Stars Above Us: A Memory of Grandmothers
Like everyone, I had two grandmothers. As different as night and day, yet equally devoted to me. Their names were almost the same: Anne Foster, my mother’s mother, and Antonia Foster, my father’s.
Anne Foster lived in the heart of a small town, in a spacious flat filled with books and antique furniture. Father called her a “city lady”—refined, with a hint of haughtiness. She entered my life first. Antonia, on the other hand, was country-born, plainspoken. Mother would chuckle, “Only three years of schooling, what can you expect?” Father corrected her: “Not three, she finished primary!” She moved in with us when I started sixth form.
When I was seven, Anne fell gravely ill. Mother left her job to care for her, leaving Father and me in our modest flat, bought with the savings of my grandfather, a scholar. At first, we enjoyed ourselves—Father smoked indoors, and I stayed up late watching telly. But soon, boredom set in. Father grew tired of cooking, and I of eating sausages. In the end, we moved in with Granny Anne. Temporarily, we thought, but it became permanent—surviving on one wage was impossible, so we let our flat to tenants.
While Anne was unwell, I tried to be quiet as a mouse. Her flat was a mystery to me—dark cupboards, tall wardrobes, heavy curtains behind which I’d hide for hours. But sometimes, I pushed too far.
“Get this rascal out of here!” Anne would shout. “Why isn’t he being raised properly?”
“Then raise him yourself,” Father would snap.
“And I will!” she’d threaten, only to stroke my head tenderly moments later.
And she did. I started primary school, and Anne insisted on music lessons, convinced I had perfect pitch.
“At least he’ll stop tearing about like a wild thing,” she grumbled.
I slogged through scales on the piano, counting the minutes until the lesson ended. Father, meanwhile, channelled my energy elsewhere—enrolling me in wrestling.
“You’re ruining the boy!” Anne protested. “He has talent, and you—”
“Did you ever ask if he wanted your music?” Father shot back.
I wanted neither music nor wrestling. Truth be told, I hadn’t a clue what I wanted.
When Anne recovered, Mother returned to work, and I stayed in Granny’s care. So I finished primary. Summer brought fresh debates—where to send me so Anne could rest. After much discussion, I was packed off to the countryside, to Antonia.
I was terrified. Mother warned of her “village ways,” Anne of the “filthy dirt,” the greasy food, the river where I might drown, the mushrooms that could poison me, the woods where wolves lurked. But the village was a wonder. Fields, ponds, a dark forest on the horizon. Chickens, geese, cows—things I’d only seen in books. The local lads, at Antonia’s request, took me under their wing. The socks Mother had neatly packed gathered dust in my suitcase—everyone ran barefoot, heedless of mud or cow pats.
Antonia was Anne’s opposite. Gentle, with a kind smile, she looked at me with such love it stole my breath. Petite, round-faced, her cheeks creased with wrinkles and dimples, she smelled of fresh bread and milk. “My little chick, so thin,” she’d murmur, hugging me. The food was simple but delicious—warm milk at dawn, eggs fried with bacon, potato cakes with cream, pies from the oven. I drank milk, which I’d despised in town, and fell asleep, content.
Those village days were freedom. I fished with the boys, picked berries, bathed in the sauna where the men swatted me with birch branches. Evenings, Antonia and I sat on the porch, swatting midges. She sang old songs, told folktales and wartime stories. The worst—she’d lost four children to hunger and illness. I’d cling to her, whispering that I loved her and would never leave.
Summer flew by like a dream. At our parting, Antonia wept, begging forgiveness. I vowed to return, but the next year, I went to camp instead. She wrote letters—clumsy, misspelled, full of warmth: “Have you lost weight?” I tried to reply, but words failed me. I seethed at my parents, at Anne, picturing Antonia alone on her porch, humming “The Birch Tree in the Meadow.”
Then, news—Antonia was coming to live with us! The collective farm had collapsed, her house was falling apart. I shouted with joy: “Now I’ve two grandmas!” Everyone fretted. Mother sighed, “How will we manage?” Father muttered, “At least we’ll eat properly.”
Antonia arrived sorrowful, apologetic, begging pardon again.
“Enough of this moping!” Anne chided. “We’ll live as long as we’re meant.”
“Forgive me, sister, for burdening you in my old age,” Antonia wept.
“Burden? There’s room for all,” Anne soothed.
Antonia stayed in my room, though I hid my delight to spare Anne’s feelings. Oddly, the grandmothers grew close. Anne, though “a right tartar,” as Father said, softened. They sipped tea, sucking on boiled sweets, bickering fondly. When Antonia baked pies, Anne grumbled they were unhealthy—yet sneaked them to her room. We all knew but pretended not to.
Anne teased Antonia: “Foster, chop off those plaits—you’re not in the village now!”
“Since when do old women crop their hair?” Antonia retorted, braiding her thin plait.
Sometimes they shared a tot of elderflower cordial.
“Sister, a wee drop?” Anne offered.
“Go on, then,” Antonia agreed.
After a sip, they’d cackle, swapping jokes about age. One stays with me:
“What’s your name? I’ve forgotten.”
“Is it urgent?” And they’d collapse laughing.
They forever mislaid spectacles, keys, notebooks. “Foster, why did I come to the kitchen?” Anne would ask, and I’d laugh, loving them more than anything.
Under their watch, I finished school, music lessons, and earned my wrestling badge. Healthy, well-fed, I entered university. Then trouble—girls fancied me, but I hadn’t a clue what I wanted. Once, knowing the grandmothers were out, I brought home a classmate. We’d barely settled when they bustled in, gasping. They fled to the kitchen, and the girl fled altogether.
“Is that your sweetheart?” Antonia asked.
“He’s got sweethearts by the dozen at that college!” Anne snorted.
They scolded me, warning of “scheming minxes,” but praised one girl—Katie from next door.
“Katie’s pure gold,” Antonia insisted.
“Pretty, but a bit plain, no flair,” Anne demurred.
“Who needs flair? The right one’ll see past that,” Antonia argued.
In summer, Antonia died. Quietly, suddenly—a gasp, then stillness. The ambulance, the fuss, the wake. That evening, I stepped into the yard. From the dark emerged Katie, carrying a bin.
“Your gran’s gone?” she asked.
“Yes. Come tomorrow, for the wake.”
“I will,” she nodded. “You’re lucky. You’ve another gran and your parents. I’ve only Mum.”
I studied her in the lamplight. She blushed, but I thought, “She’s right—there’s something there.”
Back inside, I found Anne smoothing a lace handkerchief, whispering:
“I’ll be along soon, Toni. Save me a seat. We’ll mind them together.”
I hugged her and sobbed like a child.
“Don’t weep, lad. We all ride the same train, just hop off at different stops,” she comforted, echoing Antonia’s words.
Anne left us a year later. The flat felt hollow, renovations couldn’t warm it. I took a proper look at Katie. The grandmothers had been right—they’d seen what I’d missed.
Katie slipped in, sitting beside me.
“Tired?” she asked.
“Thinking of the grandmas. They spotted you first. Called you a treasure.”
“Time’ll tell,” she laughed, resting her head on my shoulder.
I gazed at the starry sky. The stars winked, and I knew—my two grandmas watched us from above, smiling down with them.
