Goodbye Eileen
My Grandma died last night – last night being Friday, the 11th of December. I was at Nicky Verber’s flat when Dave called to tell me. Dave said: »I’m sorry ’coz I know you’re out… but you’d be mad at me if I didn’t tell you straight way… Nana’s just died«.
He’s very kind, my Dad.
And I know why he rang me straight away.
There used to be an old farmer who lived near us called Tom Barker… ›Uncle Tom‹ to us. He was this magnificent character: He always wore his old army beret and his gigantic chicken shit stained trousers were held up with orange twine… and his false teeth were never fully in his mouth. He was a local legend. A brilliantly funny man. When we were kids we used to go to his farm, he didn’t really want us to, but we loved hanging about there. He used to take us down the River Aire on his boat – the River Aire (when it gets to Goole) is a hideous fast flowing brown torrent – and Tom’s boat was always one leak short of being at the bottom of the river. When we went on Tom’s boat he’d give all us kids a pan or a bucket each and strategically position us near the leaks. We never got far, he’d usually do a couple of circles in the torrent then deliver us back to the safety of the muddy bank – declaring the voyage to be a triumph.
ANYWAY
When Uncle Tom died I was at college, I was away from home. Dave didn’t tell me about Tom’s death… I only found out two weeks after he’d been buried that he’d died (there’s a joke in there somewhere, but I can’t figure it out at the moment). I was mad at Dave for not telling me.
I think Dave remembered how upset I was that he hadn’t told me about Uncle Tom’s death, so he rang me straight away about Nana… knowing full well that I was at the Herald St Christmas Get Together.
Still, Dave did the right thing.
My Grandma was a television addict – I mean REALLY – she knew everything about television. She should have been the controller of the BBC. She would put the telly on as soon as she got up and she would sit all day watching every single programme until she went to bed. Once, when her telly was slightly on the blink, stuttering in and out of a fully clear channel, she got a second telly and sat it on top of the first. This meant she could watch them both together – PERFECT – she could watch two channels at once, even though one would flash up black static most of the time… she wasn’t bothered… it was bliss.
Nana didn’t just watch daytime junk – she, by accident rather than design, was a film buff of the highest order. If I went to see her and I said: »What you watching Nana?« without hesitation or taking her eyes off the screen, she’d reply: »The Black Windmill… Michael Caine… 1974… directed by Don Siegel, I think… right load of rubbish«.
Just before she died, in the hospice, she had a bit of a revival – she had a bit of clarity. She woke up and said to my mum: »Put telly on, will you«. My mum turned on the TV and it was »Teletubbies«. My mum said to Nana: »You don’t want this on, do you?« Nana said: »Not really… but at least it’s a good picture… they can’t get ITV here«.
She was alright, Nana.
This is wrong of me and I hope my cousin doesn’t read this – but – my cousin Joanne has always had a bit of a weight problem, she’s always been pretty big. Just before Nana died our Joanne went round to see her. Nana mentioned Joanne’s weight.
It went something like this:
Nana: »Bloody hell! Have you put more weight on?«
Joanne: »Yeah… I can’t help it… it’s in my genes.«
Nana: »It’s not in your jeans, love… it’s hanging over top of ’em.«
Goodbye Eileen.