When Grandma died I got the job of sorting out her affairs. In some ways it was easy. Her live-in friends Mother's dead. Joe and Mabs get to keep her half of the flat they shared until the last one left, then it would be sold and her fifty percent of the money from the sale would come to me to divide equally between all the grand-children. I came back to Salford with several archive boxes full of papers, photographs and notebooks, intending to go through them. In the end it took me two years to have more than a rummage, then I got no further than a collection of A5 notebooks with the first entry dated 11 November 2011 — the day after my Nanna died. Nanna was Grandma's mum and was ninety when she died, so we all thought Grandma had another twenty years in her, but it was not to be. She died 10 October 2014 after a massive heart attack. The notebooks can best be described as a collection of random memories. The writer in me knows they capture the essence of Grandma's life, and I will try to compile a chronology of sorts over the next couple of weeks.

The first notebook entry is dated 11 November 2011 and headed 'Choked on a chip!' It goes some way to explaining why Grandma was never close to Nanna, but I digress. This is Grandma's story, not mine.

Mother's dead. Choked on a chip. There was a box of half-eaten McCain's Microwave Chips on the kitchen table. Not that she ate them of course. Ellie and Liz found her on Sunday after she didn't answer the door to the taxi, which had arrived to take her to Ellie's. It probably happened on Saturday. It was typical of her really. Always telling me what to do, but never doing it herself. Mother never got it. When I was growing up, she'd sit in the front room listening to the radio eating a box of chocolates Dad had bought her with the coupons he'd saved. Never sharing, except to say 'Want a ginger?' ― the only one she didn't like. I would put it my mouth, suck the chocolate off as slowly as I could, then once I caught the taste of ginger, gulp it down. My first thought when the policeman told me was 'Thank God, no more ginger', then I saw her in my head. She was just as I always see her. Writhing, gripping his arms, face contorted, saying 'Do it now, do it you bastard'.

In 2011, it seems odd that the police come and tell you something you could have been told in an instant by text or a 'phone call. Well, Mabs, who I live with, could have been told. I only have my mobile on when I'm out on my own. It was quite late when we heard, we were coming back with our friend Joe after having dinner and were looking forward to the rest of the night. Instead, we get to the flat to be greeted by a police officer and another one who says nothing. The one who spoke asked 'Is one of you Isla Goodchild' and quick as a whippet, Joe said 'Run for it girls, we've been sussed'. If looks could have killed, Joe would have died on the spot, by which time Mabs and I were giggling, no doubt from having one Guinness too many. 'Sir, I would like to talk to Ms Goodchild alone. This is no laughing matter. So, is one of you ladies Ms Goodchild or not?'. I put my hand up like a naughty schoolgirl and said 'Can my friend Mabs stay? 'Yes' came the reply. Mabs opened the door and in we all went.

The police officer turned to Joe and said 'You can make yourself useful by going and making these ladies a cup of tea or whatever they drink. I'm sure you know'. I sat down in our living room thinking 'This man's a detective in uniform and I like him. No hint of what he thinks. A real professional'. 'Your mother, Mavis Goodchild, was found dead earlier today. We are involved because she died at home, alone. Our West Midlands colleagues tell us that she was found by a family member and that her death will be reported to the Coroner's Office tomorrow morning. We're sorry for your loss. Perhaps you would like us to leave so that you can contact your family direct' and with that they were gone.

The first thing I remember about my mother is her screaming, lots of loud bangs, being covered in dirt, then a sobbing 'Baby, baby, baby, where are you?' and utter silence. I could see the sky and I heard a dog bark, then the ARPs and others shouting 'Mavis, Mavis, Maud, Maud, Joyce, Joyce' until mum screamed 'Here, bloody here'. Amazingly, no one was killed even though six houses, including our own, were destroyed as a German bomber dropped its bombs in a neat row down our road in Colindale. In fact, the day we were bombed is my first memory. As I grew up, others filled in the rest and it's a story I find myself telling more as the years go by. I'm sure you'll hear it soon enough.

