Bananas for Grandma
And dont forget the bananas for Granny Nora! Only the tiny ones, mind, just how she likes them! Last time you brought back some weird, unidentified fruit! Oh, Mary! How can you be like this? Is it really so hard to do what youre asked?
Mary Elizabeth Conway, senior accountant at a big firm, mother of two spritely children and, in general, a passably happy wife, sighed, and nodded into the empty air, not stopping to think her mother couldnt actually see her. It hardly mattered Mary was absolutely certain her mum could telepathically sense exactly how her instructions were being received.
And dont just nod, but do it properly! I know what youre like! Your heads full of clouds! Mary, its about time you grew up!
Nodding for a second time seemed pointless. Mary simply said, Yes, all right, Mum! and made her polite exit.
Grow up Of course! If you say so! Forty something, after all definitely still a spring chicken.
There was still half an hour left in the workday, and Mary tried, unsuccessfully, to focus on the report in front of her. Her brain, however, was clogged with a swarm of thoughts. Most of them werent exactly uplifting. And she was a Good Girl, as Mum always said.
Our Marys a clever girl! The best girl!
That was all well and sweet, back when Mary toddled off to nursery school with frilly socks and bobbing bows. An absolute delight!
Aha. Delightful mayhem, more like, since Mum never picked up a darling daughter, but a pint-sized ruffian.
Mary! What on earth is that on your head?
A nest! Mrs Valentine said so. She told me to stand quietly in the yard so birds could fly in and lay their eggs. Got to make use of a hairstyle somehow!
And your hair ribbons?
I cant remember! Alex took one. Needed a rope for his anchor. Mum, do you know, hes got an actual boat? His dad made it! Mrs Valentine showed it to us. She filled up a washing-up bowl and floated it. It was amazing!
And the other ribbon?
Not sure where it went. Helen borrowed it and I dunno. Mum, why does the wind blow?
Mary!
What?!
Stop pestering me with silly questions! My heads splitting!
Mary would fall silent and, on the walk home, would study her mother carefully out of the corner of her eye. Was she in pain? What if her head never got better and you had to throw it out, like the eggshells Mum chucked in the bin after a fry-up?
Marys imagination was always inventive, and she rarely made it halfway home without sniffling, then sobbing in a hoarse basso, usually driving her mother up the wall.
Mary! Is this the Royal Albert Hall?
Explaining was impossible. Mary simply felt so sorry for Mum, her head, and her mood, that all she wanted to do was howl louder, just like Molly next door.
Now, Molly had been an exceptionally silly dog. Shed howl for reasons large and small, but she truly made a melodrama whenever her owner, local plumber Uncle Jim, went off on a bender. Molly would howl for days on end, making the entire block beg their parents to rehome her. Of course, the adults tutted, summoned the community officer, but Molly stayed put. She only went quiet once the day Uncle Jim finally checked out. And everyone in the block somehow knew things would never be the same.
Jim was farewelled by the whole street. He was a decent chap, always the first to help out. Just weak-willed, as Marys mum would say.
When those leaving laid flowers along the pavement, Molly just sat by the entryway, staring after them. She didnt even wag her stumpy tail when Mary, off to the dentist instead of nursery, tried to give her head a rub. Mum tugged Mary along, and, when they came back, Molly was still sitting there, not even curling her paws under, and Mary would have sworn in the proper, hand-on-belly way that Alex swore the little dog was crying.
Mum, why cant you see her tears?
Mary didnt know why that question mattered, but her Mum did. She knelt beside the dog and offered her hand with a soft, Come on, Molly Lets go inside. Hes not coming back…
Did the dog understand? Mary didnt know. When no response was forthcoming, Mum simply scooped Molly up and ordered Mary to follow.
Thats how Molly became Marys dog. She lived a long life. How old she was when Jim died, no one knew. But in the Conway family, Molly stayed for another seventeen years. Mary finished school, even got married. Never once did Molly howl again. She ate tamely, let her paws be washed, followed for walks, but never spoke. Not even at the very end, when she simply sighed, quite humanly, and closed her eyes, nosing into Marys salty palm. Mary never had another dog. Not even when her own kids begged. She could never face that again the wise, dark eyes of Molly haunting her memory.
