Coming Clean - Living with OCD. Hayley Leitch

      STRETCHING OUT MY feet and legs, I used all my might to push my body upwards. Arching my back and dipping my head down, I did it again and again until I’d gained a little momentum. The chain of the swing was old and rusty so it took a little effort but, after four or five attempts, I suddenly began to rock back and forth until finally I was airborne. My skirt billowed out like a small white balloon and my lace socks shivered against the cool breeze but now I was sailing through the air like a bird.

      ‘Look everyone, I’m doing it. Quick!’ I shouted back towards the house. The swing was situated just outside the backdoor, so everyone heard.

      ‘I’m doing it! I’m doing it all on my own. I’m swinging all by myself!’ I called.

      Even though the house was bursting with both adults and children, my Auntie Kathy came out first followed closely behind by Mum and Nanny Rose. Soon, all three were cheering me on.

      ‘Clever girl, Hayley,’ Nana grinned, wiping her fingers against the tea towel which she’d tucked into the top of her skirt. She lifted her hands and clapped wildly.

      ‘Look Steve, Hayley’s swinging all by herself!’ Nanny Rose called to Dad.

      Moments later he appeared and grinned as he watched. Soon quite a crowd had built up as extended family members queued along the back of Nanny Rose’s house to watch me on the swing. I felt proud – proud that I’d finally managed to do it after months of trying – but most of all, I was proud that everyone had seen. In fact, I was so pleased with myself that I stayed on the swing until Nana called us inside for Sunday dinner. As usual, the house was a hive of activity, like a busy ship, with Nanny Rose at the helm.

      ‘You take the plates,’ I heard her say as I ran in through the door. I turned to the side as she handed a stack of them over to my aunt. ‘Mind now,’ she warned, as though my aunt was still a child, ‘they’re a little hot.’

      Auntie Kathy nodded and dutifully lined them up along the kitchen worktop, counting them out as she went – seven plates for seven hungry grandchildren.

      ‘Bert, Bert,’ Nana called to my granddad, who was snoozing in his armchair. ‘The lamb needs carving. Hurry up, the kids are hungry.’

      Granddad Bert peeled himself up out of the chair and strolled over to the kitchen. Seconds later, I heard the tell-tale whizz of the electric carving knife as it slid and buzzed its way through the huge succulent meat joint. The delicious aroma of lamb filled the air and made my stomach ache with hunger. I went straight over to the sink to wash my hands with my sister Lauren and our five cousins. We were all starving.

      My baby sister Zara was asleep in her pushchair, tucked away in a corner of the dining room. I ran past her and took my usual place at the table. The crisp white cloth had been ironed to within an inch of its life. It was so flat that you could’ve easily turned a penny on its edge and rolled it clean across the cloth without it faltering. Silver cutlery had been polished and was sparkling, positioned in neat little lines for each child. The knives shone like small mirrors as they reflected the sunlight peeking in through the large back window. Everything was so clean, just how Nanny Rose liked it. Even though there were twice as many adults as kids, Nana insisted her grandchildren sat down to eat first. Every Sunday, everyone from the family including aunts, uncles and cousins would congregate at Nanny Rose’s house. Sunday wasn’t Sunday if we didn’t go to Nanny Rose’s.

      Rose was my dad’s mother but she was also the beating heart of the family. She was a tall woman, standing at 5 feet 8 inches in stocking feet so, to a young child like me, she looked like a giant. Every Sunday she wore the same thing, a loose navy skirt and a white top, but she always kept her trademark white tea-towel tucked into the waistband of her skirt. She also kept a paper tissue, which she folded neatly between her wrist and her chunky gold bangle, in case of emergencies. Sometimes, when the heat of the kitchen became too much, she’d use it to dab her forehead. Nana had a passion for gold jewellery – the chunkier the better. I’d once been told she was the granddaughter of a Romany gypsy. Afterwards I’d spend hours picturing her as a little girl, travelling from town to town, sitting on a horse-drawn caravan selling pegs and lace. With her mystical features, short black curly hair, olive skin and her love of trinkets and crystal, Nanny Rose was the most fascinating woman I knew. Her small home was an absolute treasure trove to a four-year-old girl like me and I’d sit for hours, wide-eyed, staring into tall glass cabinets, mesmerised by all the pretty things inside. Everything was so clean and beautiful and although it was cluttered, everything had its place. From the flawless porcelain dolls and bone china figures, to the miniature Shire horse frozen in time, pulling an ornamental wooden cart along the hearth of the fireplace.

      Nanny Rose lived with Granddad Bert in a three-bedroom terraced house in Tooting, London. From the outside, the house looked exactly the same as the other red-brick terraces in the street but once you pushed open the front door, it was like stepping into another world. Like a secret cave buried in a grey and colourless council estate, her