I haven't called her 'Mum' since I was a kid. For years I called her nothing, then she became 'Mother', never 'Mum'. She got to ninety and never stopped smoking. She started smoking during the war and blamed me and Dad. He didn't like it, but she would say 'I needed something. You away and I had this handful to care for, then the odd bugger came along ('odd bugger' is what she always called my brother). Three of you in the house. You're bloody lucky I didn't take to drink as well'.

She was so wrapped up in her own, selfish, world, that she didn't appreciate that a five year old could understand what was going on. Never did, and we never spoke about it once, even on the day I had the row with my 'brother' Lucas and he stormed out, never to be seen again by me, Mum or Dad. Then it was too late. I'll tell you more on another occasion. She heard every word I said to Lucas, but she chose not to hear them. As for Dad, he just kept saying 'I never knew, I never knew'. I saw our war-time lodger with a hand up her skirt and in bed with my mum enough times to know what was going on, even though I was only five or six years of age at the time. The lodger, Ted, came to me too. 'I'm going to make you feel nice, but it's our secret'. And true to his word, he always did. He did it with Mum, so that made it OK. He left before Dad came back, but I can't remember when.

She has died without saying 'sorry' to me or Lucas, but what I can't forgive is what she did to Dad after my outburst. She went out and bought separate beds and made Dad sleep in my old room on his own. The one thing I never saw her do was kiss the lodger, but neither did I ever see her kiss Dad. Tyrone was the first to know, later Mabs, my closest friend, and Hope, my oldest friend. I told my kids quite by chance over a long Sunday lunch and after too much to drink. My mum never said a word. A lifetime it's taken to get this far and it's not over yet.

I'm too tired to think. Poor Joe, I could do with him now. Tomorrow, Mabs and I are going to 'No.55' ― which Mum and Dad bought when they left the rented house in Wembley and moved to Birmingham in 1954 after Dad left the RAF. We thought about staying there, but we're going to Mary's instead. It was once a b&b on the Ladypool Road, now it's a 'boutique hotel' with eight rooms and food to die for. Liz has never been family as far as I am concerned (I know the kids think different), but her finding Mum has changed my mind. By the time I write again the funeral will have come and gone. I'll let you know what happens. I can't get Dad out of my mind. It's like he's died again.

Reading this, being dead has already turned my mother into 'Mum' and I'm liking her more already. Maybe this urge to write down my feelings will pass, but right now it's helping.

It must be later than I think because Mabs has just had her mid-night pee and padded into the living room to tell me it's one o'clock.

And there the first entry ends. I really must ask Mabs about the notebooks. The writer in me knows when to stop. The notebooks aren't going anywhere, so I will come back to them as and when I can. Now it's my turn to be called to bed. Rod reminding me I have a 6am start tomorrow.

Grandma's second entry is dated 17 November 2011 and I feel somehow close to it, probably because I took them all to New Street Station to catch the train to York. Rod came to. We met six months before and moved in together a few weeks later. This was the first time he had met anyone apart from Nanna, Grandad and Liz. Grandma must have started on this not long after we blew kisses at one another as the train pulled away.

The editor in me wants to correct mistakes I see in order to reduce any confusion you may have as you try to get to grips with names and events, but as Rod says, it's her memoir, not mine, and we have no idea who she was writing for. Mabs knows about the notebooks and says Grandma sometimes read bits to her. What I didn't know was that Grandma was involved with a reminiscence group which met in Scarborough town library (and still does), every Wednesday morning. She kept that quiet. I'm planning to go along and introduce myself. I'd like to know more, but that's in the future. Right now though, I'm sure you're more interested in what Grandma, better known to the world as Isla Goodchild, wrote (the headings by the way are mine. All she did was write a date before she began writing):

We’re on the last leg now and nearly home. We left Birmingham after lunch and arrived in York late, so we're on the 4.30 to Scarborough. It's been a long week since I last put pen to paper. Sitting here on the train, with Joe and Mabs asleep, you'd think the chug of the engine, which sounds like an old London bus, would keep them awake. In fact it does exactly the opposite. The journey home has been momentous for quite different reasons. I won't be making this journey to see my mother again, and Mabs and I have asked Joe if he’d like to move in with us. The look of disbelief which came across his face was answer enough. It was settled without another word being said.

