My Granny

Dedicated to my darling adored Granny… Gillian Dorothy Packham nee Plummer: 17th August 1926 ~ 14th March 2022

My early relationship with my Granny used to trigger so much of my mother-pain, that it was difficult to distinguish the separate feelings.  I loved her so much, and in a paralleled sense Granny and I didn’t have the best start (she nicknamed me ‘the viceroy’ as she thought Dad let me have my way too often and wasn’t tough enough on me – which she was probably right about, haha) We had other clashes and difficulties -

BUT…~ it’s redeemed by a glorious beauty – because Granny and I came right… oh so right. Tears of joy and love course down my face and as I think on how restorative our relationship became, and what it came to symbolise to me, I don’t really know where to start.  When I made a special trip over to see her several years ago, she gifted me the engagement ring that Grandpa had proposed to her with.  A powerful symbol of my link to their love and my love for them and all they represented and in my life.

Granny and Grandpa visited us in the Solomon islands in the early days, and then also in New Zealand, several times.  We went to them many times too.  You know how English houses often have a quaint name?  My Granny and Grandpa’s was ‘Cuckmere’ (“Cook-mere”), after the river on whose banks Grandpa proposed many years ago after being widowed relatively young to his first wife, Pat. 

Cuckmere was the home I yearned for, especially when circumstances descended when we lived in the Solomons.  I can still place myself in the quiet bedroom Emma and I slept in.  I can see the art print adjacent to my bed on the wall, depicting a bustling harbourside town.  I remember the smell of their home, Dad said the cedar gave it that good, good scent.  (even when Granny would send presents to us in New Zealand, the soft, recycled, wrapping paper smelt of her house, an important part of the gift!) 

The bathroom at Cuckmere was carpeted, which of course seemed lovely to me as a young girl!  We seemed to go to bed so nicely there, without resistance.   Granny would sit at the end of the bed and read to us.  We were told not to speak to each other after she left the room, and we didn’t.  I would gaze at that print on the wall, with its cafes and yachts, and then it would suddenly be morning!  And we went to bed early too.  Which would set us up for wonderful days, one after the other. Every morning was accompanied with that magical feeling that the summer holidays had just begun.

The toys at their house seemed like good quality, and just more ‘fun’.  Their couches were comfortable, they had a CD player which we were years from.  Granny and Grandpa seemed wealthy, in a humble way. A lot of furniture, trinkets and ornaments,  but order, sunshine and cleanliness.  Peace and harmony was the atmosphere at Granny and Grandpa’s.  Stable.  Predictable.  And they both laughed, a lot.  It was a happy environment.  But it was more than that, it was straight out of a fairy tale in my heart.  My heart would dance at the thought of staying at Granny and Grandpa’s.  We could be creative there.  -Granny was a wonderful artist and shared creative activities with us.  (she always submitted that her sister Jean was ‘the artist’, I always thought it was because Jean devoted more time to it – Granny, you were an artist, too!)

The very best part of Cuckmere to me – the garden.  A huge space with vast lawns, planted-out sections, a large vegetable patch including the bean-frame.  Mole-hills.  Everything felt traditional in the best ways.  And running along the back boundary and longest side, the marvellous stream which provided endless fun.  I could, and would, play in that stream all day, apart from being called in for meals.  The Isle of Wight has a chalky rock that breaks with flat marbled looking sides, each piece seemed precious, so I mined and stockpiled these stones that were all through the shallow parts of the stream. (I even brought a bag of them home a couple of trips ago, much to the surprise of the customs staff)

Granny had Wellingtons (gumboots) in their shed (which also smelt divine) for her and us, and just as good as playing in the stream were the walks she would take us on.  Across country lanes, over stiles, traversing recently gleaned fields, down into shaded glens where the nettles thrived.  Even being stung by nettles was kind of special, because we were there.  To the Calbourne Mill, where peacocks paraded and squawked, as the mill turned and splashed.  Often she would pack us some sandwiches, a boiled egg each, and a small packet of ‘crisps’.  On the way home we sometimes stopped at a bramble hedge to pick berries, to eat later with fresh cream.  Sometimes we returned via at a certain house where we could fill our own carton we had brought with free-range eggs.  One time we found an unhappy pigeon chick and brought it home to nurse it back to health. Everything felt like we were living in simpler times. And when we visited Carisbrooke Castle - we were transported to days of princesses, moats, imprisonments and beheadings. It was all magical and we could just be… children.

