In Praise of Older Women

                                                                                                   In Praise of Older Women

When i was eleven during the Summer holidays I was often sent to my nan while my parents were at work. It's not that they were over-protective but thought, despite my protestations, that I was to young - or too mischievous - to be left alone. 

Nan lived three streets away in a pre-war terrace with a long narrow back garden. Across a strip of lawn a washing line was slung between two rusty poles and a flagstone path led to a disused outside privy. The haunt of spiders and mildewed magazines. At the bottom of the garden was a latched gate and a hedge of fruit bushes gone wild. She had been a widow for about four years and was a little stooped from a lifetime of hard work and numerous pregnancies. My granddad had bbeen over six foot, at least twenty stone and although an educated man not above taking his belt to his thirteen children. He had fought at the Somme and maybe some of his humanity had died with the slaughter of his pals on that first terrible morning. Yet like many a tyrant he had a sentimental streak and would give my sister a half crown whenever we visited. I don't remember him paying me even the slightest attention.

After lunch nan would have a nap in her chair. Once, coming in from he garden,  I found er with her mouth slack and her head tipped back. I crept closer and gave her a nudge. And then a poke. She woke with a spluttering cough and was surprised to see me standing over her. "I thought you wee dead nan!" "Not yet, boy, not yet" she said in her soft Welsh lilt and shuffled off towards the kitchen to make some tea.

Sometimes on Saturdays my parents would go out dancing and I would stay over with nan. We would top and tail in her feather bed. Me with my head at the bottom and feet at the top, her with her head at the top and feet at the bottom. One night I saw her undressing. She must have thought I was asleep and was changing into her nightdress. Her calves were knotted with varicose veins, her belly and buttocks sagged, her breasts drooped below her waist. I was not repelled but realised that many of the pretty girls at school I fantasised about would someday be like this. And that I too would not escape the ravages of time.

                                                                                                 endless summer days...

                                                                                                blackberries heavy on the bush

                                                                                               and no thought of tomorrow

Stuart.