Table Relationships

TABLE RELATIONSHIPS

Dear Grandma,

I’ve been thinking about you today; it being your one hundred and fourteenth birthday and a Sunday too. Being a God fearing woman you always loved Sundays didn’t you? I hope He’s all you envisioned Him to be now you’re actually residing in his hometown. Can you recall those Sunday dinners we used to have at your house? I remember so well the smell of the joint sizzling in its pan surrounded by roast potatoes you never see the likes of today in these times of fat- free meat. I can taste them as I write. I’m sorry I was such a pain about the sprouts and the mashed potato. I couldn’t help being a fussy eater; unlike my dustbin of a big sister who would, and still will, eat anything and everything put in front of her.

         You see grandma; I always felt she was the favoured one just because of her voracious appetite. I was so envious she got to sit next to granddad at the table while I was always pinned between you and mum so you could watch and nag me from both sides as we fought the battle of the Brussels. You even put newspaper down in front of them to protect your tablecloth and it became a family joke. Every meal my sister would smile up at granddad as she uttered those immortal words.

         “We’re dirty boys aren’t we granddad?”

         I never got any newspaper; just admonished for every crumb and gravy stain I left on your precious tablecloth. Forgive me for saying this but I sometimes wonder if you thought more of that tablecloth than you did of your family. I could never understand why you got so annoyed; it was always washed religiously (excuse the pun) the following day regardless of whether it was dirty or clean. ‘Cleanliness is next to Godliness’ was always your motto.

         “Don’t stand still in our house on a Monday,” my granddad used to joke. “You’ll get washed in the Dolly tub along with everything else.”

         I remember walking home from school on Mondays with a feeling of dread I’m sure no child of such a tender age should experience. Opening the back door into the scullery and being overpowered by the damp, steamy smell of washing day was a weekly experience I despised. By that time you would be on your last load, bent over the tub with your ponch and washboard, tired and irritable after a day spent scrubbing everything in the house that could be washed. Hot water boiling in the copper, sheets pegged out and drying on the line in the back yard and piles of starched laundry on almost every available surface. I hated it and I hated the inevitable meal that would follow. The tablecloth, always first in the tub, was returned to the table pristine, unstained and still warm from the iron when I came in from school.

         The only good thing about Mondays was the mouse. I always wanted a dog, you knew that, but it wasn’t allowed, so a small white mouse was purchased in an attempt to pacify me. The mouse and cage had to be kept in the scullery of course, but on Mondays you always moved it into the dining room while you performed your weekly washing rituals. As you mangled, pegged out your last load and then got down on your hands and knees to scrub the red-tiled scullery floor, you didn’t know I 'd furtively remove the mouse from its cage and play with it on your freshly laundered tablecloth. I loved stroking its shiny soft fur and watching it scamper illicitly, almost camouflaged over the table. I’d been doing it for months without you ever finding out until that particular Monday. Do you remember it still?

         Washing completed, floor scrubbed and mouse safely recaged we sat around the table for the Monday meal. The leftover meat, now cold and leathery, the enemy sprouts and mash now disguised as bubble and squeak alongside the dreaded cold pickles. Red Cabbage, gherkins, pickled onions and the ultimate of horrors, contributed by my American father, the stuffed olives. We only had them because my sister loved them. Another family story told around the table every Monday was that my sister’s first word had been ‘Ollum’ and not mummy or daddy. I wonder what mine was. Probably ‘NO’ if the truth be told. I remember trying to get in everyone’s good books by attempting to consume just one olive every Monday evening. But to this day I still hate their bitter salty taste and have never managed to swallow one yet. Whenever my now beloved sister comes to stay I always buy a jar of olives for her. After large quantities of alcohol I sometimes bravely attempt to eat one but the result is still the same as it was back then. Spitting out half chewed olives didn’t help my popularity at the meal table.

         Anyway, I can still see the family sitting round the table that Monday evening. Granddad and sister on the opposite side, tucking into their meal with relish, laughing and joking about their newspaper placemats. My dad to their left, quiet and unassuming, probably not daring to speak for fear of getting his head bitten off by mum. Nothing’s changed there either, grandma. I was, as usual, attempting to force down an acceptable amount of the meal so as to be excused from the table when I spotted it. Right in the middle of the table between you and my sister a pile of dark mouse droppings contrasting sharply against the snowy white tablecloth. I knew it would only be a matter of time before your hawk eyes spotted it too.

         “What on earth is that? “you suddenly snapped pointing at the offending blobs. My sister stuck out her chubby arm and picked some up. I don’t blame you for being angry with me. But your wrath paled into insignificance compared to the feeling of pleasure I derived watching my sister’s face. Believing that anything she discovered on the table must be edible, she greedily devoured the droppings. We still laugh about it now.

Your still loving but not quite so fussy granddaughter.

P.S. At that time the idea that I would ever be a grandma was beyond my comprehension. But I am thrilled to tell you my twin grandsons arrived this morning, on your birthday. Can you imagine the mess they will make on my tablecloth?