My Gran is close to tears.

It's Christmas Day and my Gran is close to tears. I've just poured her a beer and taken it to her in the kitchen. "Your Grandad use to do that every year at exactly this time she says", abandoning a packet of 'Cadbury's Smash' and looking straight at me through the steam from the sprout pan. "I know", I say. "You've told us every year since he died in 1959". If you want to know what unconditional love looks like you don't have to do a weekend workshop at a posh country retreat, just come and meet my Gran. Well, you can't actually, this is 1969 and she'll die soon. And she's not black either, these are just some pictures of mine that remind me of her loving vibe."I hate having cancer", she says, with a pained expression on her face. "It means I can't be me. Every year I've done roast potatoes but we'll just have to have Smash this year.""Let me peel some spuds now", I say, but she has a plan about how to serve it all up 'piping hot' and on time. "Go and lay the table if you want to help" she says, and ushers me out of her kitchen.Nine years earlier, way back in 1960, my Gran has invited Uncle Ernie to have Christmas lunch with us. He's come all the way from Bognor where he is Headmaster of a primary school. "And I've brought my cane with me," he announces to me and my brothers, "So you'd better be on your best behaviour".Uncle Ernie has a pointed nose, slicked back hair and he wears thick rimmed glasses. A kind of nervy Brylcreamed raven. While my elder brothers take his threat with a pinch of salt I'm terrified. I don't even know what my best behaviour is. However, I soon find out as, once all twelve of us are gathered around the table, there is a slight kerfuffle between me and Bobby and Uncle Ernie gives me a beady stare. "This is your first warning," he says, with menace. On reflection I think he's probably play-acting to the adults, but my six year old mind reads it as a direct threat.Ten seconds later I pretend to slide off my chair and fall under the table. "I'll be safe here", I think. "He can't stay forever".If there were two of us we could set up a chant of, "We shall not be moved", but there's just me. Solo and silent.After various offers of help which turn into variations of, "Don't be silly" it's pretty clear to everyone I'm here for duration. I'm happy enough to be honest, I know all these 'ankles-socks-and-polished-shoes'. Their forest of familiarity is fast becoming my new 'comfort zone' like 'sex-and-drugs-and-rock-and-roll' will be in a few years time."I know what will get him out", says my Gran. She hurries off and comes back with a tray laid out with brand new place mats from Woolworths that I picked out myself, and wrapped in Christmas paper, and proudly gave to her this morning.I know. Wouldn't it be great if this works and everything is resolved? Not bloody likely. Not until 'The Bognor Sadist' is banished from our house. D'you think I'd fall for a cheap trick like that?Here in 2023 I sometimes think adults don't understand children at all. Six year olds have complex inner lives with a sophisticated set of survival strategies. "Why have you never brought me a beer before then?" asks my Gran as we're washing up after dinner. "I wasn't old enough, you have to be sixteen" I reply. "But you're only fifteen", she says. "Let me refill your glass", I reply, raising mine. "Sixteen in 1970. Happy New Year Gran."