Pyg

CHRISTMAS MIRACLES

T ime ticked by; the months after Mum had gone, and the weeks after losing Pyg. Our grandmother remained convalescing in hospital, recovering from the fall and the burns she’d effectively inflicted upon herself. And we settled into a quiet, ordinary routine with Ms Bray — or Ruth, as she eventually relented to us calling her.

Whilst the loss of the studio, along with all our treasured possessions, had been traumatic, with Ruth at least there was less of a need to retreat. Unlike Grandmother, Ruth didn’t seem to mind when Bernard and I sat at the kitchen table to do our homework. Neither did she mind us chatting quietly between ourselves. From time to time, she even joined in. Her company wasn’t entirely discordant, at least when she wasn’t quoting biblical verses, which seemed to spill out of her randomly, like a pot bubbling over.

Ruth was the polar opposite of our mother. She appeared to be around the same age, but unlike Mum, she was an austere woman of the church, dowdy in cardigans and thick brown stockings that bunched around her ankles. If Mum was a gloriously sunny afternoon in May, Ruth was a dreary grey morning in January. Despite all that, she wasn’t cold-hearted; her kindness could be measured in small gestures — the sprinkling of sugar on our porridge, or the occasional hand on the shoulder or pat on the head. Lukewarm, but warm nonetheless. And infinitely better than living with Grandmother.