For my Gran – Rene Broome

Today, 30 June, would have been my maternal Gran’s birthday. She was born in 1905. She raised my mother and aunt on her own in the 1940s, having left my grandfather when they were both very young. Those were not the days to be a single mother with a living husband and it must have been immensely hard. But she was an amazing woman with whom we spent every Sunday for as long as I can remember during my childhood. Here are two short pieces that I wrote with some random, specific memories of her.

My Gran gave me my name. And she taught me how to dance. She loved to dance but was a tall woman, something she said prejudiced the boys against her when she was growing up in the 1920s.

When she did find a partner, he turned out to be no good.

We spent every Sunday with her. She always made roast lamb lunch ‘with all the trimmings’. And jam roly poly.

I loved to watch her roll her stockings neatly up from toe to garter belt.

She always blotted her lipstick after applying it and checked herself in the tarnished wardrobe door mirror before leaving the house.

Rene, c.1917 aged around 12.

Even though the aroma of roasting lamb assailed us as we mounted the windy stairs in the funny old house where my grandmother lived, we knew there was also a chicken treat awaiting us.

For years, our Sundays never changed. Gran greeted us from the bus, hugging us warmly and then we set off for her flat at the same brisk pace that I keep up today. The house was a 3 storey Victorian mansion, its former grandeur much faded.

Its occupants were all single elderly ladies who, like the house, showed signs of advancing decrepitude.

The rooms had been randomly divided up, so the flats were of widely differing sizes, some with their own bathrooms and kitchen, whilst others shared. Mrs Cairns and Miss Welsh each had a one room bedsit, whilst the formidable Mrs Shardlow had a whole suite.

My Gran occupied the attic which had three rooms and a kitchenette, but she lived in just one which was kept warm and cosy.

After recounting our school week to her, we had lunch – the lamb. But, in between Sundays, Gran ate chicken. The special Sunday expense was just for me and my sisters. Lamb was expensive and apart from the leftovers which took her to Tuesdays, the rest of the week called for frugality.

 After lunch was cleared away, we would go to the top shelf in the kitchen and reach up for the dried wishbone that was waiting for us.  Gran had devised a rota to accommodate three sisters and the two ended wish bone.

I couldn’t wait until it was my turn to hook my little finger round the bone and pull. Like a Christmas cracker, whoever got the larger piece as it snapped in two, was declared the victor and got to choose the story.

Author: Deryn

Born and bred in Manchester UK with a degree in French from the University of Exeter, I found myself in Johannesburg, South Africa in 1995 via Spain, France and Greece. And London. I have worked in the hospitality industry in marketing, as a radio and tv producer, in PR and communications for South Africa's buy local advocacy campaign and since June 2022 have been running my own content creation and PR company, Use Lorem Ipsum. I have always been a reader and writer of stories and am relieved finally to have achieved the publication of this blog. Now for that novel. I am the mother of 2 sons, middle of 3 sisters, owner of a dog and the ex wife and ex girlfriend of a number of men who clearly didn't deserve me. I am an eternal optimist for myself, my country and the planet, so don't let me down, world.