BETTY POWDRILL

Grandad

it had been 447 days.

i was sitting at home

a waft of pipe smoke

up my nose. settling

comfortably in that

compact space. me, in

your bungalow. cream

carpets, thick pile

with a pattern of

flowers. a garden

underfoot. a carriage

clock on the mantle.

whiling away hours on

the chocolate twill

beanbag, overstuffed.

fat. next to your

armchair, worn in the

seat, the back. on the

old box tv, ‘Alice in

Wonderland’.

and how awed i was when

every evening at 4, the

light in your corner would

announce its awakening with

a small ‘click’. eyebrows

raised, mouth wide, always

surprised, trying to work

out the trick. it would

light up your table, precise

and ordered: a little black

notebook, newspaper, glasses,

the case next to an open pack

of tobacco, and beside it,

your pipe.

i knew that was your

corner, your chair, your

table, and most of the time

i’d leave it alone. but

one morning, when i thought

you weren’t there, i sat in

your chair, affecting an

austere manner. i picked up

your glasses, the lenses

milk-bottle-thick. obscuring my

vision. next was your pipe

the bitter taste making me sick

before i could even complete my

impression. shuffling moccasins

outside the door exposed your

location. you came in.

your glasses, half-folded

in my hand. halfway back to

your table. half-smile bristling

beneath your moustache.

Betty Powdrill’s work captures fleeting moments, deep-seated memories, and the quiet spaces in between that often go unnoticed.

She drafts in pencil, messy and urgent, then presses her words into permanence on her vintage typewriter.