Cleaning out a bathroom cupboard I come across a brown faux leather deep purse with a metal clasp which gives a satisfying clunk when I open it.  Inside are at least 50 small metal curling hair grips.
These contraptions were how the ladies in the 30’s and 40’s achieved curls and ringlets in their hair.  You grasp small sections of hair in the metal grip in the middle, twist it round until you reach your scalp and close the attached metal clasp over so it’s kept firmly in place.   You then sleep with a head full of these and in the morning uncurl your  hair and look like Mae West or Sophia Loren.  At least this is the theory,   I found these chunks of metal impossible to sleep in and my best ever result was more Lena Zaveroni than Shirley Temple. 

But my Nana wore these in her hair every day that I remember. Catching her curls in her hair net, she would look neat and respectable, no matter the vagaries of the inclement Scottish weather.  I hold the dull metal pins in my hand and smile.  These are in my ‘keeping’ pile.  I don’t need them to remember her for she is in me, but it’s lovely to have them as a reminder of the torture she inflicted on herself to be feminine and attractive for my Papa.

They were together for over 60 years and in all the time I spent with them there was rarely a cross word.  And we spent quite a bit of time with them.   As soon as the school bell went signifying summer holidays, my sister and I were in the car for the 8 hour drive south where we would spend the entire holidays in the company of Nana and Papa while my parents scooted homewards as quickly as they could.  I loved these long summer holidays.  Largs had Nardinis’ ice cream and seemed more vibrant and cosmopolitan than Wick and from here we were off on trains and buses to ‘exotic’ destinations such as Eyemouth and Blackpool.  My grandparents had very little but they scrimped and saved to give us children memorable holidays and loads of love and attention.  Much of who I am today came from what I learned from and observed of them.

Yet, like all of us, they had their foibles.  Into their one bedroom flat with the creaky floorboards and tiny bathroom, they crammed as much of their furniture as they could when they downsized from their 3 bedroom house.   Stuffed  into every cupboard, nook and cranny, was wool and knitting needles and bits of paper,  card and string and jam-jars full of bits of broken but still useful plastic or metal objects.  Theirs was the ‘make do and mend’ mentality so typical of their generation and they  hoarded as if there was going to be another war, so the mound of items only increased with advancing years.  However great the growing melee of stuff, they both  were scrupulous about cleanliness and  their approximation of tidiness which was hampered somewhat by the amount of heavy wood furniture gathered in such a small space.  The illusion of any room to move was also impacted by Nana’s decision to cover her floors in brown and tan flecked carpet so you were never sure where the heavy dark furniture ended and the carpet began.  She also liked her heavy tan and taupe settee suite.  “It’s easy to clean” she would say, moving one of the several sheepskin rugs and brown blankets off it to give it a daily brush down.  “Brown is a practical colour” she would tell me.  I would nod my head, mute.  I was not expected to proffer any opinion but to silently agree.

As a child, I never noticed the clutter, as an adult I sigh but my focus is always on them and their well being.  It becomes more and more obvious that every visit could be a last and Nana is fast declining so I spend as much time as I can in Largs, tending to the geraniums that fill the windowsills and listening to her stories, again.  I am fast asleep on the sofa bed the morning that the congratulatory telegraph from the Queen arrives. 60 years married deserves such an honour and Nana bursts into the living room with such vigour that I immediately  leap out of bed, tense and alert.  “It’s come, it’s come” she shouts, her voice restored to that of earlier years.  In her hand is the opened envelope which is being waved about like a valedictory flag.  It’s as if she is  a young girl again, her eyes are shining bright and  the metal curlers are being dislodged as she tosses her head.  She is more excited and more free than I have ever seen.   I guide her to her chair and as she catches her breath, the adrenalin leaves her body, her age creeping back on in waves.    I cuddle the now skinny frame as hard as I dare, trying to not let go, willing her more life, more time.

Of course,  not long after, she passes, and during the mourning period my Mother sits with my Papa and offers to  redecorate the flat. Papa sits silently for a while. 60 years of love and devotion,  of recognising that the house is Nana’s domain, are now gone.  These decisions are now his and his alone. And with the air of a confessional supplicant he leans over and quietly asks ” Can we change everything to blue? I’ve always hated the colour brown”!