In Loving Memory

On July 25th 1991, my beloved Grandad died. The circumstances of his death have haunted me ever since.

Everyone loved him. We grandchildren all doted on him - but much to my Grandma's chagrin, he always insisted that I was his favourite. My mum was his youngest daughter and we probably spent more time with my grandparents than any of the other 3 of his children.

During school holidays, they would come to stay for at least a fortnight. And I loved having them around. My Grandad, Norman, was a mischievous soul - always playing pranks. And always up for a laugh. He had a kindness of spirit and a wonderful smile. And he was a big softie too! Especially where animals were concerned. Horses were his favourite. Nobody disliked my Grandad. It just wasn't an option.

I remember the summer of 1991 very clearly. My Grandparents were staying with us. I was planning my (ill fated) wedding, which was to take place the following June. And so it was that on the evening of July 24th, I came home after spending the evening with my fiance. I don't remember the time, but guess it was around midnight. My Grandma and my mum had gone to bed. Grandad sat in "his" armchair chatting about important matters such as football with my Dad. They were very close and I think my dad saw Grandad as a father figure. I clearly recall joining their conversation that night, plonking myself on the arm of Grandad's chair before turning in for the night some time later, leaving them to it and heading happily up to bed.

I've been racking my brains trying to remember the exact time it happened, but alas my memory is rather selective these days.

Suffice to say, it was the early hours of the morning. A sudden thud woke me. It hadn't sounded that loud and I assumed my Grandad had got out of bed to go to the toilet and on his way back to bed, had bumped his leg on the chest of drawers in his room. I was just going back to sleep, when my mum came into my room. "Are you ok?" she asked. "Did you hear that noise too?" I asked, suddenly awake.

It was then that my mum turned on the landing light and shouted loudly for my dad to come. I had no idea what was going on and remember being frightened and getting out of bed to have a look. Grandad lay very still at the bottom of the stairs. I'm not sure what happened next to be honest, but I know the ambulance was called and that my Dad came to see me to explain what was going on. I was grateful for that.

My Dad went with him in the ambulance. Mum, Grandma and I sat in the living room, each lost in our own thoughts and not saying a word. We were all dazed. Numb. I expected to wake up from the nightmare at any time and to see him walk through the door telling us it had all been a joke and ha ha, we'd fallen for it!! But that didn't happen. My Dad rang from the hospital, and broke the news to my mum that her dad had died. My mum then drove the ten miles or so to the hospital.

I will always remember my mum's words when, after speaking to my Dad, she came to break the news to Grandma and I. She said simply, "He's gone, mam."

Of course, we cried. It was surreal. I remember phoning my fiance to tell him the sad news. He told me that God obviously had an important job for my Grandad to do and had taken him away to do it. I still think that was a lovely thing to say.

He had indeed got up to go to the toilet, but must have been struggling to find his bedroom when he stumbled backwards and fell down the stairs, hitting his head on the dining room floor. We all felt responsible. Guilty. I know now that it was a tragic accident, but at the time we dissected our every move and came to the conclusion that we had somehow caused his death by our actions. Whatever they were, I don't recall now.

Everyone came to our house that day. Uncles, Aunties, cousins. None of them lived near us, but all wanted to be there. It was awful. Every time someone else arrived, we cried and hugged, and cried some more. Although it was nice to have the support around us, it was an emotionally draining day. The following day, my fiance took me to work with him and I sat upstairs in the little empty flat above the bakery where he worked. I clearly remember watching cricket on the telly, even though I had no idea or interest in what I was seeing.

My Grandad was 81 - and yes, I know he'd had a "good innings" as they say. But he was as strong as an ox and very very healthy. In fact, other than a brief stay in hospital some years earlier for hernia operation, I had never known him to be ill. We all thought he would live forever. My cousin summed it up when, on the day of the funeral, he said, "Even he couldn't get out of this one."

Sixteen years on. Time has erased some of the details and to be fair, some of the pain. My memories, however, remain strong and intact. I'll never forget the day we sat in a pub on Christmas day and my Grandad burst some of the balloons above our table - just for pure devilment. Or the time he broke a vase in MFI when he was messing about with it.

I have every intention of telling my daughter all about her great-Grandad when she's old enough to understand, because in my heart he didn't die. I was 21 when he passed away and I know he didn't really like my future husband (not many people did as it happened, but that's a different story.) He would therefore be delighted and proud if he could only meet my current husband and beautiful little girl.

If you are enjoying a glass of wine (or even water) today, please raise your glass in a toast to Norman. My Grandad. My friend. Still sadly missed after all these years.