Granny was always organised.  Practical, organised, yet had that touch of class and femininity with her accessorising - sometimes a simple but quality cardigan, or a patterned scarf wrapped about her head, her beautiful rings on, or a gold chain, or gate bracelet.  Sometimes cloisonné earrings, patterned like the Singapore Airlines flight attendants dresses.  And she always smelt good.

When Granny visited us in New Zealand, we were able to be children in a different sense as regulation was restored to our mother-less home for that period.  She would go through our rooms, sorting and throwing, “if you haven’t used it in one year, get rid of it!”.  We would have school lunches made (always cheese sandwiches, which I wasn’t a fan of, but they were made by Granny which made them a loving act to my fragile heart).  We would have proper dinners, and would be made to clean up the kitchen, which we didn’t enjoy but appreciated the benefits of.  Granny visiting brought order and ‘discipline’ to our home, sometimes in the form of correcting us, or making us go on the family walk instead of sit in the car sulking; but generally in the way that she brought a mothers skills.  She would take cold meat from the night before, boil some eggs and potatoes, prepare a basic salad and put butter, salt and pepper on the table and it satisfied us all.  I know I don’t waste food and this comes from observing Granny in those years when I began to take interest.  Her war-survival-values aligned with something inside me, interlocking with my Pacific heritage when it came to valuing food, as a precious blessing, and in the knowledge that scarcity could swiftly be upon you at any moment.

When she would go back to England, my heart would be re-broken.  Granny had suffered rejection and sadness in her childhood and saying goodbye at the airport was very difficult for her and us.  She would get cross with herself for getting emotional, and the restraint of her anguish would tear at my heart.  There’s ‘sad’ and there’s ‘sad’.  We were the latter.  And when we returned to the house the emptiness was palpable.

Our first adult-bonding moment was when I wrote her a letter describing how I had met my husband (blogged a few entries back, ahem).  It was the first time I was truly candid in the way I wrote, and Granny was ready for it.  I remember her reply telling me how much she appreciated the letter, and every time I saw her she would whisper in her cheeky voice “he does have a good body, doesn’t he”. 

Another special moment we had was when I wrote my dad a letter expressing my deep gratitude for all the ways he had cared for me.  Granny was given a copy, and as all my sentiments reflected her adoration of her first born, my dad, hers and our connection went to a new level.  She even wrote me a letter thanking-me-for-thanking-dad, which I still have.  I loved seeing her hand writing on an envelope, her Christmas and birthday cards had that European quality which we could never find here.

In my mid-twenties it occurred to me that country-scapes, farmed paddocks, streams, mills and cottages produced in me such a longing.  I worked out it was because it was all my associations with the Isle of Wight, which felt like the only place we felt completely safe.  I wrote and told Granny all about this discovery, she replied with a letter expressing how sad she was that she was sorry she didn’t know Emma and I were so troubled as children, and that she was always delighted to have us.  Our letters were a strong defining part of our bond, I’m thankful we were ‘made’ to start writing to Granny as soon as we could form our a-b-c’s, it enriched and developed our relationship so effectively, and helped me appreciate and enjoy writing.  I expressed to her in many letters how much she meant to me and so I have no regrets, and even as I feel such a heaviness at this present moment, I am ever so grateful to have had her.

Most significantly, not too long ago she gave me the picture bible which her darling mother had read to the six of them from, which I knew was one of the most treasured memories of hers.  It was such a profound gesture, the final punctuation in feeling so ‘seen’ by my Granny.  Ours was a relationship of redemption, healing and friendship.  She was absolutely closer to me than my own mother, and was one of God’s many kind gifts into my life. 

We adored each other to the end… Our grandparents lived 12,000 miles away yet they were so, so dear to us. Even in the last 15 years I managed to visit granny four times, not bad for leaving two or three, even four kids behind! (full, FULL credit to my wonderfully supportive mother-in-law).  These trips in my adulthood were meaningful in their own right.  I could sit for hours and be entertained by all the things Granny said – she was always cheeky which was extra entertaining in her Queens English accent.

I want to say thank you, Lord, for my Granny (and Grandpa).  Thank you so much.

Granny continuously encouraged me write a book, a ‘children’s book’ specifically. It didn’t happen in your lifetime, Granny, but I promise I will do this, and if you don’t somehow find out about it up there, I’ll fill you in later.

Love you forever xx