In the end my mother went quietly. There was no funeral as such. She was forever saying 'If you can't be bothered now, then don't make a fuss when I've gone'. Over dinner at Mary's, the family agreed to have her cremated privately. I'm sure she was happy just knowing that she was being looked after by the Co-op and that the kids would eventually get the divi. She left what she had, the house and her savings (she was always careful with money), to the grand-kids, with half in trust for ten years just in case my brother Lucas should resurface and have kids of his own. If he doesn't, then the balance of the estate will be shared out between my four.

Instead of a funeral, we all gathered at no.55 and, much to my surprise, we filled the through lounge. In the end, there were about twenty of us, including some of the neighbours. Hope and Willy came up from Swindon and Jack came down from Elgin and is staying another week. He says he’s coming to see me before he goes back. We shall see.

Tyrone and Liz came too. In truth, they saw more of my mother than I did and it was Liz, with Ellie, who found her dead on the kitchen floor. I made my long overdue peace with Liz. It's been forty years in the coming, but she made it seem as if we’d been friends for ever. Thinking about it, I just avoided Liz, I was never at war with her. I suspect I’ve always understood why Tyrone and the rest of the family love her. It’s funny the things we know, but refuse to accept. Me and Liz is a story for another day.

Where was I? Oh yes, at no.55. My eldest grand-daughter Angel took the lead and said a few words about her 'Nanna' and 'Pops' (when the grand-kids were little they couldn't grasp the fact that they had grandparents and great-grandparents and came up with 'nanna' and 'pops' to distinguish my parents from me and Tyrone ― they call us 'grandma' and 'grandad'). I was really pleased that Angel spoke about Dad as well, since he died four years ago. For a couple who said little to one another, they had to endure a lot of time in one another's company (yet another story for a rainy day, or is it 'tale'?).

Mabs and I went to Mary's on Saturday and booked a table the night before so the family could come and join us for dinner. Mary's on the Ladypool Road was once a b&b run by Mary, a woman I had met professionally. Generally, I avoid contact with former clients, but Mary was different insomuch as she insisted on staying in touch and telling me what happened after we had stopped working together. She was too embarrassed to tell anyone else she knew how we met, so as far as her other guests were concerned, I just happened to be staying in her b&b. It's a lot easier now. I'm rarely recognised by anyone and when I am, they're usually an 'oldie' like me. I can't remember the last time I was interviewed or on the radio. Now, what I do is much more commonplace. The occasional student contacts the Centre wanting to talk about how we got started for some coursework or a dissertation they're doing, but that it as far as it goes. And I like it that way.

Anyway, back to what I was saying about Mary's. When she retired, a young couple, Shaun and Julie, took it on. They realised that its rambling Edwardian structure over three floors, a large unused basement, a garden big enough to provide private parking and an 'outside room', plus its location a short canal walk from then up and coming Gas Street Basin development, close to Birmingham city centre, made it ideal for conference and concert goers who wanted to stay somewhere discreet. So Mary's, the boutique hotel, was born. They then invited all the former guests to stay half-price on their first two visits. Shaun is the front-man, and once the cook as well (still does on occasions) and I call him 'Mr Comptroller' because of his old-fashioned book-keeping ways. They have never accepted plastic. You pay cash for everything.

When I took over Preston's, it still had a comptroller and, out of sentiment for the old ways, I kept the title until we closed down. Sorry, a diversion I didn't intend, because the Preston's story will take a couple of tellings.

Even when I write I ramble. Hope says it's a release mechanism because, work-wise, I have always been focused. She says we can't be like that all the time, so we let go. Some would say its me just being lazy, but Hope says that's when she has her most creative thoughts and if anyone should know, it's Hope.

