Grandfather’s Books Copyright © R J Whiting 2010

The rear end-papers loom;
He recalls the story in his mind
Playing it out on the far wall.
‘Aren’t you at school today?’ He asks, his eyes never leaving
A spot above the clock.
‘It’s Saturday,’ I reply.

These are the only words
I ever remember him saying to me.
This old man, rigid in his chair
The dog at his feet,
Resting her head amongst his toes;
His agonies.

The book, closed, was put away.
I didn’t go to the funeral
But went into school
And thought about him
Forever staring, with eyes of pain;

In the evening my father
Took down a scrap-book from the shelf.
My Grandfather, signing up, aged eighteen;
A Medical Board, papers
And a lucky escape.

On the beach, trouser-legs rolled
Legs white as sea-front ice-cream,
And a smile, a smile which is new to me
And an arm around my Grandmother’s waist.

In motion! He bowls leg-spin
In the alley, to my father.
The hanging sheets catch the ball
Grandmother, wringing washing through a mangle;
Disapproval etched into the language
That is her pose.

He hands my father a five pound note,
He’s become Head Boy at the Grammar;
It set him back for months.
And that smile again, total, face-filling
As warm as winter toast.

I stand by his grave.
I think, not of his staring, silent agony,
But those vibrant, smiling, bowling days
Enjoying the bounties of his son’s youth.

It seemed so strange.
When I’d forgotten the blurb
I’d written for the fly-leaf
Of what I thought had been his book,
And read more the whole
Of what had been his life;

I was struck that in his dying
He had finally come alive.