GRANNY’S STORY

If our lives were in a book there are some chapters that we might be really proud of.

Jennifer was confused.

A light had gone out, not so much in her room, though it might have been, but in her story.

“Jennifer,” called her mother, Amanda Hanson, a few minutes later, and she came up stairs to her daughter. “your granny just passed away,” she added quietly.

Jennifer had known that her granny was two things: she was old and she was ill. It seemed to the girl that her granny had always been ill because when you’re nine, nine years is always.

“I know something had happened, mum,” she said quietly, “I could tell.”

“What do you mean, child? Granny was in hospital, and that’s miles away! They sent a policeman around to tell me. Not granddad but a young constable.”

“I just knew,” she muttered, not liking to tell her mother about the stories she had always known about because it seemed to her that her mother had no idea. But then her mother surprised her.

“You mean, her story was gone from inside your mind?” she said understandingly.

“That’s it exactly,” she whispered, “but not gone exactly, but come to an end.”

“But you’ll not forget her,” smiled mother, “the way her story was a load of chapters that went together to make up her story. She was my mum as your know, and I can’t remember being born, but I was ori wouldn’t be here, and I was born to your granny thirty six years ago, when she was forty. She told me that I was an awkward little devil, wouldn’t come however hard she tried to push me out, until a doctor pulled me out with forceps.”

“But you’ll never remember about it, mum!” smiled Jennifer, “because you were too little!”

“There were other parts of her story that happened before I was born, and I know them as well as if I’d been there to see them. Like when the police arrested her.”

“Mum!” exclaimed Jennifer, “Granny was arrested? I don’t believe you!”

“That was a chapter of her story that she was most proud of,” smiled her mum, “and I think we all ought to be thankful for ladies like her! It was at Greenham Common.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard of that, mum,” frowned Jennifer.

“I don’t suppose you will have, darling,” said her mother, “but about forty odd years ago there was a protest led mostly by women against the Americans storing missiles at a base at Greenham Common. Hundreds of women were involved because the weapons they were storing were particularly nasty and they didn’t think they should be on British soil! Anyway, when the women, and granny was one of them, didn’t do as they were told by the police, some of which didn’t want to tell them in the first place, or so I believe, a few were arrested and ended up in a cell, not for long but it was enough for them to say they’d been put in a cell! And granny was one of them!”

“Good for her!” exclaimed Jennifer, “there must be lots of Granny’s story that I don’t know, like a book I haven’t finished reading… and I ought to know, don’t you think, mum?”

“She was two things, darling, she was my mum and she was a wonderful woman,” sighed Amanda

“And she was a third thing, mum! She was my granny and I loved her!” murmured Jennifer, “and I want to know more about her story.”

“You mean, more chapters of a life well lived?” smiled Amanda, “I tell you what, darling, I’ll tell you bits and pieces as I remember them, and you can keep a scrap book if you like, with pictures and stuff. I’ve even got a cutting of when she was arrested at Greenham. She cut it out because she was proud of it.”

“Mum, can I keep my scrap book inside my head, where Granny’s story is?” asked Jennifer, frowning.

“If you like, dear, and that’s a marvellous idea, but I’ve got a suspicion that nobody’s story lasts for ever if it’s inside the memories of people who knew them. I think I’ll make an actual scrap book, with pictures I’ve got of granny, pictures that were taken down the ages, since she herself wasn’t in her eighties but was a baby girl. There are photos of her then. And there are school pictures of her, all in black and white and all precious to me because they are pictures of my mother.”

“And I’ll hep you then, mum. But the pity is you can keep things in scrap books but you can’t keep actual memories, can you?”

“What do you mean, darling?”

“Well, last year when I was nine and had a party, when granny came she was riding on an electric scooter. I think her legs were poorly back then! But when we went on the field behind our house she let me have a ride on it, bouncing over grassy tufts and stuff! And I was sitting on er lap! She was laughing and I’ll always remember how much she laughed, but I can’t stick that in a scrap book, can I? It’s a chapter of Granny’s story and there’s a bit of it in my story too.”

Amanda thought for a moment, then she smiled. “But you can take a sheet of paper and write it down,” she said, “you can even draw a picture!”

“Yes,” murmured Jennifer slowly, “I can, can’t I? I’ll draw the best picture I can of granny’s scooter.”

“And I’ll put my penn’orth in too,” added her mother, “like everything she told me about being arrested at Greenham Common. Because there’s one thing I know about that which might surprise you.”

“Tell me, mum.”

“Well, one of the policemen who arrested her must have quite liked her even though he was arresting her, and after they let her go he went to see her. She wasn’t married back then because she divorced her first husband on account of the way he called her all sorts of names for protesting at Greenham Common. She said to me that he’d probably have prefered to see everyone bombed out of existence than his wife protesting like she did.”

“Wasn’t granddad a policeman too?” asked Jennifer.

“Yes, dear, that’s the really interesting part of this chapter of Granny’s story because he was one of the men who arrested her! I know it all happened over forty years ago now, but I still find it a really moving little story.”

And to prove it, a few tears ran out of her eyes and began running down her cheeks. She blinked, embarrassed.

Jennifer noticed and despite her few years she understood.

“And you know her story says The End when her own daughter’s tears spell out the words,” she said quietly.

© Peter Rogerson 03.04.23

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Reviews

[AYVID N]

This was so touching to read. Everyone's story comes to an end in the tears shed by their loved ones for them after their death. We live on in their hearts though. You did an amazing job here.