I remember the perfectly manicured nails on his strong hands and running my fingers across the ridges.
I remember the sweet smelling curls of wood in the corners of his otherwise immaculate work shed. He’d usually have a scab on the top of his head where he’d been distracted by his work and had bumped it whilst going in and out of its door. Nanny would always tut to hide the smile of assurance that he still hadn’t learnt.
I remember the itchiness of the fabric of his kilt when I sat on his lap eagerly waiting for a dance that he knew I would manage at the Caileigh, and how I would attend the dance class each weekend in the hope I’d learn enough dances that he would be proudly leading me onto the dance floor for every dance in front of all his friends. But that desire would drain away the second it was my Nanny he lead to the floor. She would have a look for concentration like she was chewing the insides of her cheeks determined not to make one false step, and he would beam and just giggle, rolling his eyes if she did. He would swirl he round in his big strong arms and you could tell the rest of the room had melted away and it was just her and him.
He was always so proud of all his girls, my Nanny, my Mum, my Sister and I. When he looked at any of us he would always seem to have a glow about him and equally we were always driven to make him proud.
My Grandad Bob was one of my biggest role models growing up.
If he were still here he would have been 100 today.
He met my Nan in 1937 in Birmingham at a cycling club. They and their friends would meet each weekend and disappear off on their bikes for picnics all over the countryside. Nan would always make sure she packed his favourite sandwiches.
Their romance didn’t last long before he was conscripted to the army at the start of WW2. He made it home briefly in the February of 1941 long enough for them to be married before going across the seas to Burma to fight.
My Nan often spoke of the sadness in her heart during the V E Day celebrations in May 1945 as their war wasn’t over until the August and V J Day was announce. Then she knew she’d get her man home.
Whilst he had been away Nan had worked hard at the Rolls Royce factory making engine parts for spitfires, she had also saved all the money that Bob had earned in the army, so much so that on his return they were able to buy their first home.
It was now post war Britain and his dreams to train to be a carpenter were put aside as he went back to the butchers shop he had worked in previously to finish his apprenticeship there.
My Mum was born in 47, she was to be their only child.
My Grandad doted on her and both he and Nan worked tirelessly to provide for their little family.
They moved around the UK with him working at various butchers and later owning his own shops in Barcombe, Brighton, Hove and Burgess Hill.
Nan would man the tills and Mum would do the deliveries in his old Morris van.
Later when I ran the florist shop Nan would often compare the 2 businesses. The perishable goods, the long hours at Christmas. She remembered how much hard work it was and the long hours he had worked, so would always catch the bus over to lend a hand.
When I was little he and Nan lived in Worcester.
Despite the fact I would be travel sick on every journey I can remember even now the anticipation of the long drive to visit them. Of passing through the concrete gorge of the M40 knowing that we were almost there.
Our trips would be filled with drinks of warm ribena, hot water bottles and blankets pulled so tight you could hardly move. Visits to the miniature village at Bourton on the water and hours and hours of playing in “Wee Twa” or “little two” the play house that both he and nan had made us from a small shed in the bottom of their garden.
It had a big brass knocker of a Scott’s man playing the bagpipes. The outside was painted to look like bricks with a red stable door.
All the furniture inside had been made by him and painted by Nan. Old furniture cut up and re purposed to make kitchen cupboards, a cooker and sink and a little table and chairs for us to eat out tea. It’s how I’d always imagined the play house from Enid Blyton’s “The magic wishing chair” to be.
It was the happiest day in the world when I found out they would be moving to Burgess Hill to be closer to us, and even happier to know that “Wee Twa”would be moving with them.
Grandad worked part time in a little butchers across the road from my school. I would often stand by the fence at play time hoping to see him and when I couldn’t I’d look to the skies to find his face in the clouds, convinced that because he was so close he would know I was thinking of him and he’d think of me. And on days I was sent home poorly and my mum was at work, he’d pick me up on his way home for lunch and let me ride the handlebars of his bike. It always made me feel miraculously better.
It was Christmas Day the day that Grandad got sick. I was a horrible 18 year old who was sliding off the rails. It was only 3 christmases since Mum and Dad had separated and Mum was so desperate for Christmas to be perfect.
Mum had ushered us into the dining room and told us to just carry on and eat our dinners. My Sister and I sat pushing the turkey round the plates, neither of us daring to take a bit as the lumps in our throat forbade us to swallow. We could hear Mum pacing the floor and Nan talking softly to him as they waited for an ambulance to arrive.
He had suffered a heart attack and was taken to hospital where he remained into the new year.
Mum and Nan visited every day, and Helen and I went as often as I could.
At the end of each visit he would walk us the end of the corridor to say our goodbyes. We would then watch him shuffle back. He had always been a giant of a man to me. But watching his depleting frame heading back down the hall, his pajamas looked like he’d left the coat hanger in them. He’d never turn round, but as he got back to his room he would always give a little wave, knowing his girls were still watching.
He died on the 7th of January 1999.
He’d never made it back home from that Christmas Day.
All of our worlds felt like the joy had been sucked away.
There are so many times I have wished he were still here to let my daughter stand on his feet to dance as I once used to. For the times I wish he were still here so my son could follow him to the work shed and fiddle with curls of wood whilst watching him carve a new piece of furniture for the dolls house. To hold my Mums hand and tell her things would be ok when life got hard.
I wonder what he would think of his great grandchildren, if he would look at mine and Helen’s kids with the same burst of pride that he once gazed on us with.
I wonder what he would have said to comfort my Nan when he saw how she had soldiered on with life once he had gone, knowing that a piece of her had died with him but determined to stay strong for the rest of us. How she fought to the end.
Life has never been the same since he went. To this day we all feel that little piece of us is missing. But we are all so great full for the memories and joy he brought to our lives.
Happy birthday Grandad. 100 years today since the world change for the better.