When I Were A
Lad
by Sandra Crook
The bowl of fruit
stood on the table between us, inviting
confrontation.
Two shiny red
apples nestled beneath a banana, as yet unflecked
by brown spots. And to the side, a plump bunch of
purple grapes, edged nestled up to the hairy
silhouettes of half a dozen kiwi fruit.
Dad eyed it
disapprovingly.
“D’you
know, our Shee, that I were twelve year old
before I saw my first banana?”
“That’s
an old joke, Dad …” I protested.
“And I’m
seventy nine now, and can honestly say I’ve
never seen hairy bollocks like those before,”
nodding at the kiwi fruit.
The boys looked up
expectantly, whilst Sophie giggled.
“More tea,
Dad?” I offered, picking up the teapot.
“Not if
it’s that Earl Grey muck,” he said.
“Don’t you have any plain Yorkshire tea?”
“That’s
what I gave you, Dad”.
Dad’s visits
were a source of mixed feelings. On the one hand,
I didn’t have to trail 150 miles up the A1
and back in the day, but on the other, I did have
seven days of relentless “when I were a
lad…”
“You coming
with us to the swimming baths, Grandad?”
asked my youngest.
“I’ll
say I am,” said Dad, “I’ve brought
me trunks.”
“Oh I
don’t think you should …” I began,
but he cut across me.
“Don’t
start, our Shee, I’m not decrepit you know.”
At the baths, Dad
disappeared into the changing rooms with the boys
whilst I helped Sophie change. When we reappeared,
Dad was already parading up and down the poolside,
his knitted woolly trunks offering a montage that
could solidly compete with the fruit bowl at home.
‘How thin
he’s become,’ I thought, studying his
stick-like limbs, dotted with the bruise marks of
age, and his narrow chest, festooned in cobweb-like
white hair.
“Get in the
pool, Grandad,” shouted Gareth, the eldest
boy, clearly embarrassed.
For a moment, I
thought Dad might jump in, but thankfully he
shambled to the steps at the shallow end. Gareth
struck out for the deep end, obviously needing to
put some distance between himself and his Grandad,
whilst Mikey, seeing only a play opportunity, dog-paddled
gamely across towards him.
I walked round to
the side of the pool where Dad was already
shivering in the water.
“Are you sure
you should be doing this, Dad?” I called.
He shot me a look
of pure malevolence and struck out in an awkward
straight-armed crawl across the pool, Mikey in
his wake.
“You look
like you’re drowning, Grandad,” he
shouted loudly.
“When I were
a lad…” Dad began, before suddenly
disappearing beneath the water with a horrified
expression.
Fully clothed I
leapt into the pool.
Diving down, I was
greeted with the sight of Dad’s narrow
shanks snaking along the pool floor in pursuit of
his woolly swimming trunks which, softened and
elongated by the water, had shimmied down his
legs and were floating off to the deep end as
though possessing a life of their own.
The pool attendant
was not amused when he dragged me out coughing
and spluttering, and even less so when Dad
refused to leave the water until someone located
his swimming trunks.
“That was so
embarrassing,” complained Gareth later.
“That were
nothing, son,” said Dad proudly, “you
should have seen me when I were a lad.”
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