I really loved my grandad Oliver. When he died I had to clear up his house, go through his possessions and do all the dreadful jobs you have to do when someone dies. My grandma died ten years ago, my parents emigrated to Australia, my brothers are living in Canada and my wife was at work, so there was only me to do the job on that gloomy rainy November Wednesday in Rochdale.
Here’s one of our last conversations we had in the care home, when he was reminiscing about his childhood:
“When I was born I had a disease called Polio – lots of children had it in those days. It left one of my legs shrivelled and withered, so that I had to walk with my leg in a big iron frame. So at school I couldn’t play football with the other boys, or run around the playground. My withered leg and the red birthmark on my face made me pretty miserable because they called me names. So I’d been lonely ever since starting school. I always remember one day when all of us were invited to a boy’s birthday party at his house, which had a lovely big garden. All the children were running around, playing games on the grass, but I had no one to talk to, as usual I was on my own. I remember I found a shed in the garden, and went inside and sat down on the floor. After a while, the door opened and a girl in my class came in. We were both seven years old and hadn’t talked much, but she was one of the few children who smiled at me and said hello.”
“What’s the matter, Oliver?” she asked me. “Why aren’t you playing with the rest of us?”
I rubbed my face, because I’d been crying. “I’m just waiting here for Mummy to come and take me home.”
“Don’t hide away here.”
“Why not? They just make fun of me, they laugh at me and call me names.”
“No.” She sat beside me, and took hold of my hand. I’d never held a girl’s hand before and it felt strange, but kind of nice too. “Listen, Olly. The boys and girls at school, they’re not nasty, they don’t hate you, they’re not laughing at you. Some of them are just stupid, and don’t know what to say, just because you’re a bit different. The ones who call you names, just ignore them and they’ll soon stop. If you make the effort to talk to them they’ll accept you as you are. Not all games mean you have to run around. There’s lots of games you can play just standing still or sitting. No one dislikes you, they just don’t know what to say to you, they feel awkward. Come with me now, and we’ll join them in the house – there’s jelly and ice cream. Please, Olly, come with me.”
“No, I’m scared. I want my mummy. I want to go home.”
She squeezed my hand. “Don’t be afraid. Come on, come with me. I’ll hold your hand. We’ll go in together – just ignore anyone saying nasty things. Most of them won’t do that. Most of them are nice, I promise you.”
“So,” grandad went on, wrapping up those fond reminiscences from his childhood. “I did go back to the party with Betty, and she held my hand and I went into the house, and she was right. From that day on, I wasn’t scared of people pointing and laughing at me, I just ignored anyone like that, and soon made friends with the others. Betty was right, they were all nice enough, I just hadn’t go to know them. They let me play with them, even in the running-around games, they found ways to include me in their fun. I discovered that whenever you mix with a bunch of children or people for that matter, most of them want to be kind.”
I thought back to poor old Grandad, wondered what life must have been like for him, growing up with his disability.
Of course life isn’t a fairy tale: he didn’t go on to marry little Betty. In fact her family moved away soon afterwards and he said that sadly he lost touch with her. But generally speaking he had a happy childhood, he grew up, became an architect, married Gran, had children and led a happy life. Now, all these years later when he couldn’t manage on his own any more, my wife and I found a nice care home for him, and we visited regularly. He seemed quite happy.
Until the terrible accident that happened there a month ago.
There’d been a fire in the kitchen and the whole place had burnt down, with lots of fatalities, including my grandad.
I sat down at his old kitchen wooden table, and looked at the few possessions they had returned to me from the home. I fiddled with his mobile phone that he’d given me the password for, in case he ever forgot it. I looked at his last calls, then noticed there was a recorded call that seemed to have been on the day of the fire. He seemed to have been calling me, pressed the wrong buttons and had accidently recorded a conversation he was having with someone. Funny because we had been told that he would have died of smoke inhalation quickly. It was a horrible thought, that maybe he had been alive for some time and had suffered.
“What an incredible coincidence!” I recognised his voice from the little mobile phone. “Betty, that you came back to this area after all these years, and that we’re in the same place at the same time. I managed to crawl through here, because the fire is getting worse back there. I can’t see a way out that way, the smoke is too thick. Let’s just rest here. Maybe they’ll come and get us.”
There was a long silence. I thought I could hear a woman crying.
Then I heard his voice. A chill ran down my spine just as if he was in the room with me, and I was hearing his dying words, that were almost a whisper after his fit of coughing:
“Do you remember when we were little kids and you made me go back to that party, because I was scared? You changed my whole life. You said just hold my hand and don’t be afraid.” There was a pause while he cleared his throat. “Well it’s my turn to be the strong one now. Just keep hold of my hand, Betty. Don’t be afraid. We’re going somewhere else, that’s all, we’re going to another place. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Just hold onto my hand. Don’t be afraid. . .”
I remembered that they told me that his body had been found in the corridor of the home, alongside one of the woman residents, holding her hand.
It gave me a lot of comfort, to think of him like that.
In the end he wasn’t alone.
Maybe he would never be alone again.
(thanks to Allana Jordan for the image, via Pixabay)