Judge

A normal person fills their life with millions of not so special days, not so special moments and not so special events. We can remember the grand affairs, the dismal tragedies, birthdays, Christmases, traditions. However, the memories that mean the most to me are those that stretch out from dunned days when you least expect it. They brush your soul lightly with gossamer-clad fingertips before they’re gone. An utterance lost on the air, but something that remains with you for your whole life.

When I was maybe seven years old, I was told that, instead of going to church, our family of four was going to put on our best and head to London to have lunch with my Grandparents. My elder sister had originally decided they were to be called Gamma and Ganfa when she was learning to talk, but this was dismissed as too informal, even if it did soften the fire in my Grandfather’s eyes.

My Grandfather was the cleverest and fairest man I knew, with an uncompromising respect for truth. He taught me how to play chess, but never let me win. “How will you know when you have truly beaten me, if I let you win?” There was no finer stereotype. His Honour Judge Jarlath Finney, sitting in a favourite threadbare chair, book in one hand, whisky in the other, face embellished with abundant whiskers, staring at his granddaughters with searching eyes, a colour that looked like the feeling you get when you put frozen winter fingers under hot water. I always had questions for him. In my child’s mind he was omniscient and the fundamental figure of authority. These questions were often along the lines of “how many bugs are there in England?” “What’s at the bottom of the ocean?” “Why do I have blonde hair and Daddy’s bald?” The one question he never had a chance to answer was “How many countries are there in the world?” I hate to admit, I’ve never sought out the answer.

That day, seemingly a couple of lifetimes ago, my sister and I rapidly got bored of the adult conversation. The attic in the house in Hampstead Garden Suburb was a wonderland of junk. Costume jewellery, photographs, a bust of a formidable looking man, dusty mouth organs, and probably anything one could imagine. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Aslan had padded out from behind one of the tottering piles, roaring dust clouds. The one item that remained painfully pristine, on a small desk facing the even smaller window (home to a cluster of dead spiders) was an old typewriter. I couldn’t tell you what model it was, how old it was, or when it had last been used. To this day, it is my favourite thing, even though I haven’t seen it in years. That was the first time I saw it, but I didn’t dare touch it. It was like a pulsing talisman, a portal to history, tales untold, lost words, scrapped ideas and secrets. I was not arrogant or foolish enough to consider using it then.

Some years later, as every twelve year old does, I gained that arrogance. It was the first time I had been in the house after my Grandfather had died, and it had become a cracked and withered shell. It was dirty and without the flare of vibrancy my Grandfather had brought to it unknowingly. Colours faded. He was noticeably, and viciously, gone.

I took myself off to the attic in a jealous sulk; eyes masked green. I thumbed through books and posters, nosed through drawers and eyed up the treasures I found there, like a plumped magpie. It saddens me that the first words I typed on that typewriter, sitting exactly where I had left it guarded by the spiders, were malicious. I whinged heartily about my mean friends, my meaner family and asked why nobody understood me. A slight cliché, but c’est la vie. When I had finished releasing my venom, like a coward I threw the paper out of the window.

A few weeks later my Grandmother called. She had found the thing in the garden, and that feeling of young doom that we have all recognised from parents and teachers rose up into my chest. I thought I was in trouble. She was not angry, but impressed. She effusively praised my writing before offering to post it back to me. I declined this offer; I did not want to see the cruel lyrics again, but I wonder now from time to time what I actually wrote.

I relish in the questions unanswered. My Grandfather was a craftsman of words and ideas and there is a part of me which feels that any over-simplification in learning is a crude insult to his memory. I learnt how to write with passion on that typewriter, but I learnt how to question the world with passion from my Grandfather.