Unconditional Love

I think of them both in terms of flowers. Nanna is soft lilac roses, lavender-scented face powder and the shy beauty of the African violets on her dining room windowsill. Granddad is marigolds - enthusiastic, joyous, knowledgeable and strong.

When I close my eyes, I find Nanna in her bedroom - chintz and lace and dusty pink flowers. She sits at her dressing table, dabbing creams onto her velvety cheeks and letting me sample her blusher, the powder puff sending plumes of rose-tinted dust into the air. Her voice is soft as kitten fur, and her laugh tinkles like glass raindrops.

Granddad, I find in the hallway. He is bold, yellow, unafraid to get down on his hands and knees for a vigorous game of bat-and-ball between the doorways. His laughter is as bright as the cabbage roses on the crazy wallpaper - golden, brassy. He is brown trousers and rough tweed jackets, he is the old misshapen hat that he wears despite Nanna’s reproving glances. He is never too busy for a game of cards, or to race the wind-up monsters down the wooden track he built just for us. He is fun.

Nanna is gentle. Time with her is dressing up the old paper dolls and sitting in the kitchen while she makes supper. It is peeping into the back of the low cupboard to pick out my favorite soup, then helping her butter the toast. It is sitting in her summerhouse, the heat pouring through the glass windows while she rocks us gently in the glider. The summerhouse is for dolls tea parties and visiting Aunts and Uncles. A place for Nanna to watch while we explore the garden.

Granddad’s garden is a testament to his devoted care – a riotous medley of colors. Giant chrysanthemums gallantly standing over low-lying pansies, yellow and orange calendulas at war with the pink tulips and purple larkspurs. Such beautiful chaos, his place to spread his passion without the confines of Nanna’s tasteful design. His pond is the crowning feature – the fish we caught together one summer in Durham river, not minnows like we thought, but black perch, soon to outgrow their watery home. In the evenings I helped him chop up worms to feed the ‘Mr. Greedys’ – the loaches that were our favorite of all the pond life. He showed me how to sprinkle the food on the lily pads so that they would launch themselves out of the water to take it, their whiskers twitching as they sucked up their dinner.

Daytime was for shopping trips, endless traipsing round every shoe store for new school shoes with Mum and Nanna. Evenings were Granddad’s domain. While the womenfolk rested in front of the tv with a cup of tea, Granddad would don his brown hat and blazer and off we’d head on an adventure. Sometimes it was a climb up Tunstall hill, a nature lesson as he patiently identified every wild flower and butterfly along the path. The excitement of using the little hammer to dig for fossils, imagining the whole world around us had once been an ancient ocean.

Other nights we walked hand in hand to Alexandria park, Granddad carrying the fishing nets and heavy glass jar over his shoulder. I’d skip ahead to the concrete steps by the lake, excitedly pointing out the tiny sticklebacks as they flashed silver and swam from my shadow. He’d scoop up the water till the jar was full, and watch proudly as I fished. I felt ten feet tall as he helped me gently push the wriggling fish out of the net and into the jar to see what I had caught. Sometimes we fed the ducks, and once we met a man with a kestrel, who let us hold the majestic bird and send it flying out low across the lake. Everyone stopped to chat with Granddad.

Beach days were frequent, even at Easter when the North Sea numbed our legs and goosepimpled our arms, despite the sunshine. Pottering in the rockpools was our special time, Granddad and me, the younger kids hanging back with Mum and Nanna on the beach towels, building castles. We would jump from rock to rock, him cheering me on as I bravely tackled the slippery seaweed-clad boulders. When we found a good rockpool he would flip over the smaller stones, while I poked about with the net looking for treasures. Our bucket would fill with orange starfish and pale grey crabs, carried carefully back for Nanna to ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ over. Of course, we always returned them to the tidal pools before we left.

Granddad was the master of sandcastles. What he lacked in quality he made up for in quantity. As a toddler I had gleefully smashed his castles down while he pretended to scold me, or acted shocked to see them gone. Years later he would do the same with my own children, despite the arthritis in his knees. Never too old to play.

If I could pick the day’s adventures I usually chose the leisure center. While Mum held the babies in the shallow end, Granddad led me into the deepest parts, where the water was too high to touch the bottom. We would ride the waves like Viking warriors, conquering each crest as they pushed us back towards the shallows. His hair that was usually held in place with an eye-watering amount of hair spray would trail out behind him in the water, making us giggle. He was always willing to walk up the long staircase to the water slide, even after I was old enough to go down by myself. Not many OAPs would take that ride, but Granddad loved it.