Shaun and Julie, now where was I? Oh yes, what they realised was that there was a potential market for good English food and comfy rooms full of 'faded elegance' and they were right. Julie does the décor, manages Mary's on a day-to-day basis and looks after the staff, who rarely ever change. There is something nice about going to a place where everything is familiar, especially the staff. In fact if you're old enough to remember 'Cheers', a TV series set in a Boston bar with the strap-line 'Where everyone knows your name', you'll know why Mabs and I love Mary's.

The day after we arrived at Mary's, Joe, turned up, 'Just in case you need a runner'. For that is what he has become at home. He drives the car when we use it, does most of the shopping and, increasingly, much of the cooking as well. We picked Joe up two years ago when we were still in the habit of cruising Scarborough at weekends in search of some company. After Joe, we did it a few more times, but then stopped. He had the measure of Mabs and me and quickly sussed what we liked. And we had his telephone number.

Joe's surname is 'Grubbochek' and the night we met, he was out alone 'celebrating' his 60th birthday, so we joined him and decided to give him a treat he wouldn't forget in a hurry. In fact, it ended up the other way round. Since then he has called us his 'sassy ladies', with 'sassy' standing for 'sexually active sixty somethings'! He isn't the best looking of men, with a long face, scarred by catching measles in his early-twenties, large ears and a nose like DeGaulle. On the night that we met him he was tidily dressed, if a bit oddly, clean shaven with a crew cut and a barrel chest, which we soon found solid to touch, big hands and short legs. No taller than Mabs or me. We're all about 5' 5''.

He became 'our guy' by default after he met Mab's grand-daughter Sally for the first time and she said 'Who's the guy and why's he in your dressing gown Gran?' After that he was 'our guy'. Joe is as English as they come. Don't be fooled by the name. His dad was a Pole in the RAF and his mum was from Wales. They met at a Polish airfield in Kent during the war. They ended up in Bedford, where Joe was born. He met Mary (who he married when he was nineteen), at school before becoming an apprentice coach builder ― which is how he came to be in Scarborough. He got the chance of a foreman's job at Burlington's, who used to build luxury coaches, but now build 'nipper buses' for estate work and country services. I know all this because Joe has told me a hundred times.

Anyway, Joe and Mary lived happily enough in Scarborough until she and their son drowned, when the ferry they were on sank off the coast of Greece. He wasn't there at the time and from what some of his friends have told us, it took a good few years before he picked himself up. He stayed at Burlington's and was pensioned off as suffering from 'mental fatigue' when he was 56. In fact, he actually lived quite close to us, in a small terraced house off Auborough Street.

One thing for sure. When we met Joe he was a loner. What friends he had were those who made the effort. He never did. They invited him around for Christmas and the occasional drink, but that was the extent of it, until we all met up in the Rose and Crown on Cross Street, not far from where we live on Newborough. That night he told us 'I've waited all my life for this… I never it expected it to happen on my 60th birthday!' We all lay there, laughing our socks off.

Since then I have changed his dress sense. Taken charge so to speak. Like me, he's now a little understated. Mabs calls Joe her 'Coco Chanel man'. The morning after we first met, I remember Mabs saying to him 'Where did all that come from?' and he replied 'I've been storing it up for the last ten years and then you came along, that's what!' I can see him now, in the living room, one foot on a chair, in his vest, pants, with one sock on and another in his hand. Mabs's face was a picture of puzzlement and I could see the cogs of her brain whirring and I knew she was thinking exactly the same thing as me ― 'Has this man really not had sex for ten years?'. 'Do you mean that?' Joe looked at me and said 'You know what, your friend's fucking Miriam Margolyes on acid, that's what', followed by 'Christ, Suzie. I've gotta go, can I come back?'

