The gulls call constantly in a Sussex seaside town. The sun has a
peculiar intensity, and the wind is always keen. In one such town,
there’s a row of Victorian terraced houses. They all look the same from
the outside, but one barely changed its interior for almost a century.
It was rented by two sisters: my grandmother and an aunt. The hall confused the senses with dinginess and sour
mustiness, opposing the outside brilliance and the smell of chip-shop
frying. There was a formal parlour on the right with a kind of Addams
Family eeriness about it. Nobody ever went in there, which fired our
nervous curiosity all the more. All life was led in the crowded
backroom and kitchen, smelling of cats and boiled vegetables. There was no heating as such; only a black iron stove for
burning wood. The only light came reluctantly through one sash window,
covered in lace almost rendered sepia with nicotine. A miscellany of
studded leather chairs almost clambered on top of one another;
scattered with finished and unfinished crochet. The floor was patched
with shabby lino in all different shapes and designs, and an assortment
of well-trodden rugs. There she would be, in a halo of white curls: my little
Nan, apron over her dress, tiny feet in misshapen slippers, tears of
love in her eyes just to look at me. Such love I could never return,
even now after all these years of learning how.
I loved them both then, but I realise now I did not know
them. My world was based on a more material life, and I thought theirs
rather odd. The landlord would neither sell the place nor allow any
improvement, and they would not move from there. They liked everything
just as it was anyway, so everything stayed the same. Their world was almost frightening to me. I went upstairs
only once, and returned quite stunned by the bare walls, candlewick
bedspreads, and chamber pots. They had no bathroom; only a dark, damp
water closet out in the yard that I dreaded having to visit. My own
room at home was vast and full of colourful toys, resplendent with a
four-poster bed fit for a child princess. I had an en suite bathroom
almost to myself, with huge mirrors surrounded by Hollywood
dressing-room lights. My things were always big and clean and new, and
I could not imagine them any other way. I adore dogs, but their dog really frightened me. He was
blind, grouchy, and almost completely bald. He’d sooner bite you than
give you the benefit of the doubt. The cat came much later, and was
pretty frightening too. My own slender, sophisticated kitten gave him
birth with four others when she was less than a year old. How she
survived I’ll never know; all of her children were enormous. I named
this one “Smudge” because of a mark on his head. That head was as hard
and round as a cannon ball, and covered in scars. He walked like a
wrestler entering the ring, and ate whatever was left of anything. I
don’t imagine he’d have liked the name “Smudge;” probably preferring
something like “Bludgeon.”
Tea was always stewed so as to be harshly strong and barely
warm. It was served in pieces of floral china one would only see in the
windows of charity shops nowadays. Nan always had the telly on for some
ancient film, or for the sport. If they were having a flutter on the
horses, the racing would be on for hours. This was their luxury, along
with a soft pack of twenty Woodbine or Craven A, and a roast once a
week. If they could play darts in the evenings with a couple of
port-and-lemons, and go by coach to Spain for a week each year, they
were happy. I was baffled, but if I’d looked more deeply I might have
seen that there was more to happiness than I realised.
Families started big when they were born. I suppose they
had to, considering all the things a person could die from in those
days. I think there were thirteen siblings, all robustly healthy, and
all with old-fashioned names like “Violet.” Lots of them lived with
their own families in the same road. They’d all be there leaning over
the yard fence in their slippers to pat me on the head and grin at me
without teeth. It all looked so bleak and grubby and Dickensian, but
there was always so much laughter and affection. Whenever Nan took us anywhere she’d want to buy us
choc-ices, or sneakily give us big brown pennies to play on the slots.
I felt such a wrench in my heart every time she reached for her purse,
because I knew there was barely anything in it. I’d see the life and
eagerness in her face though, and sense how she only longed to give to
us. She would never take anything from anyone, because there was really
nothing she wanted. I didn’t understand that at the time.
I was relieved for her when she finally went, but so sorry
for me. I would carry her letters with me until they were ragged and
soaked with tears. I could still read her love through the decreasingly
lucid thoughts on the page. The addresses on the envelopes became
almost illegible, littered with questions and crossings out by
determined postal workers:
“Not Doxford, try Oxford or Yoxford.”
“Jingle? Try Dingle.”
I pitied her; I thought she’d suffered,
while all along I’d had everything. There was joy and wisdom in those
sharp blue eyes though, and the deepest sort of love that brought peace
and confidence to all around her. I think we’d have a lot to talk about now; meaningful things
that I now understand enough to talk about. Really I know such things
don’t need to be talked about though; one only needs to sit and be
with someone who also understands them.
All along she’d had it all, and I had it all to come.
A lot of it is still to come.
Sumangali Morhall
February 2005
