My Grandmother and the Runt

My Grandmother threatened us with her death for many years – you’ll miss me when I’m gone; you’ll be sorry when I’m dead. She went on a yearly pilgrimage to knock, always taking me with her, and each time she declared the visit to be her last. She would cry on her return, telling me she would never see Knock again, because she would be dead, and I’d feel an itch of crossness spread across my skin that she could say such things. To annoy her, I’d tell her that death was hardly imminent for a woman who ate three breakfasts a day and that I had no doubt she’d see ninety – that, I could be sure, would sting.

She died of cancer in her eighty-ninth year. For a long time, her death was all of her life that I could contemplate. It reduced her life to the swish of tracksuit bottoms in hospital corridors; the smell of red medicated soap; the angry mass of her tumour. On the 10th of July, 2001, on the stroke of 6 O’ Clock as the Angelus rang out; she died. She was buried on my twenty second birthday, two days later.

Now I remember a short woman, only five foot, with a fat belly and arms too long for her body, weighted down with clenched fists that she swung like pendulums when she walked, as if to keep herself balanced. She was an evangelist, set to save the souls of those around her. ‘Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,’ she would whisper under her breath. She would teach us, my brother and I, prayers of different potency. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, save souls,’: that was enough to swing open the gates of heaven to let through one poor sinner from purgatory; there were special, longer incantations for group passes.

She had brown eyes that sparkled with devilment, but looked black when she was cross. Children gave her great pleasure, for she loved fighting with them. Myself and my brother kept her going, scolding us for getting our clothes muddy, not keeping our rooms tidy. But this was all mild stuff, just to stop her powder going damp. Her shining role was as our defender. Liam Ryan, our neighbour across the road, was in the same class in school as my brother and myself and there would be the odd childish row between us. If Nanny got any whiff of these rows, no matter who was actually in the right or wrong, she’d be down the road to Ryan’s wall, barely hitting the ground, and calling for him to, ‘come out and face her’. She would get no thanks from us for her involvement, and there was nearly always another row at home after the warrior returned. This would probably end with me slamming the door, leaving her behind it, but her voice would follow me – ‘look off at her in a temper, with the straight back and the crooked nose'.

She also had a great love of poetry, often reciting verses out loud. She could remember all the poetry she learned in school; Wordsworth’s Daffodils and Padraic Pearce’s The Wayfarer would often be recited with great feeling. It was this romantic streak and love of poetry – both of which she passed onto me- that got me into the following spot of bother.

When I was thirteen and started secondary school, I developed a major crush on one of the older boys. His greatest feature in my eyes was his height. He was about four and a half foot, far less intimidating than the other lads. The first time I saw him he was being pulled out of a bin, no doubt after being dumped there first. They used to bundle him about the place and call him ‘the runt,’ which would raise my ardour to even higher levels.

I was a bookish child, and I think that all bookish girls are tomboys at heart. You have all these male heros to identify with, princes after damsels in distress. The story may be called sleeping beauty, but who cares for her dreams? It is the prince that sees all the action and who we follow. I wanted to be the hero, not the rescued. It was therefore only natural that I would choose to do swimming, as he did, for PE, and that my time in the pool would be spent casting eyes in his direction. Now, you may think that this was to catch a glimpse of his naked torso, but such things were beneath my notice, rather, I lived for the day that I would see his head bobbing in and out of the water – just drowning ever so slightly – so I could swim over, get him in an arm lock, and bring him to safety. Generally, I didn’t believe in throwing my affections away on those that didn’t need them. I remember being told his mother had passed away. This snippet of information was quickly transmuted in my mind to her dying in childbirth – having just given birth to the runt. I could picture the poor baby, red, raw and undersized, being handed to a cold and heartbroken father, incapable of loving anyone ever again – especially not the runt. And the day I found out he had a step-mother – I knew he was my ideal man.

I would peek at him from behind corners, one glimpse of him could inspire a dozen soppy verses. Valentines day was coming and I wrote a card, and stuffed it with A4 pages upon A4 pages of my heartfelt, teenage love poetry. Though I had absolutely no intention of ever sending it to him, no detail was to be left undone, so I put his address on the envelope. My young self saw my affections as a beautiful, painful unrequited love and I couldn’t have had it any other way. If he had approached me, I’d have been overcome and most likely would have run in the other direction.

Valentines day came and to get myself in the mood I went to read my verses and spray them with a little of my Grandmothers perfume. Gone. Disappeared. Such things were normally hidden down my doll’s, Blondy’s, knickers where I thought they would be safe, but somebody had gone a rummaging. War rose. It quickly became apparent that

my Grandmother had been over taken by a wave of romance and decided to try and play cupid by sending the card. She had plucked the card, filled with romantic verses, from down the back of Blondie’s knickers, put a stamp on it, and dropped it into a letter box.

All I could feel was wild panic – I would have to leave the school, no, the country. How could I face him again, and he knowing the thoughts I’d had about his lips as soft as cushions. My Grandmother was completely relaxed and logical about it, well if he knows you like him he might respond, and sure if he doesn’t there wasn’t anything bad in it anyway. Such reasoning went well over my head. I still cannot think of that incident without cringing, of him waking up on Valentines morning, being almost knocked over by the smell of perfume, reading about his doe like eyes and hair that waved like the wind through fields of corn.

It is hard for me to believe that it is over eight years since she died, it doesn’t feel that long. She failed in making me a good house-keeper, she always complained I was a streal, yet all her efforts have made no difference – I’m still untidy. But I learnt so much from her too. She taught me how to bake apple tarts, make jam, showed me what kindness was, and I’m afraid she passed on her fiery side to me as well. Also, though it may not have been her intention, she taught me never to go rummaging in the knickers of anybody elses doll.