Random Reflective Rantings

It was my GranDad’s 81st birthday over the weekend. My mother and I went down to take him out for dinner. It’s always struck me how different people are with those they are close to particularly their family. The heartless executive who lays off his workers but who then goes home to play with his little girls. The straight talking teacher who has unresolved issues with her mother that are always unspoken when she visits her house regimentedly every Tuesday afternoon. I think a lot of families are like that. I know that mine is. As I’ve grown older I’ve realised how much so.

We picked him up. It took a while after we arrived. We went into the small country shop where my cousin was tending the tame Sunday morning till. He played with a Stanley knife in the absence of anything better to do. Our patriarch of sorts came in and berated him over the door. I received a knowing look from the young brown eyes and my mother walked out to the car. I took the back seat. He took the front. “Are you going to put on your seatbelt?” “No, no it’s only a short drive.”

We pulled up outside the beach front hotel. We parked where he dictated and proceeded to walk in the wrong door. We then had to make our way through the hotel to the restaurant side. I walked very slowly behind him so as to make sure he wasn’t left behind. His beige crocodile shoes made a sitcky slip-slap sound on the tiles which was magnified by his slow pace. The room with carpet made a quiet contrast. The only sound was one of one member of staff putting the finishing touches to tables in preparation for a wedding.

We took our seats in the restaurant. A table for four with three people sitting at it. That space could have been for anyone. One of my brothers. My Dad. One of his two sons. One of his grandchildren. But I think they preferred it to be empty. To fill that space would have been a sin of some sort. She wasn’t there to sit in it. The conversation was of the same matters it always is with him and perhaps anyone of his generation. Land. Money. Business and neighbours who aren’t well. We were interrupted.

The waiter took our orders quickly and efficiently. He then cleared away the cutlery set out for the absent space. My GranDad made a comment about the Poles and how he must have been one. I didn’t think it was my place to point out that given his sallow skin, dark eyes with darker hair, soft cultured accent and Said on his name badge my GranDad could be wrong. I know his bark is worse than his bite but I still ordered stuffed chicken with ham rather than my first preference for a pasta. I probably couldn’t have finished the pasta anyway. I’d eaten a lot the past 36 hours.

We were in the corner of the room and I could observe the tables around me with ease. The married couple with one little princess dictating proceedings. The wife drained the last of her pint and proceeded to order additional wine as her little highness demanded chips in a high pitched voice. The couple to my left with the builder who obviously had done well when the going was good and now was enjoying himself. The woman at his table was twirling the pasta on her fork as he calmly and efficiently divided his beef and spuds.

GranDad had emphasised the name of the local village from which it was claimed his plaice had originated. It arrived and he tucked into it. My mother and him chatting about the recent death of my grandaunt and what it meant for the family. GranDad joked about how the New Age hippies had even attended the funeral. One of my cousins being Postie to them they had come to pay their respects. In Ireland everyone knows everyone else or will at least know of someone with who you are familiar. This is far more pronounced in the countryside. When attending a prayer meeting in a family house in West Cork we were asked in a disbelieving voice if the nice lady who had given us directions really hadn’t heard of their family name.

All of a sudden my mother needed to leave to use the bathroom. My heart fluttered a little. It’s said that in Ireland one can always engage in conversation by merely referring to the elements. “The weather’s been very bad of late, hasn’t it?” I asked in that gentle manner one uses when seeking an inviting rejoinder. “Oh, it has, it has.” A brief pause. “Did you see the flooding and storms in England? They were very bad altogether.” I generally only use ‘altogether’ when either seeking to emphasise my accent or as a measure of timid desperation. He looked at me briefly. Then he looked away. Silence. His eyes looked out over the calm sea. I wanted to look behind me and see if I could see what he could. But I couldn’t.

My mother returned. I helped her pay the bill as she hadn’t intended for us to go to the expensive part of the hotel. “Will we go to the grave Dad?” she inquired knowing the answer. The seat belt remained where it was for the journey out. We reached the grave yard. Next to where her body lies were a couple cleaning and tending the graveside of someone almost dead a decade. Nice colourful flowers were carefully placed in around the headstone and the old, tired brown plants were removed. We looked in silence at the grave with space for two and blank blackness on one half of the headstone. “That’s where I’ll be going” he said to no-one in particular. My innate cheekiness came out like a whippet. “We won’t get rid of you yet” I quipped. He responded like I do when I forget the decorum of pleasant conversation. “Hah?” “We’ll keep you on for another few years yet” I smiled slightly louder at him. My mother took him by the arm and repeated what I said the first time. He didn’t respond. At that age I think not even your first grandson can take away certain thoughts that play on your mind.

The metal of the buckle tapped against the bland plastic interior of the car as my mother navigated the familiar bumpy roads. We spent time with his youngest grandson. The 5 month old precious smiling bundle of love. He isn’t the size he should be of course. He’s not going to have what would be described as a ‘normal’ life. But even now he knows love. His displaced sister entertained me with rapid fire stories about what she got up to. I was only too happy to listen. She then insisted on demonstrating her gymnastic aptitude out the back garden. That conversation and every other conversation in the room seemed to pass our GranDad by.

My mother offered him a lift for the 100 yards it is from my uncle’s house to his own. My cousin would have locked the door of the adjoining shop without being reminded. In any case GranDad tried both doors at the front before making his way slowly around to the back of the house. The sound of his shoes masked by the low thrum of the engine. My mother wondered if he was alright before slowly bring the wheels around after he failed to reappear. We were silent for most of the journey.

Halfway through she softly said: “Thank you for coming.” “It’s alright Mum. He’s my family too.”