What’s this? A new post? Exactly a week after the first? My, my I have exceeded expectations. If you’ve read the about page for Drafting or received my very first email last week (linked here if you missed it), then it will come as no surprise that what I’m sharing with you today was first drafted a while ago. There are lots of drafts, some nearly-there with a bit of editing and others just a spark of an idea in a couple of broken sentences. They’re all waiting to be shared over the coming weeks. All excited to finally see the light of day.
This one I chose first because I haven’t been able to shake it from my thoughts. It‘s fuzzy nostalgia that makes me feel cosy and safe. It was a miserable late afternoon in November. The pitter-patter of rain bounced from the umbrella that was resting on my head and I thought of my Granny’s house. Unforgettable childhood weekends spent in her front room. A time warp of treasures from decades gone by, with a strong bias for the 70s and 80s. Patterned curtains. Floral cushions. Retro wallpaper. Warm hues and smooth curves.
In Granny’s front room, the open fire is roaring like a lion cub. I’m lying on my front, sprawled across the red medallion rug. My legs flail in the air as I concentrate on drawing. I’m secretly hoping it goes wrong so that I can screw the paper up into a ball and chuck it on the fire. I’ll get told off for getting too close but I don’t care. I like watching as I delicately place things in the mouth of burning logs and wait to see them get engulfed by hungry flames. I hear someone walk into the room. I know they’re coming before they even reach the door. Rickety old wonky floorboards that can’t keep secrets. China figurines and photo frames clink-clink on the dark wood sideboard, letting me know to move away from the fire and pretend I wasn’t doing anything at all.
Let’s watch a film! Granny has about 5 VHS tapes for us to pick from when we visit. We decide on Wombling Free. The TV set is a big box in a wooden casing. The controls on the front make it look like a microwave. Someone’s watched The Wombles without rewinding the tape, typical! Oh well, it means we’ve got about 5 minutes to breathlessly down a cup of orange squash and eat a rich tea biscuit while we wait. We enjoy the static noise as ribbons of grey glitching pixels dash across the screen.
We bundle onto the sofas, a brown corduroy upholstered three-piece suite. Cottage-style and wooden framed. There are deep grooves in each seat where familiar bums have returned to make their regular marks. Someone has to take the footstool. Tapestry woven top, curved cabriole legs. More dark wood. It reminds me of Sultan, the talking footstool from Beauty and The Beast.
We’re still waiting for the video to rewind. We play the floor is a swamp. Like the floor is lava, but with crocodile-infested waters. We leap and lunge and dart and dive. Clink-clink goes the china.
Finally, we’re back to the start and play the film. We shout for someone to come and put another log on the fire for us. We want to be cosy, warm, and safe. Inside the four walls of this room is everything we could ever possibly need.
We’re bored of the film and drawing resumes. We do portraits of each other, but as if our faces had been put onto the body of an alien or an animal. We screw them up and chuck them on the fire. We lay on our backs and wiggle out our toes in front of the flames. Inhale some more squash like we haven’t drunk for days.
We set upon the piano next. It stands upright, its glossy dark wood coat blending in with the rest of the furniture, hidden away in the corner. Out of sight but certainly not out of mind for those with sticky fingers, too small to reach keys at both ends. A couple of the keys make strange sounds and need tuning. I wouldn’t mind if it never changed because then if someone were to steal this piano I’d know. I would recognise it. I can’t play the piano apart from one thing that I’ve been taught while sitting right here over the years. The Rugrats theme song.
Granny hears us and she makes her way through to the front room. She loves that we use the piano. But she does wish we wouldn’t use quite so much force in our overexcitement. This is why it needs tuning! But what’s the point when you rascals will only come back and do it again?
It’s nearly Christmas. Nearly time for us to go up for our bath. Granny sits down at the piano and plays Silent Night. We all clamber back onto the sofas and listen. She’s wearing a lilac fleece and her hair is perfectly curled. My Grandma washes it for her every weekend. Winding velcro rollers of different shapes and sizes neatly into place. We usually get here just as Granny’s hair has almost dried underneath her standing hairdryer hood. Her hugs smell like Royal Jelly body wash and rose-scented talc.
We’re escorted out of Granny’s front room and straight upstairs to the bath. A tub the size of a small rowing boat we venture to faraway lands before we’re wrapped in warm cotton towels, put into our pyjamas on and get ready to drive into the night back home. We’re squeaky clean and carried straight to bed from the house to the car. Sleep comes soft and easy.
The energy of the house shifts. Silence. My Great Aunty Mary (I’m her namesake and my Granny was also called Mary too, we love unoriginality in my family) lives with my Granny and puts out the fire. She sees that the plants need watering. They’ve not been enjoying the heat quite as much as everyone else. She tucks away the keys of the piano for another day, now resting underneath their shiny wooden lid. She picks up the colouring pencils and paper left strewn about. She takes half-empty cups of squash to the kitchen sink. The thought of leaving them overnight frustrates her so she runs a basin of hot soapy water and washes up while stifling a yawn.
She comes back to turn off the lights. The room plunges into darkness and she closes the door to Granny’s front room.
