Gran was a great reader.  She loved murder mysteries, especially Agatha Christie’s.  I was an only child, and had spent a lot of time with my Grandparents.  Dad was an archaeologist.  His work took him all over the world and mum sometimes accompanied him when I was older.  Being with my Grandparents was home from home. Later I trained as a teacher and worked with inner city kids.  Challenging to say the least, but I loved my job.  After my Grandparents passed away, I inherited their house.  It was a quaint single-storey cottage in a village near the coast.

One day I was doing a bit of a clear-out.  There were books everywhere. It was time I made this old house my own.  The kitchen needed to be modernised and the rooms painted.  “I’ll start with the books” I thought.  Duster in my hand, I began to empty the bookcase.  A photograph fell from the pages of “Murder on the Orient Express”.  It was Grandad in his soldier’s uniform.  Gran must have used it as a bookmark.  1944 was written on the back.  Memories started to rush back like a newsreel.

I remembered one afternoon in particular.  It was Grandad’s 80^th birthday.  I was taking them out for lunch.  It was a glorious June day. When I arrived at their house, Grandad was standing in the conservatory, looking out at the garden.  Mr. Daly, a neighbour, did most of the work out there these days.  Grandad turned when I called out to them.  He wore a tweed jacket with dark brown trousers, and a red dickey-bow.  For his age, he still stood very straight and had to bend his head coming into the kitchen.  “She’s upstairs deciding what to wear” he said, referring to my Gran. ”You know how long she takes!”.  Gran arrived into the kitchen wearing a cream suit and brown blouse, with a cameo broach pinned at the centre.  “Hello dear” she said, smiling, and we gave each other a hug.  I got a faint smell of “Evening in Paris “, which she wore on occasions.

The waitress led us to our table and handed out menus.  The restaurant overlooked the sea.  Families were on the beach enjoying the sunshine.  Children were running in and out of the water, laughing and shrieking as the waves lashed into them.  Gran ordered smoked salmon.  Granddad took his time.  The waitress stood patiently, pencil poised.  Grandad finally said “Lentil soup sounds good”.  He then looked up at the waitress and said “they don’t take me out much”.  Gran and I looked at each other.  Gran put her eyes up to heaven.  The waitress didn’t change her expression, just looked at Gran, and then me.  Grandad was enjoying himself.  “Have you any other soup” I asked.  “Soup of the day is vegetable” I was told.  I settled for that.

When the waitress walked away, Gran said ”you behave yourself” to Grandad, with a stern expression.  He winked at me, a smile creasing his weather-beaten face.  “How are those children behaving themselves?” Gran asked, as she passed her glass for water.  “Ah, the usual Gran.  There’s always a few who play up, egging the others on.  It’s an uphill struggle some days, but they’re good kids at heart.”  “You’re too soft Emma, just like your mother” Gran replied.  It didn’t take long before we were served, and no one spoke for a while except to comment on the food.  In the middle of it all, Grandad sneezed into his lentil soup.  It was so loud, people at other tables looked over.  “For God’s sake George” Gran said, as Grandad struggled to find his handkerchief.  Turning to me she said, in a low voice “I’ll swing for him one of these days!”.  “Don’t hit me” Grandad said, putting up his hand to protect himself, with a look of mock fear.  “George, you silly man.   People are staring”.  Grandad had got the effect he wanted.  It was hard not to smile.  Gran was not amused.

After our meal, we took a stroll along the promenade before I drove them home. It was always a happy time in their company.   The car was stifling from the heat of the sun.  Grandad opened the front door and with a sweeping gesture of his arm, we walked ahead of him.  Always the gentleman in spite of his faults.  He stopped to straighten his bow-tie in the hall mirror.  Gran and I walked through to the kitchen.  Then we heard him curse.  We turned to see what had happened.  “I’ve lost my tooth Grace” he said to Gran. “The gold one, look, it’s gone”.  He lifted his top lip.  One side of his moustache followed, distorting his face.  Sure enough, there was a gap where his tooth had been.  Gran started to laugh.  I laughed behind my hand.  Grandad was stricken.  He was a vain man at the best of times.  Between gulps of laughter, Gran said “it must have come out when you sneezed into your soup”. She was practically in convulsions at this stage. “Just as well you didn’t finish the soup” she said.  “You could have swallowed it!”   I can still see Grandad standing there, his bow-tie at an angle, his finger feeling the gap between his teeth.  This time, he was not amused.

Grandad passed away at age 85.  Gran went downhill after that, and joined him within the year.

Josephine Nolan