A wonderful painting in words – with a sobering premonition…

ljclayton

My mother used to spend much of her time visiting the old people in our village, the ones no one else seemed to bother with. She’d pack a basketful of baking, wait for us to get in from school, then off we’d go to visit Grandma This or Grandad That.

Grandad Greaves was our favourite. He lived on the edge of the village, next to the farm where a turkey, feathered like an African chief, seemed to spend all its time doing a war-dance in the farmyard.

Grandad Greaves would be waiting for us in his kitchen, the white-washed stone walls like a lot of banked-up floury loaves and the black range reaching almost to the ceiling. The table would be laid for tea with (if they were in season) a plate of home-grown raspberries at each setting, smothered in sterilized milk, which our mother had insisted beforehand we drink…

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About authorsanon

We are several novels in search of a publisher. And a few more of us have found a publisher, but enjoy the company here anyway. View all posts by authorsanon

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