Chewing the Cud by Dick King-Smith

Author:Dick King-Smith [King-Smith, Dick]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-48277-8
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2001-10-31T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

GRANDMOTHERS

AND GRANDFATHERS

Saturday 15 May

Foot bad (Ben-the-bull stood on it

yesterday while he was serving Strawberry).

Gave myself the day off.

Into Bristol with M this morning.

M bought two right shoes.

Granny K-S's funeral in afternoon.

In evening I left broody hen off eggs for

two hours. Bloody fool.

Iwas very close to my four grandparents, and they were all important to me in my childhood. Two of them lived very near, two in South Wales. To visit the latter meant a journey from Bristol to Cardiff, by rail through the Severn Tunnel, whereas I could walk to my father's parents' house in ten minutes. So I'll begin with them, the closest.

Grampy K-S had married a girl called Alice Keep, whose family firm, Keep Brothers, were importers and exporters, Birmingham-based. Despite that thin trickle of Charles II's blood, we were, the Victorians would have said, “in trade.” More of Granny K-S in a moment (and there was more of her too), but first more of Father's father. He was a small, slight man, who had lost most of his hair when I first came to know him and sported a drooping scrubbing-brush sort of a mustache, the middle of which was stained by the nicotine of many cigarettes. He was a Methodist by religious persuasion and a teetotaler, whether by choice or because of his faith I don't know. Every morning there would be, for family, any guests, and all the servants (cook, housemaids, parlor maid), morning prayers in the big dining room of the large imposing house called, by virtue of its position highabove the village, Bitton Hill.

I'm making Grampy K-S sound a bit boring, but he wasn't in the least. There were twinkly blue eyes behind his pince-nez, and he loved jokes, especially feeble jokes, and the best sort of puns (which are bad ones). Setting out for a nearby suburb of Bristol, he might say, “I'm on my way to Warmley.” Pause, a sort of giggle, and then, “I shan't go as far as Chile.”

Sometimes, perhaps for a birthday, he would write me a letter, always ending: “Yr affec G Father, Chas King-Smith.” And affec he was, I know now, though never demonstrative, and I remember with pleasure the things we enjoyed together, just he and I, away from Granny K-S's all-embracing presence. We would quite often, in the school holidays, play golf together, I in my midteens, he in his late sixties. I would hit the ball long distances, but seldom in the right direction. Grampy would drive straight down the middle, no more than 100 yards probably, and progress to the green in similar fashion. I don't remember ever beating him.

Once we made a never-to-be-forgotten expedition together, just the two of us. He was a keen lepidopterist, with a huge collection of beautifully mounted specimens of butterflies and moths, kept in a handsome walnut cabinet with dozens of shallow drawers, and I, inspired by him, was a keen butterfly hunter. What drew me was the thrill of the chase, dashing, net in hand, after the fluttering, jinking insect and, with luck, catching it with one well-aimed swish.

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