In truth, Mary had a happy childhood. She had a mum and dad, two grandmas, a one-eared stuffed rabbit, and proper pancakes for Sunday breakfast. Granny Olives allotment plot, her dads mum, was also in the picture though Mary rarely went there with Mum. Why, she didnt know secrets were for grown-ups. The garden trips were always fun for everyone, except her own mother, though Mary couldnt have told you that as a girl.
What she loved most were seaside holidays with the other grandmother Granny Nora. Mary adored her. Unlike Granny Olive, for Granny Nora nothing was off limits shed give straight answers to any question, regularly to her daughters horror.
Oh, Mum, really! Why? Marys still little she wont understand!
Dont you remember? You were bright enough. Understood everything. Mary takes after you!
Mary would nearly wet herself laughing, watching Mums face as words failed, thinking she hardly understood half the things Granny Nora explained about where babies came from, but it was all so fascinating, she resolved to ask next time why, exactly, grownups didnt always tell children the truth.
She had good reason to wonder.
Grownups tried hard to shield Mary from the family squabbles. But, sometimes, muted arguments leaked through the bedroom door, often followed by quiet, muffled crying. Granny Olive, welcoming them at the plot, would purse her lips and look right through Marys mum. Mary didnt understand, always just dragging Mum into the kitchen to learn how to make the worlds best cherry pie.
Mum, come on! Granny will show you how to do it right, then maybe you can make it at home! Its delicious, and you dont know how!
Her mum would gently pull her hand away, shaking her head. No.
Of course, the adults kept their explanations to themselves. It was only later that Mary realised things werent simple. Becoming family on paper doesnt make you family at heart.
Her parents divorced when Mary turned ten.
The birthday party Mum threw for Mary and her friends was in full swing when the front door slammed, and, answering Marys startled look, her Mum simply said:
Well, thats that, then
Molly, realising much more than Mary did, went and pressed herself to Mums leg, comforting her with a warm, furry side. One of Marys friends shouted for her, and off she ran for the cake. When she poked her head back to hurry her mother, she saw both woman and dog standing in the hall, staring at nothing, each lost in thought. When Mary hesitantly asked, her mother collected herself, forced a smile, and said, Of course! Be right there, darling! Then she appeared in the living room with a serving tray and the cake shed fretted over all night, desperate for someone to finally appreciate her baking.
When the guests left, Mary sat beside her on the sofa and was handed a dessert spoon.
Good, isnt it? Never mind the diets, Mary! And everything else never mind! Our day will come.
What day Mum was referring to, Mary never quite worked out. Especially since Dads maintenance payments just about stretched to kitting out a growing teenager once in a blue moon. Parties became increasingly rare. Only Christmas and Marys own birthday stuck to tradition. Her mum gave up on her own celebrations entirely.
Granny Nora, unafraid of Marys listening ears, would insist her daughter should get back out there and find a new love. Mary could see Mum didnt care for these comments one bit; she always had the same answer:
Ive had enough. Thanks.
Later, Mary sometimes wondered what would have happened if her Mum had let herself recover, move on, remarry If she could have let go and allowed herself to be happy again? There were no answers, but Mary often imagined having a sibling, a Mum who laughed instead of always complaining about headaches.
The reality was, laughter had dried up for Marys mother long ago. Shed become stricter than ever, and it took all Marys efforts not to snap back at her nitpicking. As a teen she sometimes failed, but Molly would always materialise and, with the barest flash of sharp white teeth, remind Mary not to push things. Shed drop any impending drama and dash off to her room or, better yet, Granny Noras.
Molly bit hard, everyone knew that. During one spectacular quarrel, she snuck into Marys room and pressed tiny jaws round her ankle not enough to break, just enough to be memorable. The little bruises faded, but Mary understood it wasnt wise to cross those who truly knew what dogs and unruly daughters ought to do.
Many Mum-isms were explained by Granny. Shed speak plainly, fielding Marys endless questions.
What do you expect from her? Any woman would become cranky without love.
But we love her, Granny
Oh, Mary, its not the same! A woman needs to feel like a woman. Children and parents cant give that only a man can. Youll get it one day. When your Granddad died, I was only forty so young. And I had a few admirers What are you giggling about? I wasnt always wrinkly! I was once the belle of the ballroom. But I loved your Granddad! And never could fancy anyone else. Not truly Youll see, when youre married.
