Stars Above Us: Memories of Grandmothers
Like everyone else, I had two grandmothers. They were as different as night and day, yet equally devoted to me. Their names were nearly identical—Grace Margaret, my mother’s mother, and Margaret Grace, my father’s.
Grace Margaret lived in the heart of a small town, in a spacious flat filled with books and antique furniture. My father called her a “proper city lady”—refined, with just a hint of haughtiness. She was the first to enter my life. Margaret Grace, on the other hand, was a country woman, simple and unpretentious. My mother would tease, “Only went to school till she was twelve—what can you expect?” Father corrected her, “Twelve? She finished secondary!” She moved in with us when I started year seven.
When I was seven, Grace Margaret fell seriously ill. Mum quit her job to care for her, leaving Dad and me in our little flat, bought with my grandfather’s savings. At first, it was fun—Dad smoked indoors, and I stayed up late watching telly. But soon, we grew lonely. Dad got tired of cooking, and I got tired of eating beans on toast. In the end, we moved in with Grandma, just temporarily—or so we thought. But we never left. On Dad’s salary alone, we couldn’t manage, so we rented out our flat.
While Grandma was ill, I tried to stay quiet. Her place was a mystery to me—dark cupboards, towering wardrobes, heavy curtains I hid behind for hours. But sometimes, I pushed it too far.
“Get this rascal out of here!” she’d shout. “Why isn’t he being raised properly?”
“Go on, then—raise him yourself,” Dad would snap.
“And I will!” she’d threaten, only to pat my head tenderly moments later.
And she did. I started primary school, and Grandma insisted on piano lessons, swearing I had perfect pitch.
“At least he’ll stop tearing about like a wild thing,” she muttered.
I slogged through scales, counting the minutes until lessons ended. Dad, meanwhile, channelled my energy elsewhere—he signed me up for rugby.
“You’re ruining the boy!” Grandma protested. “He’s got talent, and you—”
“Did you ever ask if he wanted your music?” Dad shot back.
I didn’t want music or rugby. I didn’t know what I wanted at all.
When Grandma recovered, Mum returned to work, and I became “Grandma’s charge.” So I finished year one. Summer sparked debate—where to send me so Grandma could rest. After much arguing, they packed me off to the countryside with Margaret Grace.
I was terrified. Mum warned of her “basic schooling,” Grace Margaret of “country filth,” fatty food, rivers where I’d drown, poisonous mushrooms, and wolves lurking in the woods. But the village was magical. Fields, ponds, dark forests on the horizon. Chickens, geese, cows—everything I’d only seen in books. The local kids, at Grandma’s request, took me under their wing. My neatly folded socks stayed untouched in the suitcase—everyone ran barefoot, unbothered by mud or cow pats.
Margaret Grace was Grace’s opposite. Gentle, with a kind smile, she looked at me with such love it stole my breath. Short, round-faced, with dimpled cheeks, she smelled of fresh bread and milk. “My little sparrow, too thin,” she’d murmur, hugging me. Meals were simple but delicious—warm milk at dawn, eggs with bacon, potato cakes with sour cream, oven-fresh pies. I drank milk I’d hated in the city and fell asleep, happy.
Days there were pure freedom. I fished with the boys, picked berries, bathed in the sauna where men swatted me with birch branches. Evenings, Grandma and I sat on the porch, swatting midges. She sang old ballads, told fairy tales and war stories. The worst—she’d lost four children to hunger and illness. I clung to her, whispering I loved her and would never leave.
Summer slipped away like a dream. At goodbye, Grandma wept, apologising. I promised to return, but next summer, I went to camp instead. She wrote letters—clumsy, full of spelling mistakes, but brimming with love: “You’re not too skinny, are you?” I tried replying, but words failed me. I resented my parents, Grace Margaret, imagining Margaret sitting alone on the porch, humming “The Oak and the Ash.”
Then, news—Margaret Grace was moving in! The farm had collapsed, her house fallen to ruin. I cheered, “Now I’ve got two grandmas!” Mum fretted, “How will we manage?” Dad whispered, “At least we’ll eat properly.”
Margaret arrived sad, guilty, apologising again.
“Enough of this moping,” Grace scolded. “We’ll live as long as we’re meant.”
“Forgive me, coming here like a burden in my old age,” Margaret wept.
“Rubbish! There’s room for all,” Grace soothed.
They gave Margaret my room, which thrilled me, though I hid it to spare Grace’s feelings. Amazingly, the grandmas became friends. Grace, though “sharp as a tack” (Dad’s words), softened. They drank tea, dissolving boiled sweets, bickered fondly. When Margaret baked pies, Grace grumbled they were unhealthy—then sneaked them to her room. We all knew but said nothing, smiling.
Grace teased Margaret, “Trim those plaits—you’re not in the sticks now!”
“Since when do old women chop their hair?” Margaret retorted, braiding her thin plait.
Sometimes, they sipped homemade wine.
“Two fingers’ worth?” Grace offered.
“Go on,” Margaret agreed.
After a glass, they cackled over jokes about ageing. One I still remember:
“What’s your name again? I’ve forgotten.”
“Is it urgent?” And they’d collapse laughing.
They were always losing glasses, keys, notebooks. “Margaret, why did I come into the kitchen?” Grace would ask, and I’d laugh, loving them more than anything.
Under their watch, I finished school, music lessons, and earned my rugby stripes. Healthy, well-fed, I went to uni. Then came trouble—girls fancied me, but I didn’t know what I wanted. Once, thinking the grandmas were out, I brought a classmate home. We’d barely settled when they bustled in, gasping. They fled to the kitchen, and the girl bolted.
“Your sweetheart?” Margaret asked.
“He’s got a sweetheart in every lecture hall!” Grace snorted.
They scolded me, warned of “scheming hussies,” but praised one girl—Kate from next door.
“Kate’s gold,” Margaret insisted.
“Pretty, but plain. No flair,” Grace doubted.
“Who needs flair? The right one will see past that,” Margaret argued.
Spring came, and Margaret died. Quietly, suddenly—a gasp, then stillness. The ambulance, the fuss, the wake. That evening, I stepped into the yard. Kate emerged from the dark, bin bag in hand.
“Your grandma’s gone?” she asked.
“Yeah. Come to the wake tomorrow.”
“I will.” She nodded. “You’re lucky—you’ve still got one grandma, and your parents. I’ve only got Mum.”
I studied her in the lamplight. She blushed, but I thought, “She’s right. She’s got nothing.”
Inside, I found Grace ironing a lace handkerchief, whispering, “I’ll be along soon, Margaret. Save me a spot. We’ll mind them together.”
I hugged her and sobbed like a child.
“Don’t cry, love. We’re all headed the same way, just getting off at different stops,” she comforted, echoing Margaret’s words.
Grace died a year later. The flat felt hollow, renovations couldn’t warm it. I started noticing Kate. The grandmas were right—they’d seen what I’d missed.
Kate sat beside me quietly.
“Tired?” she asked.
“Thinking of my grandmas. They spotted you first. Said you were a treasure.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?” She laughed, resting her head on my shoulder.
I looked up at the starry sky. The stars winked, and I knew—my grandmas were smiling down on us, happy.