Back home Nanna would have laid out a feast for the hungry swimmers. There were tongue and garlic sausage sandwiches, the salty meats making the cherry tomatoes seem all the sweeter. Dessert was strawberries and meringue nests, and all the cream I could drink before Mum confiscated the pot. At Easter there were always chocolate eggs, too – cracked open and shared around, the adults pretending not to notice as we stole the largest pieces.

The favorite day of every visit to their house was the Metro Center. Malls were rare in England in the 80’s and early 90’s, and the place seemed like Oz to us children. There were themed areas – the Mediterranean village with its fountains and koi pond, Italian restaurants and art shops. Or the quaint Antique village, done up like a medieval market, every shopfront sporting Tudor beams and gabling.

My favorite store was the doll shop, filled with hundreds of beautiful porcelain dolls. I remember dreaming of owning one, their lacy pantaloons and flowery bonnets and tidy ringlets were the most beautiful things I’d ever seen. One day Nanna caved in and bought me my first doll – Emily Jane. Dressed in blue, she was the perfect Victorian lady and I couldn’t believe she was actually mine. I felt so grown up as I carried the heavy box home that night, cradling it in my arms in delight.

Metroland was the highlight though. Most adults would have groaned at the thought of a day spent chasing children around the indoor theme park, blaring music and bright flashing lights everywhere. Not Granddad – he loved it. He would queue up and buy our wrist bands, helping us fasten them securely while we wriggled with excitement, desperate to go inside. Nanna and Mum would leave to shop with the baby, and Granddad stayed with us.

He didn’t usually ride after we were big enough to ride alone, but he was always nearby, sometimes watching the little boats in the turquoise pools, or sitting on a bench chatting to some old student of his. As we ran past he would ask “How many rides have you been on?” And act amazed when we told him. I think he loved watching the swing chairs almost as much I loved riding them – soaring up to try and kick the palm trees with my toes, then plunging down almost to the river and train ride below. He would wave as we went around, and marvel at how brave we were to ride the pirate ship or the roller coaster.

Lunch would be Chinese in the Clockwork café, even though Granddad preferred the fish and chips in Asda’s cafeteria. Everything was for the grandchildren, always. Sometimes the food would take too long, and that was the only time he would ever get cross. His blood sugar levels dropped, and he would grumble and complain about the service. Grandigrumps, we teased him. We all knew to eat fast and not talk too much, or greedy old Grandigrumps would snaffle a chip from our plates.

As I grew older, my passions changed. I was suddenly more interested in clothes shopping with Mum and Nanna, and the park seemed like a waste of time. The beach was too sandy, and Metroland was for little kids. I knew Granddad missed our adventures, but he never once made me feel guilty for choosing not to go. I wish I remembered our last game of bat-and-ball. His sports commentator voice as he described the fast-paced action as we hit the ping-pong ball back and forth across the hall carpet, scoring goals in the doorways. I always won, but never easily. We were perfectly matched.

When I discovered my love for writing, Nana and Granddad were my biggest supporters. I might have been the Poet Laureate or William Shakespeare the way they lauded me and rained praise upon my little stories and poems. Their love was unconditional and their encouragement beyond measure. They would announce to everyone that I was going to be a famous author one day, and I never doubted their words. I’ll make it happen - I know I will. For them.

Now that they are gone, so many everyday items send me spiraling back down memory lane to visit with them a moment. The brilliant yellow marigold gloves by the sink – Granddad singing Lazybones while washing up the dishes. A teddy bear dressed in velvet and pearls – Nana exclaiming over all of the ornaments in Collectables. Not a day passes without their voices in my head, praising me for a small accomplishment, or reminding me that there will be other competitions, other times to shine.

At night as I drift off to sleep I don’t count sheep. Instead I envisage the pebbled path to their front door, pushing through their white gates and stepping on the lucky green stone before skipping along beside the pansies and marigolds that lined the driveway. I know when I reach the front door they will both be waiting, arms stretched wide, ready with hugs and exclamations of how well I look, how pretty my outfit. As I look around the home I know so well, I hear the cheery whistle of the kettle boiling, and Coronation Street’s theme tune blaring from the sitting room. I know that later we will sit together on the floral couch, and I’ll show them all the stories I have written since last we met. They’ll put on their reading glasses, pass each page to one another as they read every word, soak up every last line. They’ll tell me how proud they are, what an accomplished young lady I’ve become.

In a way, I spend more time with them now than when they were alive. When you carry your loved ones in your heart, there is no need to pick up a phone or write a letter. I can tell them all my news on solitary car rides, spilling out the pride and excitement over my kids’ awards and triumphs as though they were sat beside me. I can send them my love on the ocean waves, or in the graceful swoop of the seagulls overhead.

Lilac and Marigold. Nana and Granddad. How dearly they loved me. How much I miss them.