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Her portrait hangs darkly in my brother's front hall,
an ugly likeness, in oils, framed in heavy gilt.
We used to call her Dickie.
She hated granny or gran
- said it made her feel old.
In truth, she wasn't old at all,
just ten years older than mum
who always referred to her as
'Poor old Dickie'.
Poor old Dickie indeed!
Poor old Dickie did her best to stop the marriage.
(They'd met on board ship
on their way home from the Middle East)
She even hired a solicitor
'But Malcolm, you can't marry her.
She's too old for you! '
Malcolm was her only child.
His father had died two months before
of throat cancer - horribly.
We used to stay with her when we were small
(she had locks on all the doors) .
We'd watch her getting dressed
fascinated by the ritual
of corsets and suspenders
and hundreds of hooks.
She was talented, my grandmother,
though she couldn't read much.
She knitted for miles
on fine silver needles
at lightning speed.
Her fine silver hair was permed
and she wore hats with flare.
Mum told us she had a boyfriend once
'but your father soon put a stop to that! '
So she had tenants instead,
always male, mostly gay
who were clean
and 'didn't bring women into the house'.
Every couple of years or so
Dickie would 'go a bit odd'
and swallow too many pills.
They'd cart her off to the mental hospital
for shock treatment.
It certainly cured her depression
but ultimately killed her -
She never recovered from the stroke.
The funeral was small.
The coffin looked lonely, somehow.
Just two bunches of flowers,
the large one from Mr. Shield, the gay tenant.
Alison Cassidy
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