Stars Above Us: A Grandmother’s Legacy
I, like everyone else, had two grandmothers. They were as different as night and day, yet equally devoted to me. Their names were nearly identical: Evelyn Margaret, my mother’s mum, and Edith Margaret, my father’s.
Evelyn 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 elegance and a touch of pride. She was the first to enter my life. Edith, on the other hand, was country-born, unpretentious. Mother would chuckle, “She only had a basic education— what can you expect?” Dad corrected her: “Not basic, she finished school!” Edith moved in with us when I started secondary school.
At seven, Evelyn fell seriously ill. Mum quit her job to care for her, leaving Dad and me in our tiny flat, bought with savings from my grandfather, a scholar. At first, we enjoyed ourselves—Dad smoked indoors, I stayed up late watching telly. But soon, we grew weary. Dad tired of cooking, I of eating bangers. Eventually, we moved in with Evelyn—temporarily, we thought, but we stayed for good. Living on one salary was impossible, so we let out our flat.
While Evelyn 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!” Evelyn would shout. “Why isn’t this child being raised properly?”
“You raise him, then,” Dad retorted.
“And I will!” she’d snap, softening immediately as she patted my head.
And she did. I started school, and Evelyn insisted on music lessons, convinced I had perfect pitch.
“At least he’ll stop tearing through the house like a wild thing,” she muttered.
I slogged through scales on the piano, counting minutes till freedom. Dad channelled my energy elsewhere—he signed me up for rugby.
“You’re ruining him!” Evelyn fumed. “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. Truthfully, I didn’t know what I wanted.
When Evelyn recovered, Mum went back to work, and I stayed in her care. That’s how I finished primary school. Summer brought fresh debates—where to send me so Evelyn could rest. After much discussion, I was packed off to the countryside, to Edith’s.
I was terrified. Mum warned of her “lack of schooling,” Evelyn of “country filth,” greasy food, rivers where I’d drown, poisonous mushrooms, and wolves lurking in the woods. But the village was magic. Fields, ponds, forests stretching to the horizon. Chickens, geese, cows—creatures I’d only seen in books. Local lads took me under their wing, per Edith’s request. My carefully packed socks gathered dust—everyone ran barefoot, unbothered by dirt or cow pats.
Edith was Evelyn’s opposite. Gentle, warm, her love so fierce it stole my breath. Round-faced, wrinkled, with dimpled cheeks, she smelled of fresh bread and milk. “My little duckling, so thin,” she’d murmur, hugging me. The food was simple but delicious—warm milk at dawn, bacon and eggs, potato cakes with cream, pies from the oven. I drank milk, which I’d hated in the city, and fell asleep content.
Those days were pure freedom. Fishing with the boys, berry-picking, steaming in the bathhouse where the men slapped me with birch branches. Evenings, we’d sit on the porch, swatting midges. Edith sang old songs, told folktales, shared 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 goodbye, Edith wept, begging forgiveness. I promised to return, but next year, I went to camp. She wrote me letters—clumsy, misspelled, brimming with love: “Are you eating enough?” I tried to reply, but words failed me. I resented Mum, Dad, Evelyn, picturing Edith alone on her porch, humming “The Birch Tree in the Meadow.”
Then, news: Edith was moving in! The village had crumbled, her house with it. I cheered—”Now I’ve two grannies!” Mum fretted: “How will we manage?” Dad grinned: “At least we’ll eat properly.”
Edith arrived timid, apologising again.
“Enough moping!” Evelyn chided. “We’ll make do.”
“Forgive me, sister, for barging in like this,” Edith wept.
“Nonsense! There’s room for all,” Evelyn soothed.
Edith stayed in my room—a secret delight. Strangely, the grannies bonded. Evelyn, though “sharp as a tack” (Dad’s words), softened. They sipped tea, dissolving humbugs, bickering fondly. When Edith baked, Evelyn scolded—”Too rich!”—then sneaked treats upstairs. We all knew, but played along, smirking.
Evelyn teased Edith: “Trim that mop—you’re not in the sticks now!”
“Since when do old women chop their locks?” Edith retorted, braiding her thin plait.
Sometimes, they shared sherry.
“Sister, a wee dram?” Evelyn offered.
“Go on, then,” Edith agreed.
After, they cackled over jokes about aging. One stuck with me:
“What’s my name again?”
“Is it urgent?” And they’d howl.
They lost spectacles, keys, notebooks. “Sister, why’d I come in here?” Evelyn would ask, and I’d laugh, loving them more than anything.
Under their watch, I finished school, music lessons, even earned a rugby badge. Well-fed, hale, I headed to uni. Then, trouble—girls fell for me, but I was clueless. Once, thinking the grannies out, I brought home a classmate. We’d just settled when they bustled in, gasped, and fled. The girl bolted.
“Is that your sweetheart?” Edith asked.
“He’s got a sweetheart in every lecture hall!” Evelyn snorted.
They scolded me, warned of “flighty lasses,” but praised one—Kate from next door.
“Kate’s pure gold,” Edith insisted.
“Pretty, but plain—no flair,” Evelyn mused.
“Flair’s for peacocks. A gem’s a gem,” Edith countered.
Spring came. Edith died—softly, suddenly. A gasp, a slump. Paramedics, chaos, condolences. That night, I stepped outside. Kate appeared, bin bag in hand.
“Your gran’s gone?” she asked.
“Yes. Come tomorrow.”
“I will. You’re lucky—still have family. Me? Just Mum.”
Under the streetlamp, she blushed. I thought: “She’s right. There’s nothing wrong with simple.”
Back inside, Evelyn stroked a lace handkerchief, whispering:
“Wait for me, Edie. Save a spot. We’ll mind the young ones together.”
I hugged her, sobbing like a child.
“Hush, love. We’re all bound for the same place—just different stops,” she soothed, echoing Edith’s words.
Evelyn followed a year later. The flat felt hollow, renovations couldn’t warm it. I took a proper look at Kate. The grannies had seen what I’d missed.
Kate slipped beside me.
“Tired?” she asked.
“Thinking of them. They noticed you first. Said you were treasure.”
“We’ll see,” she laughed, resting her head on my shoulder.
I gazed at the starry sky. The stars twinkled, and I knew—my grannies watched us, smiling down with them.
Life’s greatest gifts are often the quietest—family, kindness, love that endures beyond time.
