The Smoke-Belching Anglia
They say never speak ill of the dead, but really during my childhood my Grandmother could be a scary visage at times. Today I look back and chuckle about how I must have driven her to exasperation.
As you might remember from The Laws, my Grandfather aka Grandad, retired to Campbell River in the early 1940’s, marrying his housekeeper in the process. As a result Georgina Louise aka Louie became my Grandmother or more properly my step-Grandmother, my actual Grandmother (lovely woman I understand) having died many years before I was born.
After Grandad passed away in 1958, Louie took on the job of housekeeper at the UBC Experimental Farm a few miles south of our house at the beach. This job she held for some years until she ‘retired’ back to the cottage at the south end of the property. It was not unusual when I was small to spend part of every Christmas Day at The Farm, sitting patiently while Gran opened a myriad of presents from people I had no clue about. Gran was also a very good cook, which made the hours of sitting in the same spot on a hard couch palatable. I remember the first and only time in my life I ate canned rabbit was at The Farm – a not too bad taste similar to chicken but not one I would pursue on a restaurant menu.
While she worked at ‘The Farm’ the cottage was rented out to a succession of families, including the Gartley’s (the young redheaded lad engaging in a boxing match with me on the front lawn of our house under the watchful eye of Dode). Being small I have no idea what became of the Gartley’s after they left Oyster Bay, though I do fondly remember pummelling David in boxing.
Although Gran was from Saskatchewan she was ‘very British’, stiff upper lip and long nose to look down. Children were to be ‘behaved’, preferably silently when at the cottage. She came by it honestly, Grandad being VERY British, from Yorkshire, with a fondness for smelly pipes and even smellier fried kippers at breakfast. I once met Gran’s father during a visit to Oyster Bay, a portly and rather stuffy Englishman, with, as I remember, a salt and pepper moustache that reminded me of Adolf Hitler.
Gran was also very organized in her life, almost regimented, and a bit of a closet pack-rat! Later when it became time to move Gran into a seniors home it was my job to climb up into the attic and retrieve MANY balls of string, elastic bands galore and enough Xmas wrapping paper tubes to fashion a raft the size of the Titanic! In her bedroom closet we also found almost every present she had ever received, neatly in its tissue and stacked in symmetric piles.
Gran’s retirement didn’t last long, her need to be industrious outweighing any urge to sit at the large picture window in the living room and enjoy the view of the Straits. First it was crochet then something called ‘tatting’ which involved a large round pillow and many dangling spools of thread. Kind of reminded me of string art with nails, though my survival instinct kept me from making that comparison. Gran also joined something called the Rebekah’s Lodge, part of the larger International Order of Oddfellows (an apt name indeed!), and she was heavily involved in St. Peter’s Anglican Church.
Gran soon tired of crafts et al and secured a job as nanny / housekeeper for a family a few miles up the road. This was a full-time job requiring two things from Gran that she had never possessed: an automobile and a license to drive said automobile. Hence it was that the Smoke-Belching Anglia came into our lives.
The Anglia was of unknown vintage, though it smelled of mouldy leather from day one. Being British Gran loved that car. For myself it was only one step up the comfort pole from the troop transports I would ride in later in the Army!
The driving bit, well that was another story. To say Gran was an ‘adequate’ driver might be a bit of a stretch. She did manage to keep the Anglia on her side of the highway and out of the ditch – most of the time, but she was prone to distraction, waving to her friends as she careened up the highway. Thankfully she was not the fastest driver in the world! On more than one occasion my Father and brothers were called in to extract the Anglia from the hedge, Gran having missed the driveway!
About the time Gran secured her job and the Anglia, my Mother decided it was time to go back to work. I was entering Grade 1 and Dode Grade 2. Monday to Friday my Mother and Father would drive off to work (they worked at the same place) just after 7am, followed shortly by my older siblings rushing for the bus to high school. By 7:45 this would leave Dode and myself to our own devices (see ‘Take Your Best Shot!’) for about a half hour. Then we would trudge next door to Gran’s and off we would go to Maple Elementary, the Anglia belching smoke like a locomotive.
The ride would be an experience – every day – Gran pointing out things on the road or waving to friends, punctuated by pointed comments in my direction to sit down. People could see her coming from a long way off, the black smoke with a small car in the middle of it. Pedestrians and cyclists would move far over into the gravel as she passed, except for her friends of course, who would wave back. One even gave her half a peace sign, which to my everlasting chagrin I asked her to interpret for me.
Eventually we would arrive at school, me exiting the backseat as quickly as possible. Dode would linger a few minutes chatting with Gran before sticking her tongue out at me and disappearing through the front doors.
A few years later, after I was old enough to ride my bike to school, Gran mistakenly turned through a T intersection without looking and that was the end of the Anglia, smoke and all. I don’t remember Gran being injured, but the Anglia was quickly headed for recycling into beer cans.