Picturing my maternal grandparents at their bungalow in Marske, my head fills with nothing but happy memories. For a few years we lived near them and they would babysit for my sister Mary and me and the feeling of love that I felt from them was something that I will never forget. Having them close by made them somehow different to my dad’s parents; they had to travel from Nottingham to see us, and my granddad would always travel through the night and be there on a Saturday morning when we woke up, and there was a sense of occasion when they were in the house. My mum’s parents were different, we could (and did) see them whenever we liked. We would often get changed into our pyjamas at their house before our parents collected us, and we were able to eat sweets and chocolates there, (the traditional ‘nana tin’ was a much anticipated fixture with its Blue Ribands, Clubs, Penguins, and two-finger Kit Kats). My nana would watch my sister and I perform puppet shows in the kitchen, and they would take us to play on the swings. I can still smell the house, there’s nothing distinctive about the smell (neither of my mother’s parents smoked for example) but I know what I mean. Maybe they were faking it to make us happy, but they were fans of both The Muppet Show and The A-Team, and would watch it with us. It must have been true actually because they once recounted an episode on a Sunday, so would have had to have watched it without us there. They could of course have fast-forwarded through a tape recording of it as quick research.

Family holidays are another endearing memory. Nana and granddad would join us in Mundesley for a week and on one occasion we were also joined by my uncle and auntie and family (mum’s brother). In my memories there isn’t a bad moment to recall. When we lived in Skegness, my sister and I would spend a week in the summer holidays with them back in Marske and every day was filled with activity.

Since I moved back home to Nottingham I had sort of lost touch with my grandparents, my visits back to Teesside were only really to collect my daughter Emily so I didn’t really have time to pop in. I made it a few times, but by now my nana was in poor health and not the same woman who looked after us during those happy summers. The last time I spent any decent amount of time up there was for my brother’s wedding, and I heard that my nana would probably not recognise who I was and that I would find it upsetting. I slept at my brother’s house in Middlesbrough some time last year, and he described how awkward the visits had become. Indeed the last time I went round the house the atmosphere was strained, my nana sitting virtually helpless on the sofa and my granddad (himself not a picture of health having had a stroke) in his armchair looking so much smaller than he should.

My sister Daisy phoned me on Friday morning to inform me that nana had been admitted to hospital and was unlikely to leave. This morning my brother Jack broke the news that she had passed away. I didn’t keep him on the phone for long as I could hear the emotion in his voice. As I put the phone down my eyes filled with tears, all of those memories came flooding back and in my mouth I could taste coconut cake. That might sound weird, but she used to make coconut cake when we visited. The funny (not, admittedly, ‘ha ha’ funny) thing is that she hadn’t made coconut or any other cake for that matter for a very long time.

The sadness I felt wasn’t so much the simple fact that she had died, as she had suffered so much over the last few years that I’m glad she no longer has to feel any pain. My overwhelming feeling was of guilt. I felt guilty that I hadn’t made more of an effort to go and see her and my granddad while I still had the chance. The fact that I might have found it upsetting was a terrible reason, as it is nowhere near as upsetting as what I feel now that I can’t go and see her next time I’m in Marske. So what if she wouldn’t have known who I was? I knew who she was and that should have been enough, but I couldn’t bring myself to spend half an hour in the company of the woman who provided me with so many fond memories and now it is too late.

She occupied my thoughts for the rest of the day, and it got me to thinking about our time. I barely speak to my mum these days, not that I don’t want to but just because it doesn’t occur to me. What if she died after so long with no contact? My brother and sister Daisy are on my Facebook, (does that count these days?) but not my sister Mary who I haven’t spoken to for at least three years. Then there’s my family in Nottingham, so close together but in other ways a million miles apart. I don’t even spend Sunday lunch with my paternal grandmother anymore because of the radio show and she’s nearly ninety and getting slower with each day. How often has the want to get home and watch The Simpsons prevented me from popping in for a cup of tea and seeing if she is all right and maybe needs something from the shops? I wonder if my daughter Emily has this internal conversation with herself about me now that we live in different countries and only see each other once or twice a year.

The really sad epilogue to this soul-searching is that it probably won’t change anything. Apart from the fact that I’ll pop in and see my nana Freda and have a cup of tea with her. Tomorrow.