Suzie turned out to be his cat and when we invited Joe to move in, his first words were 'Suzie too?' So now we have a cat. Mum dies and within days I find myself living with a man for the fourth time in my life: Dad, Tyrone, my Gerry and now Joe. All different in so many ways, but at 72 I consider myself lucky that I still have two men to love. My son Tom doesn't really count in the same kind of way. Emotionally, I've never needed him and from an early age it was his dad that he went to. He left school at sixteen because he wanted to work with Tyrone and still does. Today, they're more like brothers and that's what some people think when they first see them.

I love this train journey when its light, especially when I'm going home. The rolling Yorkshire countryside, the viaducts which give fantastic views deep into this ancient, scarred, landscape, for that it what it is. Every bit man made and still lovely to behold. And along the way there is Malton Station, where the train stops over for five minutes to give passengers the chance to get a cup of tea or coffee, but not any more. Tea that is, but the train still stops. The older ones were better. Then, the trains used to smell of moquette and diesel and there was enough room to collapse into a seat. Not any more.

The one thing about having a 'senior' railcard is that we can afford to travel first class, so we have more legroom. But now we're chugging along with little to see but my own reflection and the lights of an occasional farmhouse. It's just gone five and dark out there and now I can see two of the three other people in our carriage getting their things together. I don't know why. Scarborough is the end of line. And for me, like countless other folk, this is 'the best journey in the world'. I'm going home.

Joe and Mabs are stirring. The screech of the wheels on the curve where we join the Hull line about five minutes from the station will wake them for sure. They have slept like babies since we left York. I'll suggest to Joe that he goes home and collects Suzie and that we start the rest of our lives straight away. At our age, there's no time to waste!

I must remember to phone Alan, my business partner, tomorrow and play catch-up. I'm sure he mentioned a talk at some granny event about 'sex in the afterlife'. God bless U3A.

I met Alan for the first and only time at Grandma's funeral. Alan Burcher was a notorious figure in the 1970s and 80s. He has a file all to himself in the news archive and got involved with Grandma professionally. No hint of anything intimate. When she died her half of the Couples Therapy Centre died with her. He's another 'must see' person.

Part 3 – Christmas

This is the third entry in Grandma's 1st notebook, dated 24 November 2011. It's also the first time she references who someone is. Perhaps she is beginning to see what she writes as life history.

There's no shopping, no cooking, washing-up or bother with family and relatives when you have Christmas dinner out. Everyone is on their best behaviour and tantrums are few. The cost may be high, but it's worth every penny.

My mother never helped. As a kid, I used to dread Christmas. It was one long moan for my mother from beginning to end, right through from October to February. Mother's mum, my nan, did her best and would chide her in a way that only mothers can. No, for my mother it was always 'a palaver'.

How I wanted Christmas away from her, but it never happened. I had endure sixty-five of them. I used to make sure that I sat as far away from her as I could wherever we were. There would always be that moment. You know the one, when a room or a place is full of hubbub and, for a split second, all goes quiet, as if every voice in the room has synchronised ― except for one that would rise above the crowd. It would always be my mother complaining about something.

Perhaps that's why I got together with Tyrone. On our second date in middle of the summer he apologised that he wouldn't be about during December, as he would be working flat out day and night. He was a waiter, so I assumed he meant the Le Hen Bistro, where he worked. Without thinking I replied ‘That's OK. I'll come and have dinner at the Bistro’. He looked at me and said 'Really?'

'Yes, that's that settled… now what are we having?' and I went back to the menu.

What I didn't tell Tyrone at the time was that I had already made up my mind that I was going to bring my family, what there was of it then. But then neither did he tell me at the time that our visit to 'The Little Frog' restaurant in the Jewellery Quarter wasn't because he wanted to show me 'a good time', it was because he was checking out a new competitor for his boss.

That first Christmas with Tyrone was wonderful, By then we were a proper item and with him working every Christmas it just seemed logical to book a table and join him. After we divorced, the arrangement continued. Liz, his new partner, worked alongside him and from the age of thirteen, Tom was always helping his Dad in some way.

