Jacarandah

My granddad was a railway engineer. Not the man who drove the train, but the one who designed, built and repaired it. When I knew him, he was retired but he always “went to work” out in his shed which was bursting with tools, elaborate models and invented devices. He never spoke to me much, but I was allowed to sit with him “at work”, engaged in a project of my own at the little workbench he made for me. Granddad was steady and deliberate in his movements, his blue-grey eyes with their fierce bushy brows always fixed intently on the task. I tried to be interesting to Granddad, prattling about my dog, my baby sister’s latest tricks, or showing him some treasure from the garden, but he would only ever mutter, “Yes, Carolyn” or “Mmhmm” in that typical adult-ignoring-you way. Dad said Granddad didn’t talk much because he had been in the War, but that didn’t make a lot of sense to a five year old. If anything, it ought to give you lots of exciting things to talk about!

Well eventually, Granddad started to go blind. The workshop became dim and dusty while he just sat on the verandah listening to the radio. I remember one day I was playing in the garden when I found a twig of jacarandah flowers. After twirling them around like dancing fairies for a while, I took them up to the house to show everyone.

“Look, Granddad,” I said, unthinking, “they’re just like little purple gloves!”

Granny patted me and said in her sad Scots burr, “He canna’ see them darling.”

Granddad put the flowers to his cheek. “I can see them,” he said. “Just like little gloves.”

Just a few weeks later my sister and I were sitting on the back steps when we heard the phone ring. This was not common but we were unconcerned until we heard a rising note of distress in our mother’s voice. We nestled in close to each other, including our cocker spaniel, Bosun, in the huddle. “Has something happened to Daddy?” Blin asked, wide-eyed. “No,” I said with eight-year-old authority, “It’ll just be Granddad.” “Make it so,” I prayed inside.

It was. He had been hit by a car at a pedestrian crossing near his home. He could hardly see, but he had been too proud to let anyone guide him, or even to use a cane. And of course it was all my fault. I had actually prayed to God for him to die. The fact that I had done it to save my dad made me feel a little better, but it was my first real experience of death and I felt horribly guilty and quite frightened at the thought of my own power! Of course it was not possible to tell anyone – I would probably be put in gaol or at least get into terrible trouble. I brooded over it for months.

Finally one day I took out my coloured pencils and my good sketchbook and drew a picture of Granddad in Heaven. I didn’t have much of a clue what it was like up there, so I put in lots of flowers and a dog. I had trouble drawing hands, so I ingeniously put a bunch of jacarandah in Granddad’s hands. It still needed something so I drew the most beautiful princess with a golden crown, smiling at him. Then I hid the drawing away in a cupboard. Somehow, everything was going to be all right now.