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I‘m lucky that one of my top people ever was/is related to me (surprise!). My mother’s father; or ‘Bampa’ as we called him. Staunchly Labour-supporting (from the South-Wales old guard), a Union champ, clipboard-wielder like no other. (After he died, my mum was delighted to find a little strip of paper amongst his things bearing the legend Cledwyn Jones: retired, but still active. And, oh yes, he was.) His vade mecum was The Vest Pocket Chairman, published by the Fabian Society (process and systems being the friend of the worker). I loved my granddad in the way that is delightfully possible if you’re lucky enough to have family close-by; they are so comforting and familiar. Bampa always had warm hands (excellent for a cold morsel like me) – and that was funny, because he also had a warm heart. He also always had a little packet of sweets on him (one of our many bondings was our jointly-held passion for black, hard-boiled, sort-of-licorice-type ones that repulsed everyone else. They made your tongue go blue-black, like the bible in Under Milk Wood). He was given a pot of Nivea every Christmas (for his alabaster skin, his adoring sisters would say).

Bampa’s own father was a choir-master, leading the singing at the factory and indeed Bampa had a beautiful singing voice, low and rich and bass – perhaps he didn’t reach quite the timbre of Paul Robeson, but he liked his style and shared his politics. Bampa certainly inherited some of that sense of leadership (or bossiness); he loved ‘an occasion’ and was the very best supporter ever of whatever amateurish displays we put on as kids. Yes, the Christmas Concert was a line up of cousins and tipsy aunts singing ‘Show Business’ or quietly steeling nerves in the wings (my parents’ hallway) for a piano recital (grade 2 piano exercises never sounded so good, or bad) – but Bampa brushed off the black tie and prepared to act as MC without missing a beat. (After he died, his sister told me that when the children in Church Village found a dead mouse, or frog, or even a pet, they’d bring it round to Cled and he would gather them together and lead a little funeral service. In Welsh. I wish I’d known this when he was alive.)

This year I’ve thought even more about Bampa than usual (which is always quite a lot, actually) because my luck has struck again. I got to marry a man who, in fact, holds a candle to him for general heroism. Also zealous for the Left, furious at injustice, alight with flames of passion (a resonant phrase of Bampa’s, spluttered regularly during the Thatcher years). A man whose every password is some version of ‘Fabian’ (hope that isn’t a security breach.) So it makes sense that this Summer my mum shipped up to us in Glasgow the Bardic chair that I inherited from Bampa, who’d inherited from his father, who’d won it in the Inter-Factories Eisteddford in 1944, so that this chair could take up residence in the hallway in the flat we now share together. To mark this, and to bind together these two lovely men, I made this cushion to go on the chair, tapestried with a design inspired by the cover of The Partisan Reader, a collection issued in 1944 that gathered essays from the previous ten years of the Left-wing intellectual journal, The Partisan Review (with which the doglet’s co-carer is especially familiar). I mapped the cover onto graph-paper to make a pattern and used a mid-century-type-yellow shade of woolen yarn, backing it with cream cotton. It took ages and ages and ages to do, and almost tried my patience to distraction. But I got there, remembering the tireless purposefulness of my grandfather and now my husband, and I’m very happy to see it there every time we walk by (even if that often involves stubbing your toe on the heavy wood). I think Bampa would be happy about its new home, and apparel.