograph stands, of Grandad with her as a child. Through growth and time, through sorrow and joy, their bonds have brought her home.
* * *