Stars Above Us: A Grandmother’s Legacy
Like everyone else, I had two grandmothers—different as night and day, but equally devoted to me. They even shared the same middle name: Anne Frances, my mother’s mother, and Antonia Frances, my father’s.
Anne Frances 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 touch of haughtiness. She was the first to enter my life. Antonia Frances, on the other hand, was a country woman, simple and unpretentious. My mother would tease, “She only had three years of schooling—what can you expect?” Dad would correct her: “It was seven, not three!” Antonia moved in with us when I started secondary school.
When I was seven, Anne fell seriously ill. Mum left her job to care for her, leaving Dad and me in our modest flat, bought with my grandfather’s savings. At first, we enjoyed ourselves—Dad smoked indoors, and I stayed up late watching telly. But soon, we grew tired of it. Dad was sick of cooking, and I was sick of eating sausages. In the end, we moved in with Anne. We thought it’d be temporary, but we stayed—living on one salary was impossible, so we rented out our flat.
While Anne was ill, I tried to stay quiet. Her home was a mystery to me: dark storerooms, towering wardrobes, heavy curtains I’d hide behind for hours. But sometimes, I pushed my luck.
“Get this little rascal out of here!” Anne would shout. “Why isn’t he being raised properly?”
“Then raise him yourself,” Dad would snap back.
“And I will!” she’d threaten—only to stroke my hair tenderly moments later.
And she did. I started primary school, and Anne decided to teach me music, convinced I had perfect pitch.
“At least he’ll stop tearing about like a wild thing,” she’d mutter.
I slogged through scales on the piano, counting the minutes until lessons ended. Dad, meanwhile, channelled my energy elsewhere—he signed me up for judo.
“You’re ruining that child!” Anne fumed. “He has talent, and you—”
“Did you ever ask if he wanted your music?” Dad shot back.
I didn’t want music or judo. I didn’t know what I wanted at all.
When Anne recovered, Mum went back to work, and I stayed with Gran. That’s how I finished Year One. Summer became a battleground—my parents debated where to send me so Anne could rest. After endless arguments, I was packed off to the countryside to stay with Antonia.
I was terrified. Mum warned me about her “seven years of schooling,” Anne about “country filth”—greasy food, rivers I’d drown in, poisonous mushrooms, wolves in the woods. But the village was magical. 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. The socks Mum neatly packed gathered dust—everyone ran barefoot, unbothered by mud or cow pats.
Antonia was Anne’s opposite—soft-spoken, warm, her eyes full of such love it stole my breath. Round-faced, 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 with bacon, potato cakes with sour cream, pies straight from the oven. I drank milk I’d hated in the city and fell asleep happy.
Those country days were pure freedom. I fished with the boys, picked berries, bathed in the sauna where the men slapped me with birch branches. Evenings, Antonia and I sat on the porch, swatting away midges. She sang old songs, told fairy tales and war stories. The worst—she’d lost four children to hunger and illness. I’d press close, whispering that I loved her and would never leave.
Summer flew by like a dream. At our goodbyes, Antonia wept, begging forgiveness. I promised to return, but next summer, I went to camp instead. She wrote letters—clumsy, misspelled, full of love: “Have you lost weight?” I tried to reply, but words failed me. I resented my parents, Anne, imagining Antonia alone on the porch, humming “The Birch Tree in the Field…”
Then, shock news—Antonia was moving in! The farm had collapsed, her house was crumbling. I cheered: “Now I’ve got two grannies!” Mum fretted: “How will we manage?” Dad whispered: “At least we’ll eat properly.”
Antonia arrived sad, apologetic, again asking forgiveness.
“Enough of that,” Anne chided. “We’ll live as long as we’re meant to.”
“Forgive me, coming here as a burden in my old age,” Antonia wept.
“Burden? There’s room for all of us,” Anne soothed.
They put Antonia in my room—I was thrilled but hid it, not to hurt Anne. Oddly, the grannies became friends. Anne, though “a right battle-axe,” as Dad said, softened. They sipped tea, dissolving caramel sweets, arguing but with warmth. When Antonia baked pies, Anne grumbled they were unhealthy but sneaked them anyway. We all knew, laughing in silence.
Anne teased Antonia: “Frances, chop off those plaits—we’re not in the village!”
“Since when do old women cut their hair?” Antonia retorted, braiding her thin plait.
Sometimes they’d share a nip of homemade wine.
“Frances, a wee dram?” Anne would offer.
“Go on, then,” Antonia would agree.
After a glass, they’d cackle over jokes about ageing. One stuck with me:
“What’s your name again? I’ve forgotten.”
“Is it urgent?” And they’d collapse laughing.
They were forever misplacing glasses, keys, notebooks. “Frances, why did I go to the kitchen?” Anne would ask, and I’d howl, loving them more than anything.
Under their wing, I finished school, music lessons, and earned my judo belt. Healthy and well-fed, I went to uni—then trouble struck. Girls fancied me, but I didn’t know what I wanted. Once, thinking the grannies were out, I brought home a classmate. We’d barely settled when they bustled in, gasping. They fled to the kitchen, and the girl bolted.
“Your sweetheart?” Antonia asked.
“He’s got sweethearts in every lecture hall!” Anne snorted.
They scolded me, warning of “sly minxes,” but praised one girl—Katie from next door.
“Katie’s gold,” Antonia insisted.
“Pretty, but a bit plain—no flair,” Anne doubted.
“Who needs flair? The right one will see it,” Antonia argued.
Spring came, and Antonia died—quietly, suddenly. A gasp, a slump. The ambulance, the fuss, the wake. That night, I stepped outside. From the shadows, Katie appeared with a bin bag.
“Your gran’s gone?” she asked.
“Yeah. Come to the wake tomorrow.”
“I will,” she nodded. “You’re lucky—you’ve still got another gran and your parents. I’ve only got Mum.”
Under the streetlamp, I really looked at her. She blushed, but I thought: “She’s right. She’s everything.”
Back inside, I found Anne. She was smoothing a lace handkerchief, whispering:
“I’ll be along soon, Toni. Save me a spot. We’ll watch over them together.”
I hugged her and sobbed like a boy.
“Don’t cry, love. We’re all headed the same way—just different stops,” she comforted, echoing Antonia’s words.
Anne left us a year later. The flat felt hollow, no renovation could warm it. I noticed Katie properly. The grannies had seen what I’d missed.
She came over quietly, sitting beside me.
“Tired?” she asked.
“Thinking of my grans. They spotted you first. Called you a treasure.”
“We’ll see about that,” she laughed, resting her head on my shoulder.
I looked up at the starry sky. The stars winked, and I knew—my grans were watching, smiling down with them.
