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53
Gran’s Red
Diary
here, a cream-coloured shawl there. I spotted a pink book, so I
picked it up and blew off the dust;
Little Women
. I saw the red ribbon
hanging out of the book, a few pages from the back. It seemed sad
that she was so close, but died before finishing the book.
I continued to look around the dark, musty attic, taking in
everything. It was the closest I would ever get to my grandma. While
I was looking around, I remembered what I was supposed to be
doing up here. Clearing out. I looked around the untidy attic for
books and started to pile them on top of the other in a cardboard
box. I was just starting a new pile when I noticed a red leather book
with a leopard print pattern. It had a strip of leather running across
the open side of the book-end when I turned it over. I could see it
latched with a knob. I turned it and opened the book.
As soon as I opened it, the first thing I saw was the handmade
pocket on the inside of the front cover. It was a square piece of
material sewed on with a pale purple thread. On each lined page of
the book was curly calligraphy-like writing in black ink. This book
was clearly my Gran’s diary but I couldn’t quite make out many of
the words. I flicked through the pages with more fancy writing and
a few doodles. The writing was so swirly, it was almost hypnotising.
I put it in my coat pocket and quickly packed the other boxes. I
had just finished putting everything in its cardboard prison before
realising I couldn’t lift this down the ladder myself. I shouted out to
my mother who came rushing up. She climbed up to the attic, the
ladder squeaking underneath her. She looked from me to all the
boxes I had packed and chuckled. ‘And how did you plan to get all
these downstairs Mollie?’ It was the first time I’d seen my mother
smile in days since Gran had ‘passed’, as my Dad said.
Mum helped me take the boxes downstairs to the large kitchen. I
looked around the room. The oven seemed clean and unused and
the red digital clock on it told me I had spent over three hours in the
attic, as if time had sped up in the old room. The kitchen floor was
littered with boxes and I felt proud of the work I had done. We left
the boxes for the removal truck and drove home. In the car I looked
at the diary again, and even though I hadn’t met her, it was the
closest I had ever felt to my grandma.
‘
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