A house is just a house? Bricks and mortar?


My grandmother's house has always fascinated me. From the outside it's nothing grand; a two up, two down coffin terrace in one of the busy railway towns of the northwest. Closer inspection is rewarded with the discovery of some beautiful original features, although they're definitely showing their age. The victorian stained glass is fading, the chipped gloss on the picture rails allowing the delightful 70's olive green paint that went before it to peek through a little, the coving cracked and yellowed.

Inside every surface, every corner packed with a lifetimes worth of memories. Snaking alongside the staircase, picture frames fill the wall. Eighty or so years laid out against dreadful duckegg blue wallpaper. No particular order. No chronology. Her late brother in his military uniform. My mum, aged six or seven, with a sulky face and a skew-whiff fringe; the result of one of my gran's infamous DIY haircuts. Me and my brother opening our Christmas presents. My grandfather looking very surly but quite impossibly handsome. And my favourite: my grandmother and seven or so of her friends; sat, legs dangling, on the edge of a stage. Gran is seen in profile, looking away from the camera. Her hair set in tight pincurls and her head resting on her hand, she's laughing across at one of the others. She looks so striking. So elegant. The women of our family are always tentatively described as having "strong features" (read: big noses) or as being "interesting looking" (read: odd) but never as beautiful. But, in the moment that photo was taken, my grandmother was more beautiful than anyone.

She was a dressmaker. A seamstress. For a long time she worked as a costumier for a theatre company; spending hours intricately beading, pinning and stitching dancers into their costumes. I hear snippets of stories now and they never fail to make me smile; how for a long time she carried a torch for one very obviously gay member of the chorus line ("I thought he might change his mind, darling. Theatrical folk are very fickle!") to how Richard Beckinsale bought her a gin and tonic ("long hair and a dirty laugh, that lad.") Even now, knocking quite loudly on the door of eighty-five (years old, that is. She hasn't taken to randomly annoying the neighbours), she still has such an elegance about her. A way of carrying herself. A knack of placing a brooch or scarf just so as to look effortlessly stylish. That laidback style is echoed throughout every room of the house. Sixty year old handmade silk cushions tossed on to the sofa. The bamboo screen she "painted scarlet after taking two purple bloody hearts. I should throw it out but it's good for hiding tat." A heavy brocade antimacassar thrown over a battered old wicker chair. On a card table; two rather chichi, yet utterly bloody broken, typewriters. Faded show cards pinned to the back of the kitchen door. Sepia photographs.

Her home became something of a safe haven for me when I was growing up. Ironic really that such a completely bloody bonkers house should provide moments of such calm. Such safety. Depending on how bad things were at home, whether i'd stay for two days or two months, I always loved spending time there. I'd lie on the hearthrug, tracing its swirly patterns around and around with my fingers. Shortly after discovering that I could unzip the yellow velvet cushion I realised that I could fit my entire head in it. This led to me believing it looked like some kind of wonderful turban and that I, in turn, naturally looked exactly like a jaunty exotic princess.I'd pretend I could play the two guitars that, for reasons best known to her, were propped up against the pantry wall. My uncle had left them behind years earlier; each only had three strings and, as I strummed them incredibly badly, i'd ask about their handwritten inscriptions: 'T-Rex' ("his favourite band"), 'Hodders' ("his nickname") and 'Bollocks' ("Oh. Erm. Something to do with farming I think, my darling.")

I had my own room there. It had belonged to my mum at one point. Somehow lying in her bedroom, amongst her ballet shoes and bellbottoms, made me hopeful. She had been happy there. She'd be happy again. It made sense; in that house there was nothing but colour and laughter and love.



At the end of November my gran is leaving her house to move into a smaller bungalow nearby. The stairs have become too difficult for her to manage and the house too big to maintain. Next week she and my uncles begin the unenviable task of emptying the place. Taking down the photographs, boxing up all the rather bizarre clutter.

I rang her earlier and rather than seeing it as a loss, she is quite wonderfully pragmatic about it all. It'll be empty, she said. Someone will probably paint all the walls magnolia. Pull down the picture rails. Replace the creaky stairs. Empty. But not dead. Instead it'll be a blank canvas for someone else to paint their memories on to.

I like that idea. In early December The Vegetarian and I will be getting a blank canvas all of our own. Well, blank but for the addition of a chipped scarlet bamboo screen. It's always wise to take a bit of colour, love and laughter with you wherever you go.

My mobile rings. It's my little brother. He never, ever calls.

