The one legged lady from Balmoral Road

Chapters 1-3 The one legged lady from Balmoral Road

The One Legged Lady from Balmoral Road

By Karen Stanley

Chapter One

"Ooo, ooo Nana! Only me."

What is it about old people and shiny doorsteps? And when does she polish this step anyway? It's like some bizarre, anti-burglar device - News flash... Intruder breaks neck gaining access to frail old lady's home, slips on shiny doorstep. Old lady says, 'I've always been house proud, you know. 86 I am you know.'

"Hello? Is that you Katherine?"

"Yes, Nana, it's me. Who else would be coming in to your house calling 'Nana'?"

"Don't be cheeky, duck, and don't call me Nana. You know it makes me feel old! Call me Kath."

"I can't call you Kath, it's not right; you're my grandmother! I've always called you Nana; Nana Kath is my only compromise."

My Nana - 83 years old and has insisted on being called 'Kath' since she turned 80 as 'Nana' made her feel old! I just can't bring myself to call my maternal grandmother by her Christian name. Not because I was named after her (I'm mostly known as Kaz anyway), but because it just feels plain weird. Now I have resorted to the uneasy compromise of 'Nana Kath' which makes her sound like a rotund, ageing, black jazz singer of at least 90!

"How you been, Nana Kath? Any gossip?" I ask brightly.

"Not much, duck. Just gonna have a bit of corned beef and pickle. My neighbour brought me round some leftovers, but I haven't got the stomach for her cooking. Not too keen on brown food. Nice woman; she's one of them parkies, you know - means well but her food don't look right and it takes weeks to get the smell out me microwave!"

"Nana, she's not a 'parkie' as you call her, she's from Bangladesh and you can't say it anyway, it's a derogatory term! And besides, if you don't eat brown food, what's with the corned beef and pickle?"

"You know I don't mean nothing by it, duck, and don't go using all those fancy words trying to ruffle my feathers. And DON'T call me Nana!"

My Nana is a formidable woman: tiny like a sparrow with bright, twinkly eyes that don't miss a trick and belie her age; and the inner resolve of a lioness. I love my Nana; she practically raised me when my loveable rogue of a father, her only boy, took off round the world to 'find himself' leaving me, a babe in arms, in the care of my free spirited, slightly scatty, mother.

My Nana never really recovered from his departure and has been in a state of denial for the 32 years he has been absent without leave, referring to his sudden flight as "a funny five minutes."

"It's just a phase, duck. He'll be back before you know it," she proclaims often. She is convinced that one day he will walk through the door like the prodigal son, wearing a smile, a toga and flip flops, and carrying a hand carved effigy of the Buddha himself.

"You staying for lunch? Corned beef and pickle?" Her words interrupt my thoughts. I do that a lot; wander off mentally at a tangent. My mother always tells me I think far too much. However, coming from someone who thinks very little about anything beyond her next yoga class or the rescheduling of the workshop on 'herbal remedies for the well being of your inner woman,' where a bunch of self-absorbed, middle-aged hippies sit around the church hall imbibing foul smelling teas made from nettles and willow bark, it's not a criticism I take too seriously.

"No thanks, Nana... sorry, Nana Kath. It's Wednesday, 4 o'clock. Deal or No Deal, remember?"

My business is mobile hairdressing and as the years have gone by I have taken to categorising my clients by the TV programmes that I am forced to watch every four-six weeks when I titivate their tresses. Sometimes I use physical attributes or family dramas too.