Grandfather Clocks and Pipe Smoke

Hey! Lookout!" Too late.
I am picking myself off the grubby, litter cloaked floor of Tottenham
Court Road Station.
It maybe a short walk between the Northern and Central lines but it is
a time consuming, obstacle laden, trek. Like a needle and thread
stitching a piece of fabric, you are forced to weave in and out the
statutory backpack laden tourists who do not understand London
Underground's unspoken rule 'Keep to the left.' With their heads buried
in pocket size tube maps and glossy over priced tourist guides they
randomly collide with the frantic commuting public.

On this particular muggy weekday noon, I was journeying home after an
unexpected early work finish. I take back all the snide remarks I have
ever made about Mussolini, my boss. So named by the workforce due to
his draconian man-management skills rather than any physical
resemblance.
It was the calm before the storm as the evening rush hour was still
gathering steam before exploding on the cities transport
infrastructure.
Passing them on the escalator, they stole my attention for the short
time it took me to descend to the bottom. Its astounding how much one
can absorb, digest and explore in the space of a few minutes; a
snapshot of reality transformed into a million thoughts.
Silk threads of ice white hair thinly covered his scalp. Colourless
skin, though wrinkled and aged, radiated health. There was a calmness
in his manner, a confidence and wisdom; he did not need to boast, he
had a presence that just was. Like many of his generation his attire
was the standard department store wear: shirt, tie, navy pullover,
charcoal slacks with those razor sharp creases I was never able to
emulate on my own trousers, gleaming black shoes that dazzled you as
the station lighting reflected in their face. People don't polish shoes
like that any more, maybe a habit left over from his National Service
days. An outstretched chubby hand gave the impression of gigantic
proportions, due to the minute doll-like fingers it enclasped. She, was
the most adorable thing I had ever gazed upon: big inquisitive eyes
stared fascinated, the widest smile started at one ear and journeyed
round to the next, a glorious forest of afro hair erupted from her brow
and autumn-brown cheeks beamed with contentment. In deep concentration,
she giggled, as if the escalator was a child's ride. Pin-like, grey
eyes followed her every action as if life itself depended on it.
Suites and stilettos bustled passed, annoyed at the two obstacles
forcing them to slow yet hand in hand, this elderly man and his
diminutive companion, were locked in their own universe, oblivious to
the flurry of the Underground. My interest in this scenario was not
limited to intrigue, it reminded me of a childhood memory.

Departing the station, I detoured to my local Pound Shop. Quality was
not featured on today's menu but it could pride itself with the most
comprehensive selection of anything one cared to imagine. Trailing the
endless aisles of cheap import batteries and those bargain aerosol
smellies, whose scent lasts about five minutes on a good day, I finally
located the essentials I required.

"What have you been buying, anything for me?" Paula quizzed, locking
onto the carrier bag before I got a foot in the door.
"Sit down with me and I'll explain" I replied placing the bag on the
couch.
"A surprise?"
"Not really" I smiled. "Just creating the atmosphere for an old
memory."
For a long time, I am sure she has suspected that I am mad, rather than
have me incarcerated in a home for the insane she chooses to humour me,
It works.
Now, in my front room, 'things', have a hierarchy, depending on which
drawer they are found. Items of importance and ones most frequently
used are the numero-uno of 'things'. Like a chief executive occupying
the top floor of an office block they monopolise the top drawers,
gazing down at their minions. When a 'thing' loses importance it gets
demoted to the drawer below, that is until it arrives at the bottom
drawers. There are two options for residents of these drawers, either
the dustbin, or if the item still has some form of significance it
becomes a permanent inmate. In fact these items will be lucky if they
see daylight in a decade after their incarceration. It was in the
bottom drawers, stuffed with all sundry, that after a good ten minutes
rummaging I found it. A tatty, brown, A-five-sized envelope.

I opened the pound shop bag and removed its contents: a miniature
plastic toy Grandfather Clock, a black pipe, some old Holborn tobacco
and matches. I wound the up the clock and stood it on the coffee table.
About five inches tall and bright red, it gave the required effect I
had hoped for as the second hand noisily rotated, click, click,
click.
Slumping into the couch next to Paula I stuffed A thumb full of tobacco
into the pipe. Puffing on the pipe, Paula almost fell off the couch in
hysterics while I just about nearly choked to death. Tears streamed
down both of our cheeks, hers of laughter, mine due to a throat full of
pipe smoke. In case you have not guessed, I am not a smoker, neither
will it be a pastime my lungs will be embracing after this experience.
Settling back in the couch I removed several photographs from the brown
envelope, an assortment of pictures of an elderly white man. It was
hard to make out his features but he sat in an arm chair with his legs
crossed. His hands rested on his lap and you were able to distinguish
his short, thin, grey hair. A pipe looped out of the corner of his
mouth and a large grandfather clock loomed behind him. At his side, in
all the photos, stood a child, a young boy of about four years old.
With caramel brown skin and a mass of afro hair, his face was dominated
by a massive grin.

I was adopted at seven months old. The circumstances involving my
adoption are not relevant but I count myself blessed that I was
accepted into such an amazing family. So here I was, this Nigerian-born
scrawly baby, whose head was twice the size of his body, ears twice the
size of his head, not in the best of health, and the ability to scream
for England and Nigeria, which I did, constantly. Me, Mum, Dad,
Brother, Sister and ... Great Granddad.
Now as a kid I never knew how or why Great Granddad came to live with
us or why every other kid on the estate had a Granddad but mine was a
Great one. Oblivious to the generation tree I just figured It was
because he was great, a description he more than lived up to in my
eyes.
Now firstly Great Granddad was the sweet supplier. When mum refused me
a snack with the customary "It will spoil your dinner" you could always
rely on Great Granddad to sneak you a peppermint. By the way, what's it
with elderly people and extra strong mints? Is it standard issue for
pensioners? When you hit seventy does the government dispatch you an
annual supply? Anyway, Great Granddad was more than just a peppermint
machine. He was my confidant, my storyteller, my friend, my playmate.
The person who could hold things for me, whom I could sit on and climb
over, skydive off his lap like the bionic man.
This is what I remember, Great Granddad, his pipe smoke and his grand
father clock.
You may be thinking this relationship was one-sided, far from it. Like
any respectable person Great Granddad appreciated the profit of the
morning cup of tea and as regular as his grand father clock, every
morning, I would take him in a fresh cup of the PG Tips. I guess I was
a kind of human teas made which you could also have a conversation
with.
Early one morning it was just Mum, Great Granddad and myself left at
home. I received the floral patterned mug of tea from mum and carefully
made my way along the carpeted landing to Great Granddads bedroom. I
attempted to push the door open but it would not open wide enough to
allow me to enter the room, something was blocking it. After receiving
no reply from my calls I returned with Mum for reinforcements.

Great Granddad had passed away. His body lay behind the door, blocking
entrance. It was one of the few occasions I can ever recall seeing my
mum cry. I can still remember her silver tear tracks glistening in the
sunlight as she carried me in her arms to the house of A
neighbour.

As a kid you just deal. You adapt, grow up and move on, life is one big
adventure, yet my feelings and memories of Great Granddad are as vivid
today as they were when I was four.
Side by side, Paula and I sat.
Examining the photographs to the clicking of the grandfather clock, as
the aroma of old Holborn tobacco journeyed round the room.