Aluredian
41
Creative King's
H
e greets me with a hug,
ending with an almost
formal sportsman's pat on
the back, which knocks
me forwards slightly,
despite my determined
firm footing on the ground.
As we walk into the house I inhale deeply
while he chatters about this and that: an
addition to the house which he finds radical
(perhaps a new lamp or pair of curtains) and
the musty, 'old book' smell accompanies his
proud declarations of special arrangements he
has made for us: 'petit filous' yoghurts are
already carefully stacked in the fridge in
anticipation of our arrival.
The guest room is as it always was. Same as
the rest of the funny little bungalow, its decor
suggests a woman's touch left the place
sometime during the Sixties. Faded flower
print curtains disgrace the windows, but the
view could never be affected. The cherry tree
is in full blossom, the swing is slightly green
from mildew, but still 'perfectly good', and even
the wooden bird propped on a tree seems to be
happy about the afternoon light filtering
through the foliage outside, creating spotlights
on the unkempt grass, despite the rain droplets
clinging to his beak. I smile to myself and
head to the kitchen, where I have been
summoned by the bark of a voice which
reflects the impatient only-child still very much
alive in this man.
It seems he has something to show us.
Mystified, I follow my sister out into the hall,
where a nifty ladder is pulled down and a
hatch opened, so that we may clamber up into
the roof.
For a few moments I stand in awe, before
being unceremoniously pushed out of the way
by my rather impatient sibling. The whole
space is crammed with artefacts from far-off
lands. Grotesque painted faces glare from
shelf upon shelf, spears are stacked in a
corner, and forbidden furs are folded
here and there, along with a magnificent
pair of tusks, which, no doubt, once
belonged to a rather unfortunate
elephant.
Strangely contrasting with all of this are
pairs of riding boots, old silver cutlery
which looks almost Victorian, and
mini-3D landscapes which are home to
hundreds of posing plastic soldiers,
meticulously positioned years ago by my
father; perfectly preserved, just like
everything else up there.
He exclaims after topping his balding
head on a beam: a stream of words I
will refrain from writing here, as he
stumbles, and a stack of my Aunt
Amanda's old exercise books tumbles
over. The swear words sound strange in
his crisp, colonial accent, and I hide my
smirk behind my hand, on the pretence
of scratching my nose.
Staring at the ceiling from my sunken
bed that night, I think what a funny old thing
my grandfather is, but I love him all the more
for it. Then I realise there is a spring
protruding into my back; however, unlike the
princess and the pea, I am really too tired to
care.
Grandfather
by Isabelle Arliss, 61
Nicola Chadwick A2