Laura Dockrill shares the inspiration for her strength

My Nanna was not just a grandparent but a true friend. My relationship with her rang proudly, like a joyful bell throughout my childhood and into my adult life. It was a bond like no other.

From a young age, my younger sister, Daisy, and I would sleep on her fold-out sofa bed. She’d tuck the sheets in so tight we’d be mummified! We loved this action, the feeling of being ‘tucked in.’ It was so fussy, over the top, Victorian even, yet so loving. It always ended in giggling until tears rolled down our faces—I can hear my Nanna’s laugh now, sprinkling like a silver fountain. We so looked forward to these weekends with her. She lived a 2-hour drive from us, a cosy bubble forever away from the chaos of London.

This time with her was sacred. We were so looked after – spoiled rotten with love and affection. I remember being cuddled, fed her old-fashioned lemon barely water and shortbread, singing away in bubble-baths, talcum powder, and being wrapped in huge, thick, custard-coloured towels. We were gifted small, thoughtful presents, rarely dolls or toys. She knew us as the young women we were becoming and would lean into our interests. Instead, we received notebooks, music and paint sets. Nanna bought me my first adult poetry book when I was age 11, and it was sitting gobsmacked on Nanna’s living room floor that I first watched the iconic film Labyrinth. Nanna lived as a solo, independent woman. Her famous saying was, “I may be alone but I’m never lonely.” And we believed her. She was leading by example. My sister and I were lucky to be navigated by somebody so confident in themselves and their own company—who dressed up so glamorously just for herself, or indulged defiantly in blissful pyjama-days spent in bed reading the papers with coffee, days where she’d brag that she wouldn’t even be taking a shower!

She had heaps of female friends, a large social life and was a total culture vulture, her diary crammed with lunches and tickets for the theatre or ballet. She adored animals and would love to remind us how much she preferred them over us humans. Sometimes I wished I were a poodle to sit on her lap all day. She used her humble pension to support everything from dog charities to a donkey orphanage and would feed toast to a seagull she’d named Colin every morning. Her flat was all her, covered in her small, significant pleasures, treasured trinkets, artworks and ornaments from her travels, photos of her family, and, of course, books. Books were something we had in common and we would always swap recommendations. Her home was full of the things she loved, which made up who she was.

It was in my teens that I realised how truly special and unique our friendship was. We began letter writing and Nanna would fill pages with stories of her own parents and travels. She was a brilliant writer—blisteringly funny, hot-chocolate warm and open-hearted. She had an amazing ability to laugh at herself and was unafraid to cry. In these letters, my Nanna’s true personality shone. I’d learn so much about her in these wild tales of adventures from her youth, where Nanna was not the grey-haired grandma I knew and loved but curious, rebellious and mischievous! She was only small but she was mighty—a force of a woman who had not gone without her own experiences off loss, heartache, rejection, pain and illness. I’m so grateful she lived long enough to share these parts of herself with me. That I got to know her through my own adult eyes.

All through my teen-hood, we kept up our friendship. I’d often skip weekend parties with friends to stay with her; my Nanna loved TV thrillers! I’d be shielding my eyes and she’d be cackling away eating popcorn. We’d visit a museum. Go for lunch. As the years went on, this her real power and wisdom began to reveal itself. Nanna was a comrade, a rock, a safe place, a touchstone. Someone I could truly talk to. It was like following a path in the wilderness that had already been walked. Nanna was there, holding my hand, telling me how to cross the streams of life, showing me which berries were poisonous, and never forgetting to have fun and roll down the hills! This type of relationship for a young person trying to find their place in the world is invaluable. I honestly could never imagine a life without her. She was a constant.

A few years ago, my Nanna’s health began to decline. She began to have unexpected falls. We’d laugh at first, blaming them the high heels she wore on the cobbled streets of Chichester, until she was moved to a care home. Giving up her flat was heart-breaking for Nanna—especially as it threatened her independence. She felt she could no longer have her freedom, no longer be curious or explore. There comes a transition here, where the elder you’ve spent your entire life looking up to becomes vulnerable. But my Nanna’s tenacious spirit glowed vibrantly right up until her last days.

I was writing I Am Strong Just Being Me when my Nanna died. I thought a lot about her whilst writing it. The lessons learned from our generational gap friendship by showing rather than telling, were so beautifully captured by Kip’s illustrations of a garden in full bloom. How, just like the wonder of nature, we can grow and adapt, find a way to sur-thrive in the face of challenges. And just like all living things, leave traces our ourselves in the fabric of the universe. I hope I have lots of her in me.

My heartfelt thanks to Laura Dockrill for this beautiful, personal recollection of a wonderful childhood and a very special person who shaped her world, for sharing so much of the personal inspiration that contributed to her latest book I Am Strong Just Being Me, published by Little Tiger and available from all good bookshops.