Nan Copyright © 2009 Julie Sea-Borne

Flowery cotton pinny, crossed over shoulders
Broad enough to cope, with whatever life delivered.
Warm, baggy skin, from which arose Nana smells.
Oil of Ulay and Pears soap.
Yardley talc dusted into crevices etched by toil and hardship,
A life of thoughtless, engrained to the bone, thrift.
So second nature, so instinctive,
It made a mockery of our modern, credit crunch notions,
Of make do and mend.

Kitchen scraps in the pig pail,
Ready to feed those two shadowy monsters, which snuffled and grunted,
Over in the big shed, terrifying, yet at the same time, attracting,
Inquisitive eyes and brave little fingers poked through railings,
Only to run, shrieking, when the monsters came to investigate.

Nothing was wasted, even crusts from a faddy child’s plate,
Were soaked in milk, ready to make bread pudden’.
Nan’s bread pudden, the stuff of legends,
A solid brick of pure fat and carbs.
Hearty enough to stick to ribs, and anywhere else it touched,
Pockets of sweet, succulently plump sultanas,
Exploding into melting, oozing warmth on your tongue,
Made every mouthful, a thrill of discovery.

Long days, exploring and claiming as my own,
The hay meadows which surrounded Nan’s house.
A child’s paradise, complete with hoards of village children.
Common as muck, my mother would sniff, yet I didn’t care,
And gladly followed where they led, the secrets they shared,
Of birds nests and dens, of hidden streams and the absolutely,
Bestest trees for climbing.

The sting of witch hazel, on green grazed knees and elbows,
Tacit agreement reached that parents did not need to know,
I’d been breaking rules, and ascending the heights again.
Lunches eaten in the open, usually in the branches of a tree.
Sandwiches of white Mother’s Pride, thick sliced,
Slathered with marg and jam.
No thought given to cholesterol and calories,
But somehow, we thrived and grew healthy on it.

Tumbling home, ravenous as puppies, the setting sun picking out
Nan’s windows with gold, thoughts gladly turning tea-wards.
Toast made on the fire, dripping with butter,
Hard boiled eggs and salad.  Cheddar, so mature it stung the eyes,
Home made pickle and salad cream.
And, best of all, cake.  At least four different kinds, all home made,
No shop bought cake ever disgraced Nan’s table.
The unforgiving hardness of the pew beneath my bottom,
Sitting beside Nan in chapel on a Sunday.
Hearing her thin reedy voice, piping out her favourite hymns,
Head bobbing under her Sunday best hat.
Nan’s hats, of which she had a succession,
Each one more hideous than the one before.
And yet, there was a strange kind of comfort, in knowing,
That time may end, and civilisations crumble into dust,
But Nan’s hats would endure.

That occasional, much longed for treat, of sleeping at Nan’s.
Heavy candlewick bedspread, old creaky wooden bed.
Coconut matting, cold underfoot,
The squat china po, and rose patterned oil lamp,
Casting kinetic, spine chilling shadows on the ceiling.
Torchlight under the covers, heavy over my head,
Listening for the comforting boom of Big Ben striking ten,
Hearing the slow, ponderous tread on the stairs,
Hurriedly feigning sleep, book thrust guiltily down by my toes.
The lamp being dimmed, until the world shrank,
And there was only that yellow circle of light, and the soft,
Night time sounds of Nan, sleeping across the hall.