‘Spoiled sweets and books about war crimes: Unusual gifts from my quirky grandfather’

Grandfathers are inevitably ancient to young children and mind was no exception. In fact, as I was the second-last of many, many grandchildren, my “grampa” was somewhat ancient!

My father was a baker, and one so good at his job he would buy a rundown bakery, build it up, move on and — as the song goes — begin again, Finnegan.

Thanks goodness for my grandparents! As an only child who moved many times, I often felt rather adrift. My grandparents were my lifeline, as in between moves we stayed with them in their tiny house. Mum and Dad in the spare room, me with a mattress on the floor. 

My grandpa was a quirky man. He served in France during World War I, and being a very handsome and charming man I am quite certain my family suspect there may have been a few additional relatives from over there they didn’t know about. 

He had been gassed during his time in the war and was suffering shell shock. My grandfather repatriated. He was one of the many who had returned from the war damaged in mind and spirit, and during his time in France he came overly fond of the wine bottle. It meant Nan took charge of the pitiful pension, which led Grampa to find other means of making money to get his tipple.

He found a small wooden cart that had been built by one of their nine children and took it off to the tip. All sorts of thing went into that cart. In addition to the copper and lead that could be found and sold, Grampa also took out of date food and many old books. 

Though I didn’t think much of it at the time, being as young as I was, I’ve no doubt the odd box of something sweet he’d occasionally pass to me was aged and probably had weevils.

When Grampa arrived home with tattered books it was heaven on a stick. The first book I fell in love with was Enid Blyton’s The Wishing-Chair, though it wasn’t sourced by Grampa during one of his scavenger hunts. Instead I discovered a copy on the shelves at the little country school I attended.

Of course, the only downside was that in amongst the books there were titles a five-year-old should not have been reading. I recall Scourge of the Swastika and Knights of Bushido, both by Lord Edward Russell. A ghoulish child, I found the pictures fascinating, though I had no idea of the true horror behind them.

You could only imagine the shock and dismay of my poor mother when it came to light  I had taken the books to school to show the other kids. It seems one boy was so terrified he had nightmares for weeks on end. Many apologies ensued and I sat on a pillow for a bit. 

When my nan died, my mother took Grampa in. Every minute I spent with him was precious, but it wasn’t that way for Mum. Grampa would often toddle off to the wine bar where the local policemen would wait with him until I could take him with me on my walk home from school. It was quite shameful back then.

He passed away at the age of 95 — gassed, shot, riddled with cancer and usually under the influence. What a man!

Years later, when I saw his name in the book of those who had served their country, I shed a tear. I never felt any shame towards Grampa, only pride. He was loved to the end of his life.

I like to think of myself as an equally quirky grandmother and great-grandmother. I only hope my lot enjoy spending time with me as much as I did with my grandfather.