Grandpa · 2009-03-26 22:56
Last Friday, my granddad died. I was waiting in Heathrow Terminal 5 for my aunt to arrive from America. It was all I could do to hold on to the thick steel rail, and ever since all I could do in my head was write and rewrite this. There was nothing apt, nothing fitting, not even anything ironic about the time and place. It just was, as is life, and as is death.
I’d done most of my crying the night before: the situation didn’t sound good, even if we had no idea how long he would hold on. I was more concerned about him – his condition – than the rest of us, afterwards.
And since, I’ve just been wondering, and regretting, all the things I never knew, never asked.
A lot of my early memories are of my grandparents, from the smell of their red Cortina, with rich tea biscuit interior, to the road trip when I was 5, up the west coast of America; airplanes, Disneyland, hotels, motels, trucks, cities. I remember being blissfully happy, dancing around their living room to cassettes of American disco, to Abba, to joyful music. I remember laughing with him, to Morecambe & Wise, Open All Hours, In Sickness & In Health.
And both my brother and I have inherited a love of the outdoors. Whether walking through the Peak District, to fishing in Alaska, my grandfather loved being outside. Apparently even in the last weeks, he’d still be gardening, doing as much as he could before having a rest.
But our biggest gift is that of standing up for what we believe in. I believe every MP and local councillor will remember him well – because he fought for everyone, for truth, for education, for equality. I remember being the most precocious teenager, taking more and more impossible, stupid positions to argue with him, and he responded with the highest moral standards and eloquent dismissal of my preposterous arguments, always with a smile. We both enjoyed the debate as much as the outcome, even as my mum and grandmother tried to keep us quiet. He was a truly dignified gentleman – I only saw him get angry once, to protect his family – and he never swore, the strongest I ever heard was the wonderful “well I’d go t’Trent”, a true Midlander expression of wonderment.
There are loads of questions, thing I wish I’d talked about, from his wartime experiences, in Dunkirk and in prisoner camps, to his craft, making things, building things, growing things.
And all I can do is raise a glass of the sweetest sherry, and thank him for raising a wonderful family, for being a doting grandfather. I wouldn’t be the same person today but for his warmth, his beliefs, and his passions.
Harold Quick, 1918-2009, rest in peace.