Families

When my Dad joined the RAF and went away for training, Mum let our little house and we moved in with her parents, who always seemed more relaxed and friendly than my Dad's family who were a bit 'posh' and emotionally restrained.

Memories of food are so emotive. The smell of caramelised (or burned) onion always takes me back to my Grandma’s house where it usually heralded dinner.  I’ve always loved that smell, maybe because I loved being there. My mother's parent's home was homely in the best sense of the word.  Everything in it had seen better days in those years of make-do and mend; threadbare patches in the carpets disguised with rag rugs, diligently made from scraps of material left over from making garments, or even old clothes, sewn onto sacking by Grandma and her daughters.  The ancient furniture that we might regard now as antiques had been cleaned and polished over many years, and the window had faded curtains.  The curtains were of no consequence however, as the wartime blackout demanded black material thick enough to prevent any light escaping that might betray the whereabouts of this huge city to enemy bombers and I remember the window glass being crisscrossed with sticky black tape in case of bomb blast.  A long floor-sweeping curtain of thick dark velvety material hung at the corner of the living room to prevent draughts from two doors, one leading into the hall and the other into the kitchen.
The kitchen itself was quite large but rather dark, as the window looked out onto the side of the next house.  It had a big white sink with brass taps and wooden draining board, gas cooker and a small larder off to one side with marble shelf that served as the fridge of the day and the indispensable meat safe, a small cupboard with mesh sides to keep out flies. This larder stored all the foodstuffs, butter and homemade jams, and a large earthenware jar that held dripping, that delicious fat from the Sunday roast beef, not only used in frying, but amazingly delicious spread on bread with a sprinkling of salt. Nowadays this fare would be considered most unhealthy, but at the time it was a real treat. A scrubbed wooden table at one side of the kitchen held an enamelled Bread bin and round wooden breadboard, a pair of cast-iron scales and a clutter of other culinary items.  A couple of shelves held herbs and spices, Oxo and Bisto for seasoning soup and thickening gravy, while the cupboard next to the gas stove always seemed to be covered in a clutter of jars and cooking utensils.  The floor covered in linoleum was patched where it had worn badly, or else concealed with homemade rag rugs that could trip up the unwary.  Looking back, it was rather cold and dingy and not at all like the bright attractive kitchens expected today.  On the kitchen door hung a print of Christ, the Light of the World by William Holman Hunt; “I stand at the door and knock.”  As with other women of her generation Grandma, though not overly religious, had a strong protestant faith.  She wasn't a regular churchgoer, though she may have been at some time in her life.
A door from the kitchen led into a passage, with toilet and coal store off, and the back door leading into the garden, where Grandpa grew roses over a trellis, and vegetables in season, a small greenhouse full of growth and a couple of apple trees.  Back in the house, the toilet was scrupulously clean but cold in winter, and furnished with neat squares of newspaper hung by a string through the corner.   However it was worth braving the cold for the pleasure of reading the daily tear-off calendar with amusing or philosophical saying for each day.  Grandma must have had a standing order for these calendars, as there was always one hanging there!
A gleaming brass and black-leaded Victorian Range warmed the living room; it’s hot and warm ovens with big black kettle constantly simmering on the glowing coals, lit every morning by my Grandfather.  Part of his morning routine that I remember was to take some salt and soot from the chimney to clean his teeth, and I have it on good authority that he still had his natural teeth when he passed on at the age of ninety three.  At either side of the chimneybreast, floor to ceiling built-in cupboards served as storage for crockery, bed linen, materials and Grandma’s sewing paraphernalia.  When I was quite young, my favourite diversion was a large box of buttons of every shape and size that I would empty onto the floor, though what I did with them I can’t now imagine.  Each of these cupboards had large drawers half way down filled with papers and letters and things that were put there because there was no other place for them.  One drawer however, held a large collection of loose Photographs, and these I found fascinating, especially old sepia portraits of past family members; those beautifully posed and softly illuminated records of elegantly coiffed young women in decorously attractive dresses, upright matrons in dark high necked, long sleeved garments, moustachioed young men in stiff suits or smart uniform, sober old men in starched collars, newly married young couples and family groups; my grandparents’ forebears.  In later years I was to add to this collection with photos of my own marriage and young children.  They never went into Albums as they did at home; Dad fixing them onto the black pages with special corners and writing in white ink very artistically.

