(pictured above – my grandparents)
My father rarely spoke of his parents.
We recently discovered this old photograph and now we know why. It
explains so much. My family's fondness for bananas. Our astonishing
agility. Why we playfully throw feces at each other. Why the males
amongst us are so often found lying in undergrowth, scratching their
balls. It also explains why I beat that cinema usher to death with my
bare fists when he requested I stop screeching and leaping about
during Rise Of The Apes.
My grandmother said her husband was an
animal in the bedroom but that he had a sensitive side too. They
would weep together at the end of King Kong. They knew no one would
understand their love so they made a home for themselves in a remote
rural backwater. She accounted for his odd behaviour and appearance
by telling locals he was French. The locals had never seen a French
man. One local sent a child up to the house for grinds in the
language. That child failed her exams but went on to become an
excellent zoo keeper.
I'd heard that my grandfather worked
for Posts and Telegraphs, fixing the wires on the poles. I have
since learned that he studied at night and went on to get a job with
the civil service. My grandmother told his new employers that his odd
behaviour and appearance were due to the Windscale incident. They
said it didn't matter. 'Sure any old monkey could do the job', they
reassured her. He excelled.
It was alcohol that did for my
grandfather at the end. One night they were arguing over his
excessive consumption of fruit (there was nary a grape left in the bowl
for the rest of the family) and he stormed out of the house and
bounded down to the pub. Sixteen pints later, he was leaping from
rooftop to rooftop and eventually slipped and fell. She rushed out on
to the road and cradled him as he breathed his last. So sad. So like
Kong.
Most get buried in the ground. They put
his coffin up a tree. He liked it up trees. She joined him soon
after. My father told the locals it was a French tradition.
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