I was going to write about swimming, and I was going to write about Tetris, but then my Grandad died, so let me indulge, please, in a little tribute, because I want to talk about this wonderful man. I miss him so much already. I already wish I’d spoken to him more often. I already hope that he knows that when I signed my emails “lots of love” I really meant it. Lots of it. Oodles of the stuff.
My Grandad’s name was David Hart. Through the Hart line we are descended from Shakespeare’s sister, Joan, who married our ancestor Thomas Hart. That’s my claim to fame. Thirteen generations or so removed, but nonetheless, a worthy claim. Grandad told me about this connection and sent me a family tree, which I keep in my Important Documents folder. He said “it’s no wonder you’re a writer.” Are there a lot of people claiming to be related to Shakespeare? Yes. And I am one of them. Now is not the moment to dissuade me of this. More than ever, I crave connection to my past, my heritage, my family.
My heritage is English. My Mum comes from England, from a town called Minehead in Somerset. There’s nothing notable about it. There’s a cool castle, and a Butlins, and an unimpressive beach. But this is not about Minehead, it’s about my Grandad. This is just to let you know that he lived very far away from me, and I missed him often, not just now that he’s gone. Mum moved to New Zealand with my kiwi Dad, and that’s where I was born.
We lived in England for a couple of years when I was a tween; I went to middle school there. I loved it. I loved being surrounded by cousins and grandparents and aunts and uncles for the first time in my life. I loved feeling surrounded by my own history, by old stone walls and narrow lanes, and folk music in pubs and Mayday hobby horses and badgers spotted on the lawn at night and carolling at Christmas and weird tasting sacred water that comes out of a faucet set in a sculpture of a lion’s head at Glastonbury Tor. I loved my Saturday morning watercolour painting classes that my Grandad paid for, with a woman who lived down the road from him. We’d go and visit him afterwards and that was just as lovely as the art class. I miss England often, and I miss my Grandad most of all.
Only a few days ago I was wondering if I should just bite the bullet and borrow money to take my son to England. I haven’t been back there in nearly 25 years. There’s always a reason, and sometimes it has been complex, but the reason is usually money. I’ve never been someone who could afford to drop thousands of dollars on a holiday overseas. I’m still not that person, and I may never be. I may spend another two decades, or more, yearning for a place I don’t know very well, but that feels like home. I’ve longed to go back since I left.
Now, though, it feels more distant than ever. Grandad was old, and he wasn’t well, and it’s not a shock that he’s died, but it still feels like a surprise to me, like something very wrong happened, even though I know it is the natural order of things. The world doesn’t feel quite right anymore now that he’s no longer in it. It has always hurt to be so far away from family, but it hurts even more now, because there’s no longer a chance that I’ll go to England, and he’ll be there to welcome me. There’s no longer a future in which I finally take my child to spend more time with his wonderful Great-Grandad.
When Grandad came to visit in early 2019, he said it would be the last time he’d make the trip to New Zealand. I understood. I wanted to go to him instead, but there was a pandemic, and then I was trying to buy a house, and just as before, circumstances conspired to keep me here. Now it’s too late. I had already talked myself out of borrowing money for a trip to the UK, because I haven’t completely given up on the dream of owning a house, but now I wish I had done so, years ago. I wish I had more memories to hold onto.
Grandad visited us was when I was 15 years old. One afternoon I called out to him to let him know the kettle had boiled. As he came inside he said, “Even when you speak you sing. You’re so beautiful.” That has remained my favourite compliment I’ve ever received.
That same visit, we were in the middle of nowhere, and we drove past some road workers. I said something snobbish and dismissive about how I’d never want to work a manual labour job like that, and he gently called me in. He told me that it’s important work, and all work has value, and so do all humans, and there was no superiority in the kind of intellectual work I wanted to do. It was a valuable lesson to learn and he was the right person to teach it to me. He was the least judgemental person I know, and the kindest, too.
He made an effort to keep in contact with me over the years, and I loved getting letters from him. His old fashioned, beautiful handwriting, and the wisdom he imparted. He took a computer class and learned how to email and it became even easier to stay in touch, even though I sometimes let it go for months before emailing him. He always supported me in my creative endeavours, and I’m devastated that he didn’t live to see me publish a novel. And yet I know he believed I would achieve that goal.
Grandad was an old school gentleman. He was thoroughly decent. He loved his children and grandchildren, he was devoted to his partner, he was always willing to participate and have fun. He had a variety of hobbies and he was actively involved in his community until the very end. When he visited he wanted to see what our ordinary life was. He didn’t need anything flashy, just to spend time with the people he loved, to see how we lived, so he could imagine us going about our days. He didn’t send me many photos but he did send me watercolour paintings that he’d done, like this one of the little boat, named Kiwi by the builder, that he drove across from the Scilly Isles to mainland UK in 1960.
He came to visit his first great-grandson when my son was about two. I have a video of them together at a botanic gardens summer concert, my toddler dancing while sitting in his Great-Grandad’s lap. Grandad is smiling in delight at the sweet, lively child on his knees.
When I was pregnant, the moment I found out I was having a boy, I knew I would give him the middle name David. I know now that I will dedicate my first novel to his memory.
He was one of the good ones.
Oh this is such beautiful writing. Both my grandads died when I was hapū with both kids, meaning it was so late in the pregnancies I couldn't fly back for funerals. But my Nana's passing in 2019 hit me hard. When she got sick, hubby said I should go back to see her before she went. I said I thought our money was better spent on the whole family going to the UK a few months later, then covid. But we got back in 2022, to find my dad has severely declined cognitively. My dad isn't old, and he shouldn't be like this, so we're going back again this year, less of us, shorter time, but it might be the last. Just the other day Miss 12 said "I wish I remember the Grandad you know, before he got sick." and that hurts. Because I do, and I wish we'd done more to get back. I thought he'd be around for at least another couple of decades. Distance is so hard. Kia kaha. Xx
What a beautiful, moving tribute! May his memory be a blessing.