My supermarket-memoriam moment

I’m feeding change into a supermarket self-checkout to pay for a chicken fillet roll when a lady taps me on the shoulder, “Come here to me; I was looking through things and found your grandfather, P. Smith’s, memorial card, I’ll give it to you next time I see you.”

P. Smith was my maternal grandfather and I never knew him. I know little of him; he was never part of the flora and fauna of my family’s life. It was nice to know he was part of other people’s lives in the Cavan community. There were no pictures of him in my town granny’s house; so I looked forward to seeing him, albeit in memoriam.

My town granny was a strict woman; shamefully my siblings and I avoided going to see her on our summer holidays. But, while eating my chicken roll, I looked back on a moment I spent with her, wherein I had an encounter with a part of my town granddad that I wrote about back in 2022 – Town granny poured black liquid into a glass and placed it in front of me, “Now, enjoy that,” she said. I looked at the white head on the black drink and felt mild shock, “Granny, is this Guinness?” She laughed, “Indeed it’s not, I wouldn’t be giving a child porter; that’s Cavan Cola – you’ll not get the likes of that in England,” she announced, proudly.

I took a sip. The froth was thick and creamy and the liquid that seeped through it was comfortingly sweet with a hint of country granny’s cinnamon sweets. Which reminded me, I put the glass down and tugged a paper bag from my pocket, “Here Granny, I got you some strawberry bonbons from Hickey’s shop.”

I looked at her face, softening and settling into a gentle smile. She put the sweets into the pocket of her pinny, “Thank you, gossun, I’ll enjoy them so I will.” She pointed to the glass, “Do you like the mineral?” I smacked my lips, “It’s dead nice, thanks granny.” Her smile waned, “I do get them in for the three of yous, but shur I hardly see yous, you do prefer running out the country to coming to see me.”

Feeling sorry for her, I didn’t know what to say, so I drained my drink to let her know I appreciated her getting Cola for my siblings and I.

Granny took a bonbon and popped it in her mouth, “But I’ve your mammy and daddy to look forward to, they’ll be home this time next week,” she said, savouring the bonbon. Mam and Dad always returned to Cavan for the last week of our summer, staying with town granny; little did I know then, that this was the highlight of her year.

She looked at my empty glass, “You’ll have another,” she announced, heading for the door that led into the cupboard space under the stairs. Granny used this as a small pantry space, but as she opened the door I was struck by what hung from the back wall, “Whose is that coat?” I asked. She stroked it gently, “That’s your granddads’.” She closed the door and touched the small crucifix round her neck, “He’s gone a good few years now, God rest his soul.”

And that’s all I knew of him, his coat hanging under the stairs. I never asked more about him, for even though I was a child, I felt granny closing the door was her way of closing any further discussion of him, perhaps – who knows? Now, I look back and imagine how much that coat meant to her, she could still touch and no doubt smell her husband in it, and that probably meant more to her than a picture in a frame.

Last week, the lovely lady from the supermarket gave me my grandfather and grandmother’s memorial cards. Granddad’s was a single card, affectionately enclosed within town granny’s.

The picture of Granddad is tiny, yet looking at him gave me that long lost family feeling. He looks so smart in his: trilby, spectacles, shirt, tie, and coat. I wonder if it’s that coat? I suspect it probably is; back then their good coats lasted lifetimes.

As I grow older, I purposefully forget days, preferring to remember moments – the lovely lady in the supermarket gave me a super-moment.

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