Stars Above Us: Memories of Grandmothers
I, like everyone else, had two grandmothers. Different as night and day, yet equally devoted to me. Their names were nearly identical: Anna Phillips, my mother’s mother, and Antonia Phillips, my father’s.
Anna lived in the heart of a small town, in a spacious flat filled with books and antique furniture. My father called her a “city sophisticate” — refined, with a hint of haughtiness. She entered my life first. Antonia, on the other hand, was country-born, simple. Mum would joke, “Three years of schooling, what can you expect?” Dad would correct her: “Not three, she finished seven!” She moved in with us when I started year six.
When I was seven, Anna fell seriously ill. Mum quit her job and moved in to care for her. Dad and I stayed in our tiny flat, bought with savings from my grandfather, a university professor. At first, it was fun—Dad smoked indoors, and I stayed up late watching telly. But soon, we grew bored. Dad tired of cooking; I tired of eating bangers. In the end, we joined them. We thought it temporary, but stayed forever—one salary wasn’t enough, and we rented out our flat.
While Anna was ill, I tiptoed around. Her flat was a mystery: dark cupboards, towering wardrobes, heavy curtains I hid behind for hours. But sometimes I went too far.
“Get this little ruffian out of here!” she’d shout. “Why isn’t he being raised properly?”
“Well, raise him yourself,” Dad would snap.
“And I will!” she’d threaten, then immediately stroke my hair with surprising tenderness.
And she did. I started reception, and Anna decided to teach me music, insisting I had perfect pitch.
“At least he’ll stop tearing about like a wild thing,” she muttered.
I plodded through scales on the piano, counting the minutes. Dad, meanwhile, channelled my energy elsewhere—he signed me up for boxing.
“You’re ruining the boy!” Anna fumed. “He’s got talent, and you—”
“Did you ask if he even wants your music?” Dad shot back.
I didn’t want music or boxing. I didn’t know what I wanted.
When Anna recovered, Mum went back to work, and I stayed “with Gran.” That’s how I finished year one. Summer became a battlefield—my parents debated where to send me so Anna could rest. After endless arguments, I was packed off to the countryside, to Antonia.
I was terrified. Mum warned of her “rustic ways,” Anna of “filthy village life”—greasy food, rivers where I’d drown, poisonous mushrooms, wolves in the woods. But the village was magic. Fields, ponds, dark forests on the horizon. Chickens, geese, cows—things I’d only seen in books. Local lads, at Antonia’s request, took me under their wing. My carefully folded socks gathered dust—everyone ran barefoot, unbothered by mud or cowpats.
Antonia was Anna’s opposite. Gentle, with a kind smile, she looked at me with such love it stole my breath. Short, round-faced, dimpled, she smelled of fresh bread and milk. “My little chick, so thin,” she’d murmur, hugging me. The food was simple but glorious: warm milk at dawn, eggs with bacon, potato cakes with sour cream, oven-fresh pies. I drank milk I’d hated in town and fell asleep, content.
The countryside was freedom. I fished with the boys, picked berries, bathed in the sauna where men slapped me with birch branches. Evenings, Antonia and I sat on the porch, swatting midges. She sang old songs, told fairy tales and war stories. The worst—she’d lost four children to hunger and illness. I clung to her, whispering that I loved her and would never leave.
Summer vanished like a dream. At goodbye, Antonia wept, begging forgiveness. I swore I’d return, but next year, I went to camp. She wrote letters—scrawled, misspelled, full of love: “Are you eating enough?” I tried to reply, but words failed me. I raged at my parents, at Anna, picturing Antonia alone on the porch, humming “The Birch Tree in the Meadow.”
Then, news: Antonia was coming to us! The farm had collapsed, her house crumbling. I cheered, “Now I’ve got two grannies!” Mum fretted: “How will we manage?” Dad just grinned: “At least we’ll eat properly.”
Antonia arrived, sorrowful, apologetic.
“Enough gloom!” Anna chided. “We’ll live out what’s left.”
“Forgive me, coming here a burden,” Antonia wept.
“Burden? There’s room for all,” Anna soothed.
They put Antonia in my room—I was thrilled but hid it to spare Anna’s feelings. Oddly, the grannies bonded. Anna, though “a right tartar” (Dad’s words), softened. They sipped tea, dissolving humbugs, bickered warmly. When Antonia baked pies, Anna grumbled about cholesterol—then sneaked them to her room. We all knew, but pretended not to.
Anna teased Antonia: “Phillips, chop off those rat’s tails, you’re not in the sticks now!”
“Since when do old women crop their hair?” Antonia retorted, braiding her thin plait.
Sometimes they shared sherry.
“Just a nip, Phillips?” Anna offered.
“Go on, then,” Antonia agreed.
After, they cackled over jokes about age. One stuck with me:
“What’s your name? I’ve forgotten.”
“Is it urgent?” And they’d howl.
They forever lost glasses, keys, notebooks. “Phillips, why did I come in here?” Anna would ask, and I’d laugh, loving them fiercely.
Under their watch, I finished school, music lessons, earned my boxing grade. Healthy, well-fed, I went to uni. Then trouble—girls fancied me, but I was clueless. Once, thinking the grannies out, I brought home a classmate. We’d barely settled when they bustled in, gasped, fled to the kitchen. The girl bolted.
“Your sweetheart?” Antonia asked.
“He’s got sweethearts in every lecture hall!” Anna snorted.
They scolded me, warned of “scheming minxes,” but praised one—Kate from next door.
“Kate’s a gem,” Antonia insisted.
“Pretty, but a bit plain,” Anna demurred.
“Plain? Those who know, see,” Antonia countered.
Spring came, and Antonia died. Quietly, suddenly—she gasped and slumped. Ambulances, chaos, the wake. That night, I stepped outside. From the dark, Kate appeared, bin bag in hand.
“Your gran’s gone?” she asked.
“Yeah. Come tomorrow, for the gathering.”
“I will,” she nodded. “You’re lucky—still have your other gran, your parents. I’ve just Mum.”
In the streetlamp’s glow, I studied her. She blushed, but I thought, “She’s right. She’s really something.”
Back inside, I found Anna. She smoothed a lace handkerchief, whispering:
“I’ll be along soon, Tony. Save me a seat. We’ll mind them together.”
I hugged her and bawled like a child.
“Don’t weep, love. We’re all on the same train, just getting off at different stops,” she comforted, echoing Antonia.
Anna left us a year later. The flat felt hollow; even redecorating couldn’t warm it. I noticed Kate properly then. The grannies had seen what I’d missed.
Kate sat beside me, quiet.
“Tired?” she asked.
“Thinking of the grans. They liked you first, called you treasure.”
“We’ll see if they were right,” she laughed, resting her head on my shoulder.
I looked up at the stars. They winked, and I knew—my grannies watched us from above, smiling among them.
