Fish, chips & a bowl of trifle

If I concentrate enough, I can see her sitting in her red armchair, with her right leg straddling the armrest and her thumbs circling each other.

Grief is as much a part of life as love and laughter. But that doesn’t make it any easier when it comes to stay for a week or two. This weeks story is dedicated to all the grandparents we’ve lost, will lose or never got the chance to meet.

P.S there are some British specific references in this story, most of which you’ll get. But perhaps the Faulty Towers references are a little too niche.

Faulty Towers/ John Cleese - comedy actor, most famous for Monty Python. He also started in a 1970’s sitcom called Faulty Towers, in which he played an erratic hotel owner. Here’s a taste of his antics with Manuel (the hotel’s waiter).

My grandma is going to die. I’ve thought those words a handful of times, but now they feel whole. I can feel them hit the bottom of my stomach. A spot she used to fill like it had no end. I feel it on the temples she kissed so freely. I hear it in my ears, the ones she’d ring with those very same kisses or soothe with her well-known choruses.

If I concentrate enough, I can see her sitting in her red armchair, with her right leg straddling the armrest and her thumbs circling each other like a bull and a fighter. There’s an old show on TV, mumbling along with its laugh track in toe.

“This one’s a good’n,” she tells me and starts to sing the theme tune. 

“…” I’m not sure how to respond. I’m not sure if I can. This scene is just a few rolls of film flicking by faster than I can write. The door creaks open behind my head, and Grandad walks in carrying a tray of coffee and biscuits. 

“Oh good, I’m just in time.” He says, lowering the tray. “Your tea, my Lord,” he says, with his usual smirk. Thanks, I try to say, but nothing comes out. He turns to Grandma and bends from his hips. “My Lady.”

“Oh, boy,” she replies and chuckles at his silliness. Then he takes his seat next to her. They're the same, and a little walnut coffee table stands between them. An old lamp takes up most of its surface, but two coasters find a place at the front. 

“Have you seen this one?” He asks, and I try to answer. But I can’t. I have seen this one, though. It’s one of four shows on repeat in this living room. John Cleese is just whipping himself into his famous lanky rage, a feature in every episode. His legs, arms and head move back and forth, up and down, until he hits an elbow or his forehead. The laugh track plays, and right on cue, a pair of chuckles to my left. 

She has been alone for the last five years, wasting away in a place that smells like cabbage and sugary tea. It’s not his fault. It isn't anyone's, which only makes it harder to bear. He moved with her for some help. But Fate has always been cruel, and she took him shortly after they arrived. I suppose she was offering more than he had intended. After that, Grandma got worse, losing her memories one by one, like the bowls filled with hardboiled sweets waiting on the coffee table. 

“I don’t know where they put it all,” she’s telling the table, watching my cousin-in-law and I battle with half a trifle. One of her specialities. 

“In here,” I hear myself say, tapping my bloated stomach. 

“Better keep some space, we’ve got profiteroles after this,” Grandad says, filling up the dessert cart in the kitchen. 

“I’ve got space,” I say, on the verge of exploding. 

“Are they boozy this year?” Dad asks, and Grandma shoots him a look.

“Oh, boy. Don’t start that again. I honestly didn’t know.”

I scoop the last spoonful of jelly and cream from the crystal serving bowl and lean back, defeated. Dad and my uncle are talking about football at the other end of the table. The Blues have been struggling as always, but even so, they cling to a sense of hope that belongs to the future. At the other end, where the table meets the kitchen, Grandma and Grandad are talking to my aunty, whispering about plans later in the night or a present that has to be given a certain way. I can’t tell which; my brain has slowed to a crawl while I digest the custard and cream. 

I cough, and suddenly I’m back on the sofa, watching the same show on the same TV. This time, John Cleese has one of his waiters in a headlock. It’s hard to tell if he’s furious or funny. Grandma’s in hysterics. Then Grandad starts mimicking her. 

“Oh, boi eheheh,” he copies, reaching for her knee. 

“Don’t you start,” she gasps between giggles. 

“This will make you feel better,” he says, giving me a wink. By now, they both know the game as much as I do. I’m too healthy to be sick this often, but they’re willing to play along. 

“What do you fancy for dinner,” she says, rising from her seat and straightening her skirt. She stops by the sofa and strokes my hair. 

“I don’t know,” I say in a pathetic voice. I'm keeping up appearances. You never know when Mum and Dad will step around the corner. 

“Well, it’s a Friday. Do you want to stay for fish and chips?”

“Yeah, I think that will be okay,” I say. 

“Shall we watch another,” Grandad asks, scrolling through their recorded shows. I never told him this, but most of their shows are constantly re-broadcast. “You’re starting to look a little brighter.” He says. “Maybe one more day, and you’ll be ready for school.” 

“Yeah, maybe,” I say, and he presses play. 

I hear the break of a wave and look up at a clear blue sky. There’s excited chatter swirling around me like a flock of hungry seagulls. 

“I’ve got one,” I hear my brother Josh call. And we all run over, myself, Ben and Becca. Together we’re the four grandchildren. Grandad’s standing over Josh’s shoulder, watching him reel it up. Josh looks young. We must all be under ten in this scene. I look down at my feet. I’m wearing shorts, my knees are red, and my socks are high.

“Ben, be careful,” Grandma calls from behind. Ben’s inching towards the water, trying to snatch a better look at Josh’s line. 

“He’s alright,” Grandad replies, pulling him lightly on the shoulder.

“Careful,” he says, as Josh brings the crab into the air, winding it into reach. The claws are disproportionate to the body, and his beady eyes watch us carefully while he sways on the invisible thread. Then Josh swings the line, and Becca screams as the claws snap her way. 

“Pete, be careful,” Grandma calls again. I look back, following Becca as she runs to her side. She’s laying a blanket for us on a little stretch of green bank. I turn around again, and now Josh has the crab between his fingers.

“Go and show Grandma; she’ll like that,” he says, and ruffles his black hair. There are more screams.

“Pete!” She calls.

I can feel reality dulling around me, beckoning me back in time. To a place where I can see her, them, as I want to. In this time, they're hosting dinners, singing along to marching bands and giggling at one of their favourite shows. Sometime soon, they’ll be reunited. I wonder what he's planning to welcome her back to his side. I can see it now; they are sitting together, sipping cappuccinos. And if it’s a Friday, they’ll be eating fish and chips. Just beyond their seats, John Cleese is enraged again. Manuel! 

Can I come over? I try to ask, but a lump tightens my throat, and I cry instead. I wish I had gone over more. 

“I’ll see you again one day,” I say, and I’m back at my desk, trying to remember. 

---

Love, Luke

I was going to call this piece ‘Manuel!’ but decided against it in the end. But here’s the Faulty Towers inspired cover image.