We called her Nanny Alice because my brother Anthony was the eldest of her grandchildren and that’s what he could say. So my toddler brother’s lack of articulation created a name we all used.
She helped me learn to appreciate shoes, learn to vacuum, and make the most of life. She was resilient and positive and adventurous and funny and honest and strong. She taught me to whistle, and then told me that whistling wasn’t ladylike. She had my cousins and me to stay over on weekends, made sure we swept and helped to clean before going out, had the excitement of going on buses, took us shopping and to lunch and bought us gifts for being well-behaved and patient. I’m pretty sure she was the patient one. She let us spend hours trying on ridiculous clothes that we thought were fabulous. She made us knickerbockerglories and let us stay up late for midnight feasts, although I’m not sure that we ever made it until midnight. She let us try on her jewellery and dress up in gorgeous fabrics. She prayed by her bed and prayed with us.
She wrote poetry, and worked hard, and believed in being glamourous and in getting her hands dirty. She served others endlessly. She was unshockable.
My nan lived in Bristol during the war, and dealt with air raids and shelters, and rationing, and all that goes along with war. Our favourite story was the one about the bomb crater. Nan was on her way to work one day, and... fell in a bomb crater. Being Nan, she climbed and and carried on to work, scratching and bleeding--but when her supervisor heard, she sent her home for the day.
She loved flowers, and colour--I once painted her kitchen twice in two days because the first colour we tried was less of a primrose and more like the sun had walked into the room and was outstaying its welcome. We went with a pleasant blue after that.
When I was in college and not brushing my hair ever, she sat me down, took a comb to me, gave me a neat parting, and suggested I keep it that way. I was about twice her size by then, but I knew who was in charge.
She loved children, and was happy with them, even at the end when she had difficulty talking to adults. Deafness and dementia are tough barriers to communication. The dementia made her irascible, suspicious, and irrational. It’s a horrible thing to happen to a brain. But there’d be moments when the real Nan would show through.
The last time I went to visit, she was delighted to see me, and made a fuss of me. We chatted, she showed me pictures of my cousin’s baby, and she said she was sorry she didn’t have chocolate to offer me. I always tried to wear something interesting when I saw her because I could guarantee she’d notice and like it. She told me I looked lovely. I remember her once telling me I wasn’t a pretty girl--not in an unkind way, I think her point was that it didn’t really matter and I had other, more important qualities. One of her favourite things to say about me was that “I was always the same.” I’m happy to know that, instead of meaning that I wasn’t growing or developing as a person, she valued consistency and the qualities she loved in me. I always knew I was loved by my Nan, and she was a wonderful person to love and be loved by.