But Granny, Im sixteen!
So what? Your Mum was barely eighteen when she announced shed found The One and couldnt live without him. The fact he could live just fine was neither here nor there. Some would say your mum loved like a cat. But I knew she understood what she was doing. She knew itd be hard; his family never warmed to her, your father was their golden boy. She stuck it out as long as she could. All but one thing she forgave.
What?
Infidelity. Sorry to be blunt, but eventually youll hear it, so better from me. Your mum loved hard and truly, only to be criticised, told she hadnt done enough, hadnt loved enough. What more could she do? I dont tell you to hate your father what for? Everyones entitled to live as they see fit. Why waste precious time on bitterness? He chose his way and you know hes well now. Be happy for him, even if it feels odd. Youre half and half nothing you can do about it.
Mums never said a bad word about Dad.
And she never will. Shes smart. She knows hell always be your dad and you, his special girl. Why complicate it?
Does she still love him?
I think so. Thats why she wont move on.
Granny, do you think Ill ever just one, for always?
Who knows, love. All I can do is hope the one who finds you is worth that sort of devotion.
Mary met her husband, Oliver, every bit as Granny foretold. Off she dashed, nervous, to her first exam at university and collided with a tall, slightly gangly lad. She barely saw his face, just the strong hands that caught her before she nosedived, followed by a half-broken, cocky voice.
Wow, youre quick! I dont think I can keep up. Quick, give me your mobile before you fly off altogether!
She didnt give him her number, naturally, but wasnt surprised to spot him hanging about after the exam, as she triumphantly waved her mark book.
Now, have you got a moment?
They married three years later. At first they stayed with Marys mum, but even Mary knew that was a recipe for disaster.
Times werent easy. Her mum took a dim view of Oliver.
What sort of job is software developer? Staring at a computer all day, always eating. Soon youll have your own elephant!
Dont exaggerate, Mum. Are you short of sandwiches for him or something?
I just feel for you. Hell break your heart
It took Oliver nearly a decade to gain her approval, but, eventually, Marys mum pronounced him a real treasure.
By then, Mary and Oliver had a small two-bed of their own. He was off in his new office, tirelessly building his first company, and she was forever dashing about, showing properties (after all, estate agency means clocking up miles!). Their firstborn was looked after by either grandma or great-granny for which Mary gave thanks daily.
The warning signs began when Mary was expecting her second.
Mary, do you think youre the only one with things to do? Gone an hour and vanished off the face of the earth! Ive got a million things to do! Mum moaned, stirring Olivers favourite spring soup. Right, Im off! And in future, plan your time!
Mary, baffled, watched her Mum bustle in the hall, panic rising. The GP shed seen was only a block away, and the appointment took less than the agreed hour. Only, that was yesterday. Today, her Mum had pottered in at dawn, cooked for an army, and was now complaining shed been kept waiting when actually, Mary hadnt left the house at all.
Her mother flatly refused to be checked over.
No need to fuss! Im the healthiest here. You should worry more about your grandma. She needs the doctor!
Mary quietly called on her Dad, who arranged for a good GP to come round.
Im sorry, but theres not much I can offer. You need thorough investigation, but I can tell you now its not going to be simple.
Marys hands went cold as she listened. This couldnt be her mother! She was still so young! How could this be happening?
There can be lots of reasons. Will it make you feel better knowing them all? Maybe focus on minimising the impact?
Is that possible?
Medicines moving fast, but theres no cure yet. We can slow things down, support her, and buy time. Maybe in future therell be something new.
From that day, everything changed. Whether she liked it or not. Husband, children, grandma, dad yes, they were all close, but her Mum Her job was to make these days as smooth as possible. The doctor insisted, a calm, low-stress life was the best medicine.
She hated recalling how hard it was persuading her Mum to move in with them. Oliver did his bit, buying a house well before they could truly afford it.
Itll be all right. The main thing is, were all together and you can relax now.
Mary would hide her face against his shoulder, knowing relaxing had left her vocabulary permanently.
Her mother constantly forgot she lived with them, and would try to pack for home.
Mum, your rooms just down the corridor now.
Why am I in your guest room? I have my own house!
Of course, but I really need you here tomorrow to watch the boys, and Grandmas unwell, too. Please, Mum!
All right. But dont think this is forever! I have a life, you know!
