I was 15 years old
and started
my first job.
I visited
my paternal
grandmother
in London
and we sat in
her back garden.
Is that your
new suit?
Yes I bought it out
of my own money.
Looks nice,
makes you look
like a gentleman,
she said.
Have you seen
your father
in recent years?
No not in years.
You're not like him
at all, thank God.
I'd not seen
my old man
for a few years
and that was ok.
How's your mother?
She's ok.
How's the feller
she's got now?
He 's good.
Good role model,
I said.
That's good.
Your father
was a schmuck.
Your grandfather
goes out
in the garden
when he
comes around.
I talk to him,
I’m his mother.
Mothers do that
kind of thing.
How's Grandfather?
I asked.
He's out,
gone to the shops,
needs to get out,
he hates retirement.
He taught me
how to draw,
I said.
He's good at that,
she said.
How are you?
I asked her.
She smiled,
her semi-blind
eyes twinkled.
I'm fine,
made of tough stuff,
she said.
I gazed at her,
her white hair
permed,
her eyes
half-blind,
her small
warm hands
in her lap.
And I remembered
the time
when my mother told me
that Gran chased
some woman
who tried to sell her
clothes pegs
which were dud.
I smiled.
She never saw,
but she listened
and that's what
grandmothers
are for.
ON VISITING MY PATERNAL GRANDMOTHER IN 1963.