Indefatigable: A Short Story
Indefatigable is a word invented to describe my grandmother. In service from the age of 13, she worked all her life, ending up as housekeeper in the big house and then a hotel, a whirlwind of activity even after she retired. 
I remember visiting her in the year she turned 80. As I walked through the back kitchen - the front door was for best, just like Nan's black merino coat - I saw the gleaming jars and knew she'd been picking fruit. Sure enough, bubbling away on the stove was the sweet gloop of strawberry jam. On the side was the apple pie she always made when she knew I was coming. Her chutney and marmalade were my favourites too, and they were never in short supply.
But perched on the blue formica table that had been part of the kitchen for as long as I can remember was not lunch but my grandmother, a roll of wallpaper in her hand, measuring a length to the floor. Beside her was another sticky mess, this one a white syrup of wallpaper paste.
"Have some coffee," she managed to say over the knife between her teeth. "I'll be through in a sec."
I drank my coffee and watched her finish putting up the last piece of cherry-sprigged wallpaper, knowing she would take it amiss if I offered to do anything. Memories surfaced of helping her at the hotel the summer I was 12, folding sheets and towels in the linen cupboard and spying on guests' clothes in the wardrobes.
Nan had been on her own for 10 years since my grandfather died. He was a gardener, preoccupied with his roses and the ducklings and chickens he kept, a loveable rogue who spent Saturday afternoons betting pennies with me on the horse races on Grandstand. It was only when I was older I realised he had real bets on the same races, most of which he lost.
My grandmother was one of those women who can never be still, always needing to be occupied. Christmas afternoon was a rare moment of repose - we children were allowed to open our presents only after lunch had been eaten, the dishes washed up and the grown-ups had drunk their coffee and brandies for the men, snowballs for the women. Not until then would Nan sit down and do nothing but watch indulgently.
I remember visiting her in the year she turned 80. As I walked through the back kitchen - the front door was for best, just like Nan's black merino coat - I saw the gleaming jars and knew she'd been picking fruit. Sure enough, bubbling away on the stove was the sweet gloop of strawberry jam. On the side was the apple pie she always made when she knew I was coming. Her chutney and marmalade were my favourites too, and they were never in short supply.
But perched on the blue formica table that had been part of the kitchen for as long as I can remember was not lunch but my grandmother, a roll of wallpaper in her hand, measuring a length to the floor. Beside her was another sticky mess, this one a white syrup of wallpaper paste.
"Have some coffee," she managed to say over the knife between her teeth. "I'll be through in a sec."
I drank my coffee and watched her finish putting up the last piece of cherry-sprigged wallpaper, knowing she would take it amiss if I offered to do anything. Memories surfaced of helping her at the hotel the summer I was 12, folding sheets and towels in the linen cupboard and spying on guests' clothes in the wardrobes.
Nan had been on her own for 10 years since my grandfather died. He was a gardener, preoccupied with his roses and the ducklings and chickens he kept, a loveable rogue who spent Saturday afternoons betting pennies with me on the horse races on Grandstand. It was only when I was older I realised he had real bets on the same races, most of which he lost.
My grandmother was one of those women who can never be still, always needing to be occupied. Christmas afternoon was a rare moment of repose - we children were allowed to open our presents only after lunch had been eaten, the dishes washed up and the grown-ups had drunk their coffee and brandies for the men, snowballs for the women. Not until then would Nan sit down and do nothing but watch indulgently.