Tea Brewed in a Pot

Of my four grandparents I got to know Gran Gillespie the least. I was sixteen, still slumped in a teenage apathy when it came to building relationships, when she passed. When it happened it was unexpected - to me at least, having not realised how unwell she was, or perhaps having been protected from it.

My Granny May - as I call her in my head now - was a formidable character. Tougher than a two-pound steak. A tiny wee woman who could talk for days and never left an opinion unvoiced.

She was someone who set standards. When you were with Granny May, you spoke properly. Pronounced your words. Minded your manners. Drank tea brewed in a pot, never in a mug. Stood up straight, cleaned up after yourself, always gave your Granny a kiss on the cheek.

Driving through to Glasgow, the day before the funeral, I realised that I'd left my black shoes at home. My dad was angry. Told me that I had to take responsibility for these things and that it was time to grow up. Time to stop acting like a wee boy. When I saw my Grandpa, I didn't know what to say or how to handle the situation. I hugged him and told him I was sorry, sorry for his loss, like I'd seen actors deal with these things on the television.

The next day, in the chapel, I helped carry my Granny May's coffin. With my dad and my uncle and some cousins I'd never met. For such a wee woman, it was heavier than I'd expected. The box dug into my shoulder and left little flecks and splinters of wood on the shoulder of my cheap suit. On that slow march to the front of the chapel I felt everyone's eyes on us, but mine focused on the floor, on my feet, on the new pair of black shoes I'd got from Asda.

If I close my eyes, and focus, she is still there. I can feel her presence as she opens the door to the flat, and looks me up and down. I can hear her declaring that I have grown, that I am taller now since she saw me last, that I am some size. That I am putting on the beef. Little quirks of her language stay with me. It was always denims, not jeans. She cooked in a kitchenette, rode in an automobile, listened to the wireless and peered through her spectacles.

She would sit for hours with my sister and I, trying to teach us both to knit. Producing little yellow woollen pouches for our chocolate eggs at Easter. She would smoke one cigarette each night before bed, ceremoniously, indulgently, flicking the ash into a wee ceramic tortoise. Now and then she would look out the window, yell out in delight, and lift us up to the sill so we could see out to the patch of grass below, where the neighbourhood foxes lazed and rolled around with their babies in the hot summer mornings.

Granny May loved telling stories. About where she'd been, and who she'd been talking to at the shops, and who had said what to whom. She travelled all over Scotland in a campervan, before package holidays became popular. Worked as a school dinner lady. Lived in Australia, was a teenager during the war, loved going to the dancing.

But all these things I know second-hand. They are stories passed down by those who knew her better than I ever did. I would have loved to get to know her as an adult, to be able to joke with her, challenge her, try to impress her. Every life’s story is magical, dramatic, wild and full of wonder. So was Granny May's, the best wee woman I never properly got to know. Every now and then, I will brew tea in a pot, and remember her.