Today would have been my grandmother's birthday. Gladys Ellen Manse was born in 1893, family lore has it that her mother was a white witch and a physic. My grandmother often commented on her mother's many premonitions, but I do not recall her ever mentioning her father and I never thought to ask why. She lived through two world wars, the death of her brother and fiance (in the trenches during WWI), and outlived both her children (my mother and uncle). She was one of the first women to join the Women's Royal Air Force in 1918, working in communications at the ministry in London. Prior to that she worked in "service", as an under stairs or scullery maid. Think "Downton Abbey" but a little less glamorous.
That era had a profound impact on the rest of her life. Although she ended marrying a family friend, she never truly got over the tragic loss of her fiance or her brother, Eric. She christened her son after her brother, but then could never bring herself to use his name, and forever after she called him simply "Boy".
After WW1, her husband became a gamekeeper for a titled family, and they lived in a small cottage on the grounds. Legend had it that the family treasure was buried during the time of the English Civil War, to prevent Cromwell and his Round-heads from stealing it. Summers were spent in Scotland, at the family's highland estate. My grandmother rarely talked about her life, most of this I learned from my mother.
Her service years formed her character as well, and she had no time for airs and graces. She moved in with us after her husband's premature death, well before I was born. She spent her life in the kitchen, and refused to eat with the rest of the family in the dining room, because she felt it was "above her station". There was only a small table in the kitchen, so meal after meal she sat by herself. No amount of cajoling could coax her to change her mind, and only when her brother or son visited and occasionally at Christmas, did she allow herself the luxury of eating in the dining room. There was many a time I remember my poor embarrassed mother explaining to horrified guests that the little old lady huddled alone in the kitchen, was honestly there by choice.
My grandmother was one stubborn lady. Barely clearing 5 feet in height, with a diminutive frame, she was a powerhouse. A force to be reckoned with. She called a spade a f***ing shovel, and didn't back down for anyone. She would take an instant like or dislike to a person, there was no rhyme or reason but once her mind was set, there was no turning back. God forbid she would perceive a slight where none was intended, you didn't get second chance with her. I always remember a close friend Joanne, growing up. She was overdue a hair cut, and my grandmother told her one day she looked like a sheepdog and never spoke to her again. Mortified doesn't begin to explain how I spent my teen years. We had a rambling old house with several entrances, so I learned quickly to sneak my friends in a little used door, in order to avoid her wrath.
The person who argued with her most of course was me. My sisters, much older had long left home, and I never knew when to shut up, so our battles were many and frequent. I soon realised that complaining to my parents about the unfairness of it all, would entail a second punishment (or even third, if I was stupid enough to pursue it) , for which ever transgression I had enacted that day . She kept a hazel twig by the kitchen door, and I had that swished across the back of my knees many a time as I tried to escape after an argument. She had bloody good aim, and I was forced to establish a nifty two-step as I skipped through that door.
As she aged she had trouble sleeping and after the pint of beer she drank every night, failed to bring on slumber, her doctor recommended a wee drop of Scotch before bed to help her sleep. The emphasis was on "wee", however once my grandmother was given the go ahead to drink Whiskey, "For medicinal purposes only" as she informed everyone, there was no stopping her. The wee drop quickly progressed to half a tumbler. She always removed her spectacles before she poured it in the glass, and because she couldn't see, would tip in extra for good measure. I'd find her the next morning, hunched over the kitchen table, the Daily Telegraph crossword unfinished, and she with her head in her hands bemoaning a headache - headache be damned, that was a hangover!
The final straw came after she fell down the stairs one night in a drunken stupor, which I think was probably what saved her as well, because at 88 I don't know how she wasn't badly hurt. My father and I took it upon ourselves to to water down her scotch. It didn't take her long to catch on to this, and she just upped her intake. After she died in her 92nd year, my father found scotch bottles hidden around her bedroom. That was when we learned that a family friend who used to take her shopping each week, stopped off so she could buy her liquor. She told the friend it was for my father. We had no idea.
My grandmother was a strong influence in my life. She didn't like the name I had been given - actually Wendy - she thought it was to "highfaluting", and insisted on calling me Kelly, my middle name. She also taught me how to read and write it, and eventually my parents gave in, and I became Kelly. Her life was far from easy, and it is only with age, that I appreciate how much she overcame. A truly remarkable woman.
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