"Hello. Well this is a rare treat."
'Is microwave mashed potato supposed to be runny?'
"I beg your pardon?"
'Microwave mash. Runny or not?'
"I'd say not."
'Fuck. Must be because I put in some chicken soup. It's that Campbells shit. Said on the tin you can make meals and stuff with it.'
"Why are you - and I use this word loosely - cooking? Where is dad?"
'Something to do with taps.'
"Sorry?"
'Taps. Y'know, Spanish taps or something.'
"Tapas?"
'Yeah, probably. Is that, like, the Spanish for plumber or something?'
"...."
'This mash looks foul. Like fucking spew.'
"How are you anyway? How's college?"
'hjfkrkhfufflefuffle art jkdfhkidu changethefontslkjdflkdjfphotoshop'
"You're eating the pukey mash, aren't you"
'Yefff.'

Apparently we're related. I suggest the next call he makes is to the Jeremy Kyle show to request a DNA test.

There was a time, four or five years ago, when I lived only four days a month. Four days of really living. Of feeling alive. Four enchanting, intoxicating days. The rest of the time, I just existed. And it was a strange existence; wishing days away. Scribbling dates on the calendar. Existing only in relation to him. Viewing a beautiful sunset as nothing more than being another day closer to seeing him.

He was everything to me. Literally. When I was summoned, I took the opportunity to drink in every sight, every sound, every word. Every single sexy, blissful, exquisite moment of it all. It'd ensure i'd have something to sustain me through those meaningless moments without him. Those horribly arid dry spells.

He didn't feel the same. And I knew it. And he knew that I knew. He thought I was funny-ish. Pretty-ish. Sexy-ish. For him, it was always all very "ish". It was that simple. I envied him for that. And hated him. And, god, did I love him.


I'd walk home, knowing damn well that I wouldn't hear a word from him again until he wanted something. Casual sex is only that is both of you are, well, casual. And I wasn't. Love just isn't casual, is it? It's inconvenient and all-consuming and overpowering. I'd tell myself that this would be the last time. Every time was the last time. I've never known a feeling quite like it; never had anyone make me feel so incredibly stupid. So stupid i'll never be able to find the words to do it justice. I'd watch as I made a fucking fool of myself time and time again and then trot back for some more. So, quite simply, I pretended. For a long time. I perfected breezy. I mastered nonchalance. Shrugged away the pain creeping up my chest as he talked about his other women. Added another few layers atop of the already papered-over cracks.

And I had everyone fooled. Friends would marvel at my wonderfully cushy arrangement. Sex on tap, they'd marvel, no commitment, no worries. I'd smile suggestively and nod; glad that they never saw me painting on an extra coat of mascara every morning, in the hope that it would stop me crying. Never saw me curled up, head in hands, in the bath; my heart so heavy that I was sure it would pull me under the water.

No, they never saw that. To them, to him, to the world I was always nonchalant. Indifferent. And, more importantly - boy, I was breezy.

Then breezy became cold. Cold became icy. And icy ensured I always had bloody great glaciers floating around; perfect for keeping people at bay.






On Sunday morning my boyfriend brought me breakfast in bed. Doughnuts and hot chocolate. He motioned to a pile of work i'd been avoiding and smiled a knowing smile, ducking as I threw an exercise book at him. Later, as I wandered around in kitchen in one of his old t-shirts complete with jam splodge, he told me I was beautiful. And he meant it. I've never known anybody want the best for someone without expecting a single thing in return, fight for them, strive for them, step aside for them.

We scream sometimes. We argue. I roll my eyes and swear. He sighs and looks to the heavens. But, right from the start; right from the very second I met him, i've never felt stupid. Not once.

And those glaciers are starting to melt.

Outside there's such stillness. The perfect antidote to the chaos inside. Even the breeze seems to know the rules; nothing too bracing, no great gusts to rock the boat. Just enough to provide the gentle rustle of leaves, a momentary second of calming coolness.

Outside the hospital; neat rows of flower beds. A veranda. Benches with plaques to remember those who won their battle. And those who didn't.

One of those near-perfect crisp, sunny October mornings.

And yet somehow everything is not quite the perfect picture postcard it was clearly designed to be. The grass isn't quite as green as it was yesterday. The sun not quite as bright. Nothing is ever black and white, they say. Instead there are a million shades of grey. What they don't add is that grey, no matter what the shade, is still grey. And, at times like this, tired eyes eventually become accustomed to leaden tones muddying the view. Everything always a little tainted. A little dirtied.

What i'd give for a little black and white right now. We knew where we were then. The blackness brought despair, wretchedness, catatonia, sleep. The bright white light studded with mania, laughter, frenetic activity, obsession. Those thick lines of black and white defined her. They were her outline. That's all she was most of the time; an outline. Black. White. Black. White.



Now there is only greyness. A whole palette of shades to play with. Pick one, they tell her. Or pick them all. Mix them. Embrace them. Create new shades of your own. Variety is, after all, the spice of life.

I want to help her. Guide her. But I can't. Because she doesn't know who she's supposed to be.

And neither do I.