Stars Above Us: A Memory of Grandmothers
Like everyone, I had two grandmothers. Different as night and day, yet equally devoted to me. Their names were nearly identical: Annabelle Foster, my mother’s mother, and Antonia Foster, my father’s.
Annabelle lived in the heart of a quaint town, in a spacious flat filled with books and antique furniture. My father called her a “proper lady”—refined, with a hint of haughtiness. She entered my life first. Antonia, on the other hand, was country-bred and plainspoken. Mum would chuckle, “Only schooled till year three, what can you expect?” Dad corrected, “It was seven years!” She moved in with us when I started secondary school.
At seven, Annabelle fell gravely ill. Mum quit her job and moved in to care for her, while Dad and I stayed in our tiny 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 weary. Dad tired of cooking, and I of eating bangers. Eventually, we moved in with Granny Annabelle, thinking it temporary, but we never left—surviving on one wage was impossible, so we let out our flat.
While she was unwell, I tiptoed around. Her flat was a labyrinth: shadowy cupboards, towering wardrobes, heavy drapes I hid behind for hours. But sometimes I pushed too far.
“Get this rascal out of here!” she’d scold. “Why isn’t he disciplined?”
“Then discipline him yourself,” Dad would snap.
“And I will!” she’d threaten, only to stroke my hair tenderly moments later.
And she did. I started school, and she insisted on piano lessons, swearing I had perfect pitch.
“At least he’ll stop tearing about like a savage,” she muttered.
I slogged through scales, counting the minutes till freedom. Dad channeled my energy differently—enrolling me in rugby.
“You’re ruining the boy!” Annabelle fumed. “He’s gifted, and you—”
“Did you ask if he wants your music?” Dad retorted.
I wanted neither. Truthfully, I didn’t know what I wanted.
When Annabelle recovered, Mum returned to work, and I stayed with Granny. That year, I finished primary school. Summer brought debates—where to send me to give Granny a break. After endless arguing, I was packed off to the countryside, to Antonia’s.
I was terrified. Mum warned of her “village ways,” Annabelle of “filthy pastures,” greasy food, rivers where I’d drown, poisonous mushrooms, and wolves lurking in the woods. But the village was magic. Endless fields, ponds, a dark forest on the horizon. Chickens, geese, cows—creatures I’d only seen in picture books. Local boys, at Antonia’s request, took me under their wing. My neatly packed socks stayed untouched—everyone ran barefoot, unbothered by mud or cow pats.
Antonia was Annabelle’s opposite. Soft-spoken, round-faced, with crinkles and dimples, she smelled of fresh bread and milk. “My little sparrow, so thin,” she’d murmur, hugging me. Meals were simple but glorious: dawn-fresh milk, eggs with bacon, potato cakes with cream, pies from the oven. I drank milk I’d despised in the city and drifted off, content.
Days there were pure freedom. Fishing with the boys, berry-picking, steamy saunas where men slapped me with birch twigs. Evenings on the porch, swatting midges as Antonia sang old ballads and told war stories. The worst—she’d lost four children to hunger and illness. I’d cling to her, whispering, “I love you. I’ll never leave you.”
Summer vanished like a dream. At goodbye, Antonia wept, begging forgiveness. I vowed to return, but next year, I went to camp. Her letters arrived—shaky, misspelled, brimming with love: “Are you eating enough?” I tried to reply, but words failed me. I seethed at my parents, at Annabelle, 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 cottage crumbling. I cheered, “Now I’ve two grannies!” Mum fretted, “How will they get on?” Dad muttered, “At least we’ll eat properly.”
Antonia arrived sheepish, apologetic.
“Enough gloom!” Annabelle chided. “We’ll manage what time we’ve got.”
“Sorry to be a burden in my dotage,” Antonia sniffled.
“Burden? There’s room for all,” Annabelle soothed.
Antonia shared my room—a secret joy, lest Annabelle feel slighted. Oddly, the grannies bonded. Annabelle, though “a right terror” (Dad’s words), softened. They sipped tea, dissolving humbugs, bickering fondly. When Antonia baked, Annabelle scoffed at the “unhealthy” treats—then sneaked them to her room. We all knew, smiling behind our hands.
Annabelle teased, “Foster, trim those wild locks—you’re not in the sticks now!”
“Since when do old women crop their hair?” Antonia shot back, plaiting her thin braid.
Sometimes they shared a nip of elderberry wine.
“Foster, a drop?”
“Go on, then.”
After, they’d cackle over jokes about ageing. One stuck:
“What’s your name? I’ve forgotten.”
“Is it urgent?”—and they’d howl with laughter.
They forever misplaced spectacles, keys, shopping lists. “Foster, why did I come in here?” Annabelle would ask, and I’d giggle, loving them beyond reason.
Under their watch, I finished school, music lessons, and earned my rugby stripes. Hearty and hale, I left for university. Then came trouble: girls fancied me, but I was clueless. Once, sure the grannies were out, I brought home a classmate. We’d barely settled when they bustled in, gasped, and fled to the kitchen—my date bolted.
“Is she the one?” Antonia asked.
“He’s got a sweetheart in every lecture hall!” Annabelle snorted.
They scolded me, warned of “scheming minxes,” but praised one girl—Katie from next door.
“Katie’s golden,” Antonia insisted.
“Pretty, but a bit plain,” Annabelle demurred.
“Who needs airs? The right eyes will see her,” Antonia countered.
Spring took Antonia. Quietly, suddenly—a gasp, then she was gone. Paramedics, fuss, the wake. That night, I stepped outside. Katie emerged from the dark, bin bag in hand.
“Granny’s gone?”
“Yeah. Come by tomorrow.”
“I will.” She paused. “You’re lucky. You’ve still got one granny, your folks. Me? Just Mum.”
Under the streetlamp, I really looked at her. Blushing, she seemed to glow. I thought, “Huh. Maybe they were right.”
Inside, Annabelle stroked a lace handkerchief, whispering,
“Won’t be long, Tonia. Save a seat. We’ll mind them together.”
I hugged her, weeping like a child.
“Hush, love. We’re all headed the same way—just different stops,” she murmured, echoing Antonia.
Annabelle left a year later. The flat felt hollow, spite of fresh paint. I noticed Katie anew. The grannies had seen what I’d missed.
She slid beside me.
“Tired?”
“Thinking of them. They spotted you first. Said you were treasure.”
“Time will tell,” she laughed, resting her head on my shoulder.
I gazed at the stars. They winked down, and I knew—my grannies were there, smiling with them.