An upright Piano had pride of place and was as usual in such a home as a Music centre or Television is now.  Every Sunday morning with the smell of dinner roasting in the oven, Grandma would play hymns in lieu of going to church.  Grandpa would be sitting in his armchair by the fire reading the Sunday paper and smoking a cigarette.  I’m reminded by Auntie Nance that Grandma would also smoke Woodbines that she kept in her drawer along with her makeup and cheap scent, though what that combination did to the taste of said cigarettes I leave to your imagination!  I loved playing on the polished mahogany rocking chair, an elegantly carved Victorian upholstered haven of delight to a small child with imagination.  That chair was my sailing ship and horse-drawn carriage; and would carry me away to wherever I wished to go.  (Sad to say, after my Grandma passed away and Grandpa re-married, that wonderful old rocking chair along with all the photos and other things of my Grandma’s, apparently ended on a bonfire instigated by the new wife who wanted no such reminders of her new husband’s past.  Such is the insensitivity of possessiveness.)

No TV or Movie Drama would be complete without music and I’m reminded of the pervasiveness of music in our lives, due in no small part to the popularity of the Radio which was a constant companion, with the humour of stand-up comedians such as Max Miller in Workers Playtime, broadcast live at lunchtime, and Tommy Handley’s ITMA in the evening, with plenty of popular music in between to keep the country happy!  At an early age I learnt to sing, not only all the traditional Nursery Rhymes, but also ‘You are my Sunshine’… ‘Run Rabbit Run’… and the amazingly profound lyrics of… ‘Dozidotes and Marezidotes and Littlelambsitivy, a Kidllitivy too, wud’n you?… If the words sound queer and funny to your ear, a little bit jumbled and jivey, sing… Mares eat oats and Does eat oats and little Lambs eat ivy…’etc.  Mum also loved to sing and play the piano in our front room, her favourites a mix of classical and popular music… ‘The Wedding of the Painted Doll’… ‘Claire de Lune’ ‘The Warsaw Concerto’ from a wartime film, and Grieg’s A Minor concerto, among many others.
Back at my Grandma’s, a small front room was ostensibly the dining room, with a beautiful polished folding mahogany table.  However, this room was hardly used at all, especially in winter, and although it did have a small fireplace in one corner I can’t remember a fire ever being lit there.  There was a wind-up record player, probably belonging to my Auntie Nance, on which I was allowed to play if I was very careful, Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue, my introduction to Jazz and the wonders of recorded music.
Grandma was an accomplished tailor and her bedroom was a jumble of clothes and materials, of garments in the making, so at times I had to suffer the indignity of being stood on a stool to have the hem adjusted of a new dress or coat or even worse, have newly cut pieces fitted and pinned on me; admonished to keep still as I stood there fidgeting and complaining of pins sticking in me!  It mattered not if the material was new, from Grandma’s hoard, or from my aunties’ cast-off garments, easy to cut-down for a small child; I always had new clothes.  Grandma was large and cuddly, with an open face, embellished with several lumps or cysts that always fascinated me.  I believe she taught me a lot in her quiet way, songs and stories, and made me aware of nature, in the garden, or on walks down country lanes, observing bees going from flower to flower and listening to birdsong.
I remember sleeping in a bed of feather pillows and quilts with a very special smell, maybe not as pristine as my little bed at home, but so cosy.  There was a time we had a family party and everyone stayed the night, when I shared the big bed in the back bedroom with my mother and her two sisters, my aunts.  Sharing one bed meant two at each end, which was accomplished with much laughter!  Whenever my mum's family came together, I remember such mirth and hilarity that tears would roll down my mother’s cheeks.  Their sense of humour was acute but not barbed, farcical but not cruel, risqué but never crude.  Their code of behaviour was fed by spiritual rather than religious conviction, with a sense of honour and rightness rather than moral righteousness.  It felt warm and safe in that family.
In the big back bedroom where my mother and I would stay, a large framed Victorian print hung on the wall opposite the bed, portraying a scene of a little child picking flowers on a grassy bank perilously close to the edge of a precipice, but thank heaven, a wonderfully radiant Guardian Angel with magnificent wings standing right behind the child with hands outstretched to catch him should he fall.  That picture was such a comfort to me as I said my prayers, asking God to look after my Daddy in the war, and fell asleep wondering if anyone ever saw their own Guardian Angel.

I realise this episode is a bit long and I make no apology for getting carried away with all these memories, because the more I write, the more memories come flooding back. So if this resonates with you, please let me know in the box for comments below and I'll keep on writing!