The Grandmother

The Grandmother

 A sweet child, she was, thoughtful. She would cry for hours over the little birds and mice killed by the tabby. She wouldn’t eat the rabbits I prepared for the pot, just wouldn’t. Now I  think of it, she was always stubborn. She would rather go hungry than eat a bunny, she used to say. I’m afraid she often did, food was short in those days - not like now.

You know she was a twin? Yes, a brother. They were very close - always her and him against the other two. They never did get on, and I don’t wonder she doesn’t speak to them now - after they killed her hen, she never forgave them. I see her clear before me now, a tiny girl of seven in her ragged play frock,tears on her face but cold as ice, telling those great sisters of hers that she would never forget and she would see them in hell first. She got a beating for that, talking of hell so boldly, but she didn’t care and looking back, that was her first lesson in cruelty and death. She started to grow up after that, to harden -never saw her cry again, even when her brother died.

I say died, but he was killed - they were playing in the barns, there was a fire. We never got to the bottom of it, but he was trapped. Just nine years old, so sad. Neither his mother nor father ever really got over it, but she, my poor little girl, suffered the most. I think they blamed her, after all, she had been there, but she had lived. Just a terrible tragedy.

After that her father took them all to live in that dirty town where there was more work, and they visited only rarely, in the summer when they could get away. Each time I saw her she had lost something of her heart, but gained in beauty. Such a lovely girl, like a wild flower. Her sisters are great ox-like creatures and so jealous of her - made her life a misery,I heard. It’s no wonder she ran off before she was even fifteen. Off to the city, all by herself.

She comes to see me sometimes, yes, and to see her mother in the town. Her father died some time ago.She did not seem too upset but I must say I can’t blame her. She writes  and sends money - underneath that brittle exterior she is still the kind little girl she always was. I sometimes get presents from her - usually warm clothes, I guess she remembers the cold here in winter. She came down last summer to see me. How beautiful she is now, truly lovely. I offered to go and keep house for her - cook and clean and launder those lovely clothes. She just laughed her tinkling little laugh and said no, she had her maid. Fancy that! Her own servant, and her just a little country girl!