Of course, Mum. I know.
And what would you know at your age, Mary?
If it hadnt been for Granny Nora, who kept an eye on her daughter, Mary wouldve lost her wits before ever learning how to cope.
Granny, does she remember anything?
Oh, but she remembers plenty, pet. Mostly things from long ago. Youd be amazed she remembers all sorts Ive forgotten. Makes me wish Id spent more time with her when she was a girl. In my day, it was nursery, school, after-club A couple of hours between work and bedtime, if we were lucky. I was never truly a mother until I had you. I raised you all myself, but your Mum Shes my regret. Id give anything for a second chance. Sometimes I think all this is happening so shell forgive us all me, your father, this mad world. She moans, she scolds, but its nothing, really. When your mum looks at me without knowing who I am, I can see shes not hurting anymore. She smiles. Terrifying, of course But lovely, too. Every mother wants their child to be happy, if only for a moment. And in those moments, I know she is shes young, well, her whole life ahead of her. Love, you, and all lifes troubles still unknown. Oh, Mary, how do we bear it?
I dont know, Granny
Mary saw what a struggle it was for her granny, losing her only child bit by bit. So many times, finding her mother sitting on the floor by Grannys armchair, Mary would quietly ask:
Shall I take her away?
No, just let them be Its only for a moment
Her granny passed away barely a year after Mary realised life could never be the same.
Look after her, Mary love. As best you can! I can’t do it anymore…
Mary would nod, biting her lip, trying not to show just how scared she was at the thought of facing everything alone.
Try not to think of her as your mum. They say, as we age, we become children again. Its true children feel with their hearts, not their heads. Go with their mood, their feelings. Please, Mary, treat her as you would a child. When despair grabs your throat, yell if you must just somewhere she cant hear! Dont scare her. And when youve screamed, remember my words and be gentle with her. Love her as much as you hope your children will one day love you. Promise?
I promise
How many times would Mary recall that talk? Too many to count. Even now.
She glanced at her watch, sighed, and reached for her bag. Right then purse, car keys, umbrella. Yes, all set. Time to collect the eldest from rugby training, swing by the school for the youngest, and then the shops. For bananas. The little ones. Just how Granny liked.
Because, when Mum saw that bunch, for some reason shed remember Granny Nora. And if you just strode down the hallway never mind the carers questioning glance opened the sitting room door, youd see the old armchair that matched nothing, but would stay right there as long as anyone remembered. And shed scold:
Mary! You could finally clean the upholstery, couldnt you? I keep saying! Did you buy the bananas? Grannys coming. She asked for them.
Of course, Mum! Sit down. Ill make you a cup of tea.
And the old chair would be filled. Thered still be time to press your cheek to loving hands. Catch that stern but gentle glance. And smile when she suddenly asked:
Mary, whats going on with your hair? Wheres your hairbrush? Bring it here, let me fix you up! Goodness, its late Time for bed! What do you want for breakfast? Porridge or pancakes?Mary would laugh softly, handing over the brush, letting her mothers careful, familiar strokes pull her hair into a tidy tail. The world would contract, just for a moment, to childhoods closeness: the tuggings softer, warmer than memory. She would breathe in the scent of tea, baking, and the faintest trace of lavender the heart-notes of home.
Outside the window dusk gathered, painting the houses gold and blue, but in their kitchen, time held its breath. Mary poured tea, sliced the sweet bananas, and carried the tray to where her mother, eyes bright with some faraway joy, waited like a girl promised a treat.
She sat at her mothers feet, arms curled around her knees, as laughter true, easy, bubbling up from somewhere deep lit the spaces between them. For a few rare minutes, there was no job she must run to, no worries about memory slipping through fingers like sand; only two souls linked by love, stronger than forgetting.
When bedtime did come, Mary tucked the blanket gently around her mothers shoulders, as once had been done for her. She bent to press a kiss to her mothers forehead, whispering so quietly the night itself had to lean close to hear:
Sleep well, Mum. Im here.
And in the dim hush, her mother, eyes soft and trusting, patted her hand.
I know, love. You always are.
And with that, Mary stood a little longer at the doorway, heart full, before switching out the light carrying both the weight and the sweetness of all the years, all the mornings still to come, and the sure knowledge that every love, like every story, begins and ends with coming home.