I can’t say that I enjoyed it, but everyone else did. They all saw me as the reason why Tyrone ended up with Liz. After coming to Scarborough and moving in with Mabs, I took the opportunity to end 'the tradition' which had continued even when my Gerry arrived on the scene.

There have been a few half-hearted invites from Ellie my daughter to re-join, but I've always said 'no'. They mean well, but I've really enjoyed being just being with Mabs and, of late, Joe as well. This year though, we look set for an 'invasion' of sorts.

First, it was Mab's fifty year old daughter Marcia who invited herself. Then Angel my grand-daughter and Rod. It seems she’s has fallen out with her mum Lily (who is married to my son Tom). Marcia is on the rebound from a short-lived affair with a man who works in the same building as she does, but for another company. I've known Marcia for ever and she has always had a problem with 'commitment' ― you know the sort ― the one in a relationship who given the slightest sign by the other party that they're interested in more than sex finds an excuse to end the relationship.

Suzi the cat (remember? She came with Joe) is the same. She comes on your lap and you think, 'She seems to be staying longer this time'. Then she's up and off. Then stops, turns around, hoists one of her back legs the air, looks at you and sets about washing her bum. Always the same and so it is Marcia and men.

I love Marcia and enjoy her company. She looks like her mum did at fifty. Round and voluptuous, her cleavage is always on show and she wears bras which are three sizes too small so that her bosoms hang out, like a beer drinker's belly. She has close cropped hair bleached white, with striking black eyebrows over azure eyes and full lips always painted the brightest of reds. Most noticeable though is that fact that for a curvaceous woman she still has a neck. She is witty and loud, intelligent and assertive. Ideally suited to running an engineering design outfit in what is otherwise still a man's world. How this came about is a story in itself.

Marcia readily admits to the commitment thing and says all the time that she would love to settle down with one guy ('guy' isn't a word which comes naturally to me), but she has a bedroom full of mirrors and this is usually enough to ensure there's no second time. Me? I like my privacy. This may come as a surprise to those who only know me because of my job, but thankfully I am becoming less well known by the day and that suits me down to the ground (which reminds me, I must tell Alan, my business partner, that there will be no more talks. I’m going to retire. I really really am).

My grand-daughter Angel has finally got a man. Rod seems nice enough. I think she’s been so busy at the BBC since leaving university that men have been a low priority for her. Going to Manchester as part of the BBC's great move north and buying a 9th floor flat (she says 'apartment') overlooking Salford Docks or what remains of them has obviously been a good thing. She's the only other family member in The Party and she is very much into current affairs. I can see her eventually going into politics. She has all the right contacts.

Thinking about it, the move may be at the root of her and Lily falling out. Her mum didn't mind her being in London, but Manchester is enemy territory as far as any Brummie’s concerned and Lily is one of those through and through. Angel's a great talker, as she showed at mother's funeral.

One thing is for sure, Christmas in Scarborough this year won't be dull. Everything is being bought in, so that Joe has a minimal amount of work to do on the day. With five ladies to look after, he is going to love every minute!

Grandma says nothing more about Christmas 2011 in her notebooks. I remember it well and went again in 2013. In 2012 I spent Christmas with Rod’s family in Nottingham. I never really noticed that she sat as far away from Nanna as she says, but thinking about, she did. She was a contradiction in many ways, a champion of sexual liberation whilst openly vulgar in private when the mood took her. In another notebook Grandma writes about this side of herself, but that's a little way off if I stick to my plan to publish them in date order.

I see Mabs when I can, usually to ask her questions now that I’m reading the notebooks. She clearly likes the opportunity to talk about Grandma, often telling me stories of her own. If I do anything with the notes, I might try and add a few reminiscences from Mabs and Hope, perhaps Alan as well. Maybe Grandad. She was seventeen when they met and they married on her eighteenth birthday. She writes at length about about being a teenager in the 1950s. Right now my intention is show the stories which mention names (they all do) to those named for their permission to use as they are. By the way, Grandma was right about me. No editing, no changing. I wonder what Marcia will say when I ask her?