大象传媒

I was a ray of hope in troubled times, the only baby in a household of 5 adults, with two who came home when they could.

Looking back from my own middle years I can see my grandmother in her wrap-around pinafore, sensibly covering her good dresses, and my grandfather sitting by the range smoking his Woodbines or Players Weights. I can also see his smile as I sat, as a toddler , at the table and hear the 'Hello Joyce! Hello Joyce!' which he'd taught his budgerigar to say whenever it saw
me.

It brings tears to my eyes to recognise their love across the years. Life was hard. My grandfather had two jobs in order to feed his family, and my grandmother cleaned, washed, boiled, hung out to dry and ironed in between shopping and cooking food for everyone.

Yet I remember laughter too. There would be evenings around the chenille covered table, ashtrays overflowing and the cards being dealt, too far above the level of my head to see what was going on when I'd stumbled downstairs hoping to join in. There were no loud voices, no arguments and quarrels....just people making company for each other in the blackout that was a typical Birmingham evening.

There were family parties too, great crowds of half-recognised relatives from the far-flung corners of the city. The piano would be opened, and a great aunt would play all the popular songs to an appreciative and full-voiced audience. It was all a bit overwhelming for a very small girl, still only 4 when the war ended.But it was positive - a counterpoint to the damage and sorrow caused by the bombs.

When I was three the piano was closed and suddenly there was black ribbon around the photographs of my two special uncles, who'd been coming home in uniform and filling the house with laughter and girlfriends -and teaching me to read. One would carry me home from a bookshop in Erdington with the latest ragbook held tight in my hand as I sat in perilous delight on his shoulders.
I don't remember any parties after that.

Almost every night since my April birth I was lifted from my cot to be carried up the garden to the air-raid shelter at the top of the garden. This meant growing into awareness with the sound of the air-raid sirens...years later I'd be sitting at lessons in the Grammar School and the sirens would take me by surprise,being used now as factory sirens for the ends of shifts. They made my flesh creep..so the anxiety of the adults who carted me up the garden each night must have been absorbed by the baby I then was.

A lasting memory of my beloved grandfather floods back every time I smell a tomato. I grow them every year in tubs or growbags...but he, he was a fabulous grower, with a wonderful greenhouse full of overarching,wonderfully scented green leaves..with beautiful fruit for the table...this fascinated me,the greenhouse next to the apple tree. As a baby my pram was often parked for fresh air under the apple tree and I wonder suddenly if this may have been the start of my love affair with trees too.

Grandad had a lovely trick. I never saw it coming and it worked every time. He'd say to me half way through tea'Look, Joyce-what's that in the garden?' - I'd look, see nothing specially different - and turning back to the table find I'd a tomato on my plate! Small things really DO shape us..I remember their ordinary strength and their everyday love with such gratitude.

When the war seemed likely to end my mother and I left Grandma's house to live in a flat. The other mother in the house used to give us raw potato slices instead of sweets..what would today's children think of that?! We lost the familiar smells and cuddles, the curving stairs and the understairs loo, the steps down into the garden and the long stretch of grass..and above all the love that had supported us.

This other woman also had a daughter who stole from my mother's purse - so we moved again. This time the ceilings were high, the rooms large and slightly gloomy...and one night my mother woke me to say 'Your Daddy's home!'

In retrospect, that was when the war began for me. My parents had been apart for nearly five years, living totally different realities - and the hopeful young Sunday School teachers had matured into strangers. How could their early hopes ever be fulfilled? Life was increasingly full of tears and loud voices and became very confusing.

Grandad's tomatoes have somehow become a symbol of security and trust,still touching me deeply after a lifetime of endless changes and experiences. Growing food for Grandad meant caring for people, helping them to survive...and keeping them in touch with what's important.
Thank you Grandad
.x

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