Grandma always wore black. I accepted this, as kids do. She was just Grandma. In black. I was about seven, I guess, when I asked her about it.
"I'm in mourning, child."
"But it's afternoon, Grandma." That's how kids are - short on knowledge but too logical for the grown-up world.
Grandma explained 'mourning,' but not why hers went on so long.
"Who for, Grandma?"
"For your Granddad, child." She was at the kitchen sink, doing things to vegetables.
Even at seven, this struck me as odd. Granddad was sitting at the table, reading the paper he called 'The Pink.' The Pink had all the football results and who had scored the goals and how many people had been at each match. When he finished with The Pink I liked to add up all the people at all the matches. I wondered where so many people came from and why they all watched other people playing football. I looked from Granddad to Grandma and back. I tugged her long black skirt and when she tutted me, I pointed at Granddad. I said nothing. Granddad hawked and shook his paper and said "The 'Ammers lost. Again. Three nil."
"He's been as good as dead for years, child." Such things are puzzling at seven. Years later I began to understand what she meant, and came to wonder how my mother - Grandma's daughter - ever came into being. I couldn't imagine them, Granddad and Grandma, at it. I couldn't imagine Granddad, or anybody, at it with this angular lady, forever in black, her long boney hands always busy with vegetables or brush and dustpan or clearing the table for Granddad to sit at to read 'The Pink'.
When she died, Grandma, I was nineteen. It was while I was at University. Mum phoned me in Hall to tell me. "You'll come to the funeral, Lucy?" It was a command disguised as a question.
Afterwards, Mum said, "Your Grandma wanted you to have this. It's odd to say the least." She handed me a notebook, the old-fashioned foolscap size, hardbacked, black like Grandma. It was labeled, large letters in Grandma's hand, "Terrible Transylvanian Dishes." Weird, but apt. Sort of. Her name was Sylvia.
All but the first page was blank, as if Grandma had started with good intentions but given up. I could use it for taking lecture notes. Or a diary. Something like that. On the first, the only used page, was a recipe.
Bat Soup. Saute five or six small bats in butter till the wings are crisp. Heat some bat stock in an iron pot. Its lid must be heavy enough to keep the bats inside. Fine chop a small onion and some mushrooms or carrots. Add all these ingredients to the stock. Season with salt, pepper and a little curry powder to taste. Do not use garlic. Bats abhor garlic and even a pinch will kill them. Simmer for twenty minutes. Serve hot when The Count has finished with The Pink. If you don't like live bats, even hot ones, hang a string of garlic cloves round your neck. The Health and Safety Executive have suggested that diners should keep some Silver Bullets handy. A stake through the heart would be preferable.
Underneath her recipe Grandma had written, "Lucy, Be Warned."
I cried for a long time.
