Grandma

I was only four years old when Grandad died, consequently I remember very little of him. In fact, the only memory I have of him is peeping through the door of the room where he lay in his coffin, and just seeing his nose and beard.

Grandma, however, lived on for many years. I can see her now, cleaning up for Sunday at Mud Hall. The floors were all brick, with a sprinkling of sand. On Saturday she swept up all the sand, threw it away and spread a fresh clean layer. The massive old cast‑iron cooking range was carefully black-leaded, while the bright steel parts were cleaned with 'Monkey Brand' powder till they stone like silver. The doorsteps got their share of attention, being swept, scrubbed, and then whitened. All was now ready for Sunday, and she was happy that her home, at any rate, was fit for the Lord's Day.

All the family were married, and had left home when Grandad died. After a year or so, at whose instigation I don't know, she left Mud Hall for a small cottage in the village street. She must have missed it terribly at first, after a lifetime with all its associations of family life. Notwithstanding that, the little cottage, with a shop nearby, was a lot better for her, especially the company.

She was a good old soul, but I'm afraid not very popular with me. She always called me Johnny, which I detested. Worse than that, the little house where she now lived looked out on the Bird‑in‑Hand corner, where us boys congregated and played. She spent hours at her open door, watching us play, and as I believed, me in particular. I found that often, after a visit from Grandma, Father would sit in his chair when I came home, looking very stern.

"A little bird told me you've been fighting again" or "a little bird told me you have been swearing". "Yes," I thought to myself, "and I bet it was a little old bird in a bonnet, too". I think I really hated the poor old soul at times, and no‑one was more pleased than I when she gave up the cottage and went to live with her daughter in the next village. I must have been a horrible little urchin at times. Before she moved, we were celebrating Guy Fawkes Night, gathered on the corner letting off our fireworks. One of the favourites was a 'whizz-bang'. One of my cronies let one of these off, and it whizzed right through Grandma's open window. It exploded with a bang inside, and must have scared the poor old lady to death. I was tickled pink, and was so pleased that I gave him another out of my precious stock to see if he could do it again!

We were never happier than when we were being a nuisance to someone. One of the favourite games was to tiptoe up to the front doors of two adjacent cottages, one of which would be Grandma's for preference, and tie the door handles together. Two of us would bang on each door simultaneously, then gallop away to hide and watch the fun. You can guess what happened! As soon as one door was opened, the other would shut with a bang. This would go on for a minute or two, bang, bang, bang, while we laughed our nasty little heads off in the distance.