Northlands
I always looked forward to the tumble over to Yorkshire to visit my grandparent’s house. Just visible from the road through the trees, I could picture them pottering away inside or, as was often the case, outside. Northlands was its name.
It was a huge house. As an eight year old I never really contemplated it, but I’d imagine it was built in the 1900s. The rooms were large and spacious, with bulky wooden bay windows, a narrow cellar and a drawing room - not like the depressing terraces of the ‘30s, or the cookie-cutter detached houses of more modern times.
It was a perfect house for grandparents. It had a massive garden; I’ve since been told they were frequently approached to sell some off as a housing plot. In the summer, snapdragons in magenta and orange crawled up a trellis in the centre, separating the nondescript area of grass by the garage from the proper garden. This was where the swing was, a slightly rusted green thing that had been there since my dad was a child. Despite its age, it showed no signs of bowing to the northern winds, or incessant winter rain. It was the first thing my sister Jasmine and I ran to after our two-hour car journey. We craved the wind in our hair, and for our feet to touch the bottom branches of the tree that hung over it. It made us feel like humans again, instead of suitcases travelling somewhere, squashed and overheated. People often joked that the resilient swing reminded them of my grandparents, that they’d still be there sturdy as ever in ten years time.
When I was thirteen though, my grandma suffered a stroke. They were unable to cope with such a vast house afterwards, so Northlands was begrudgingly put on the market and snapped up. Grandpa’s greenhouse was left behind, next to the swing. He used to always be in there, watering his tomatoes, chuckling to himself as we chased each other around the garden. Sometimes he’d call us in to try something, lifting us up to grab a grape from the vines slung across the roof, the juice making our fingers sticky with the artificial heat.
There was an outside fruit and vegetable patch too, row upon regimented row, perfectly aligned. Fresh sweet-tasting peas that we popped from their pods, and blackberries and raspberries that Grandma let us collect with a basket, pretending to be Little Red Riding Hood. We’d walk back up the steps to the house with our treasure, and she would transform it into a pie or tart, perfectly browned with sugar that crackled in our mouths as we ate. It created a challenge for us after the stroke, as she became diabetic. We spent a lot of time in their new house concocting various recipes using sweeteners and sugar-free substitutes, but the berries always remained home-grown, some things just couldn’t be compromised on.
We never needed a television or toys at Northlands. Instead, we’d play hide and seek. There were so many places to hide that one game could often take an hour, even with Grandma helping. I’d climb into the mechanic’s pit in Grandpa’s garage, scared of the dark, but sure that I’d be difficult to find, or sneak the keys from the back door and unlock the air-raid shelter. A few times Jasmine gave up, and Grandma had to wander around shouting my name until I came out, after eventually realising that it wasn’t some trick for me to lose. Whoever won would get a stick of Juicy Fruit from her secret recipe drawer. Mum and Dad wouldn’t let us have chewing gum, so it was the ultimate prize.
Even now, that smell of must and crumbling brick takes me back to hiding in the shelter. It always made me wrinkle my nose, but never stopped me from returning. It was such a contrast when Grandma and Grandpa moved into the new house, as all the smells seemed so alien - fresh paint and medicine. The furniture felt cramped in the small, modern rooms, although the same wallpaper and colours as in the old house had been lovingly applied to the perfectly levelled walls. It provided the sense of familiarity that they desperately craved.
Mornings at Northlands were always fun, if we got to stay over. We’d be up and about early, and occasionally we’d take cereal and toast and eat in the travelling caravan that perched on the driveway, brought out of slumber for an hour in preparation for its annual two-week tour of France.
After breakfast we’d feed the fish. The house was set atop a small hill, so the pond had three tiers - the bottom pond was more like a lake to us as children. Now and again there would be a bubble of frogspawn in the corner, and we’d put a margarine carton around it to stop the fish eating it. If we stayed for a few days, we’d check it every day for signs of the mummy frog, waiting for the day when the slimy tadpoles would emerge from the mush and wriggle around the algae like animated commas.
Grandpa still has a pond, though it is considerably smaller. If we visit there now, Jasmine and I always make a habit of wandering outside to sprinkle the little pellets in the water, and an empty margarine carton stays in the fridge the year round, just in case.
Sometimes we’d go into Hornsea, the town where they lived. Avid churchgoers and well-wishers, my grandparents would know everyone we walked past, and just getting to Candy Corner, the old fashioned sweet shop, would take twice as long as necessary. At this point, me and Jasmine would be pulling at their hands, the scent of sherbet and gummy bears having wafted into our noses with each shut of the shop door. We got traditional sweets; lemon bonbons or midget gems, and Jas and I would swap some, arguing over the fairness of getting two fizzy cola bottles for a chocolate eclair.
Entertained with our sweets, we’d go into their church, a dull building from the outside that was majestic once through the doors. Grandma would go and make us cups of tea in the kitchen, and Jas and I would sit on each of Grandpa’s knees while he practised his organ playing. On some days he’d let us play, and the shrill of the pipes always made me jump. I remember feeling a sense of grandeur from taming such a powerful machine.
At Christmas and birthdays, Grandpa is swamped with cards from people of the congregation. I’m astonished he ends up with more than our family of four. Every week, he walks into Hornsea, and still plays the organ to those that come to the service. After so long providing Grandma with round-the-clock care, I think he enjoys feeling needed by such a large group of people, and it fills the void.
***
I drove past Northlands a while ago, and it is completely different. Its potential for PVC windows, a conservatory and a large modern kitchen meant that the family that moved in ripped it to pieces. I think I’d rather it was like that, though. If it remained there unchanged, it would make me sad at all our family memories still floating around its rooms. Instead, there is a BMW 4x4 on the drive, and luminous girly pink paint on the walls of one of the bedrooms. Northlands, if that is still its name, is making new memories now, and I can keep it how it was in my head forever. Perfect.
