From Wikipedia – ‘The oldest versions of the word harlequin –
the Middle Dutch hellekijn and the Old French hellequin, reference hell and a
mean kind of demon. In the translation from French to English, the harlequin
lost his demonic quality and became a clown.’
My maternal grandmother was college educated, bright and
well-informed. I would doubt that she was aware of the above, but I would love
it if she had been when she knitted my grandfather a slip-over in the harlequin
pattern. The subtle sentiment would have suited her. She was an exemplary
knitter. The colour changes of grey, bottle green, navy and maroon were
perfectly matched and blended, the end result better than any shop-bought
machine-made knitwear. My grandfather wore it nearly every day.
By the time I was on the scene and taking notice, Nanna had
worked as a secretary, left to marry Grandad and raised a family. By now they
were running a pub and later helping my aunt to run hers. They bickered
constantly, only being polite to each other when they were downstairs in the
bar. There was never an obvious cause for a fall-out, not to me anyway. They
had an active social life as a couple, they went away on holiday or on trips
and the usual things that people do. They took me to Butlin’s a few times when
I was a child, often with my aunt’s extended family from Ireland. We were a
close family. I remember Nanna having the upper hand and Grandad conceding in
their everyday spats.
When I was older, I learnt from my aunt that Grandad had
given Nanna the run around on more than one occasion during their marriage and
she held him on all sorts of ultimatums. They were married for fifty-three
years. Up to now, I have been unable to prove any of the misdemeanours. Everyone
has passed away, so no one to ask and only me who is interested enough to have
another search occasionally. Truth or fiction, it hardly matters really.
What does matter is that I adored them and I knew they loved
me, and of course, my sister, too. Nanna taught me to knit, something I do all
the time. I mastered crochet after she’d died, though could never do it when
she tried to teach me, with more patience than she ever had for anyone else. I’ve
tried harlequin pattern and I can do it, but it’s fiddly, time consuming and
better off left with the lady who turned it into a work of art.
Nanna was a strong minded woman, northern grit. She’d survived two world wars, an errant
husband, the death of a three year old daughter and the death of a thirty-five
year old daughter (my mum) and somehow kept going. I’ve said many times that I
wish I had a fraction of her strength, and that of my great grandmother.
I have my grandfather’s rocking chair. It’s a shame that I don’t have his slip-over.
My Haiku poem,
Grandad’s rocking chair
Now lives upstairs in our house
Recovered to match,
But not re-varnished,
So my hands rest on the arms
Same as his once did,
While he read his book
Or scanned the morning paper,
Keeping to himself.
My nanna was cross,
I’d heard her berating him.
It was just their way.
I’m sure she still cared.
She knitted his slip-over
And kept tabs on him.
She kept her tongue sharp
Behind Golden Wedding smiles.
Hiding the heartbreak.
PMW 2022
(As I typed the year, I realised it is 100 years since they got married, bless them.)
Thanks for reading, Pam x
