Every day I sit in the same place at home and play music.
Cello, viola, and now horn, the same process unfurls each day – scales, arpeggios, long notes, tone exercises, fast articulations, studies, Bach, and finally the piece of music I’m preparing.
And each day, during this process of ritual, discipline and hope, I look at the same picture.
My grandmother, Tressie Doreen.
The photograph is a stunner. Tressie Doreen is turned slightly to her left, looking directly into the camera lens, her eighty-eight-year-old eyes beginning to cloud from cataracts, the slightest smile approaching her lips, her once-auburn hair curling up and away from her face like a crown of memories.
I remember taking the photo – a classic English summer day, the temperate kind where everything seems reasonable. In the garden, Gran’ma sitting on the bench amongst the roses and beech hedge, not too sure what I wanted from this photo, but politely doing what I directed. Perhaps somehow knowing that this photo would be with me for the rest of my life.
The photograph is of course a physical thing, but it is much more than that. It is an aide de memoire, a provocation to keep Gran’ma with me in my heart.
I remember the paper-thin skin of Gran’ma’s hands, and how she let me pull it gently and watch it take minutes to go back to normal.
I remember the patience of Gran’ma, when she taught me to prune roses.
I remember the sternness of Gran’ma, when she caught me reading in bed with a torch after lights out.
I remember Gran’ma’s style, with her box pleat tweed skirts, thick tights to cover her varicose veins, and always a lovely brooch on her left side. And a brown mackintosh packed away in her handbag. “Just in case, dear.”
I remember the kindness of Gran’ma, coming to visit when I was at music college, taking me out for lunch and putting twenty pounds in my hand: “There you are dear, you can buy yourself some music”.
I remember the security of Gran’ma, when Mum was too tired or distressed to comfort me.
I remember the tenacity of Gran’ma, taking her driving test five times in her fifties before she finally passed.
I remember the dodgy driving of Gran’ma, when I joined her in her Hillman Hunter for Meals on Wheels. The crash killed the meals, but fortunately no-one else.
I remember the generosity of Gran’ma, paying for my viola lessons all through high school, and buying me my first viola.
I remember my Gran’ma, and I feel her in everything I do.
Because my Gran’ma taught me ritual and discipline and hope. She taught me love.
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