A Little Story About Grief

 

Nearly fifteen years ago now, I had a conversation with Auntie Gladys.

I remember it as if it was yesterday .

We were sat at her kitchen table with tea and scones. The scones she had just baked on the off chance of someone calling. The tea was served in a mug. 

All men drank tea from mugs according to Auntie Glad

Only women drank tea from cups with saucers.

Her kitchen was immaculate  and testament to her cataracts , as she always over cleaned everywhere just in case, and her eyes were always a watery blue, like topaz seen through gauze,  as she regarded you carefully and always with much affection.

We talked about a mutual acquaintance from Bron Haul who had recently died and the conversation veared to the personal and the painful; memories of her daughter, Edwina who had been killed in a car accident aged 16. 

“ I went to bed” Gladys said simply “ I went to bed and didn’t care for anything or anybody’” 

She paused and put a warm, dry hand on mine

“ It was a dreadful time” she said her sing song Welsh accent hiding the emotion “I’d given up”

“ But then came the Doctor, who marched up those very stairs” she pointed to the hallway where her Regency Staircase stood, one which was once part of a private boys school.

“ He said Gladys my girl, enough is enough. You need to get out of bed !  I have got you a job cleaning in a solicitors in Holywell ! You start on Monday” 

Gladys clapped her hands and laughed at the memory

“In those days you did what the Doctor told you to do, as they had the learning and we didn’t 

I got up, washed my face and went to work, and it was the saving of me . The Lord sent me the doctor that day and do you know what John 

I’ve  always been busy since” 

We drank more tea and gossiped more about village news and I realised  that what was a charming little story, a snippet of whimsy, was in fact a story that hid a great deal of pain. 

Gladys, buttered more scones and poured more tea and wrapped the scones in brown paper for me to take home. 

I was happy, sat at that table 

I was a child again, listening to my Grandmother’s  voice. 

Safe and comfortable in a warm kitchen that smelled of baking.