More memories

My father's sister cut herself off from her family somewhere about 1952. Just why she did so is completely unknown to anyone left alive - and none of us thought to ask or didn't ask because we were afraid of raking up unpleasant memories. From time to time somebody, usually my brother who was in the best position to do so, found out where she was living. We knew she had a daughter and that my mother had visited my aunt shortly after the birth but all later attempts at reconciliation had been rebuffed.

It was only last year, after all but one of the previous generation had died, that my cousin made contact. She had been going through her late mother's papers and discovered the whereabouts of the last member of the earlier generation who put her in touch with me. We corresponded, spoke on the phone, and finally met up for the first time ever. My cousin told me that she knew nothing of her maternal grandparents - had never had any contact with them in any way - and that every time she asked her mother about them, her mother changed the subject. I told her what I could, which, heaven knows, was little enough. It was this that brought home to me how much those little snippets of memory can paint a picture. Like this miniature portrait of my maternal grandfather.

Pop, as all his grandchildren called him, always seemed to me to be a tall man although he was probably of little more than average height for his generation, about 5' 9" or 10". It was probably because his wife, Nan, was only 4' 11¾" (and woe betide anyone who forgot the three-quarters of an inch!) that he appeared so tall. He kept a full head of hair all his life and in his older years this was almost a silver colour. As well as being a pipe smoker, Pop was a talker. He would often pause while lighting his pipe and hold up the match while he passed some comment or other, the match gradually burning away until it all but burnt Pop's fingers. He would blow it out, drop it in the ashtray and light another. Nan, watching him quietly as she knitted in her chair the other side of the fireplace, would hold up one finger. This was her little joke, reminding Pop that he was trying to do two incompatible things at the same time.

Now, I'm not saying that is anything like a complete portrait of my grandfather, but it would give my children and my children's children some idea of what he was like. If only earlier generations had considered themselves of sufficient interest to make notes like that! Unfortunately, it was not the working classes who kept diaries or journals and we are hard pressed now to know anything about what has really made us what we are.

Early photos of Nan and Pop