I only realised when I was older how much my Mum valued the rare occasion when she could have an evening that was her own. My Dad died in 1984, I was nine, my brother three months and there were three sisters inbetween. The five of us needed so much love, support and encouragement and Mum was the person responsible for us all. Yet she herself was a person, grieving her husband, trying to find her way back to life – she was just 32. That’s where Nana & Grandpy (my Mum’s parents) stepped in and had us all to stay. The farmhouse was theoretically three bedrooms but the smallest one had long since become the storage space for my Nana’s dressmaking activities – materials, patterns and jars and jars of buttons, mainly stored in those old glass Cadbury’s Roses’ jars. So we slept in my Mum’s childhood bedroom. One wall was the wardrobe, dressing table and airing cupboard (making plenty of strange watery gurgles throughout the night). If i remember rightly there was a chest of drawers on one side, then, crammed in the rest of the space, one double and one single bed. Top to toe, the five of us slept in these two beds like sardines packed in a tin. Yes, it was not without the occasional cross word or foot fight and we still tease each other about snoring (although that mainly relates to more recent experience) but tucked up tight, five in two beds, we felt safe and loved and (unbeknown to me at the time) my Mum could slowly learn to heal and be the most amazing person she is.
A short blog inspired by Genealogy Stories Curious Decendants Club.