Pie Day

Sunday

“Do you want tea Gran?”

“Yes my love, make a pot! Always tastes better in a pot.”  The last bit was half muttered to herself.

“Do you want Apple or Lemon Meringue?

“Ooh Lemon Meringue please.  I haven’t had Lemon Meringue for ages!  You are a good girl Laura.”  Gran took the plate I offered and sliced through the caramel tinged top to the buttery yellow viscous filling beneath.  “Nice crispy meringue.” She waved her cake fork at me. “You make this Laura?”

“Mum did.”

Gran sniffed as she always did when reference was made to her daughter-in-law. “Yes, well, I always think the topping should be softer on a lemon meringue.”

It didn’t stop her polishing it off though.  I smiled a thin line across my face and tried not to feel irritated.

“I’ve been looking at photos.” She waved the fork again towards the pile on the side table on her right.  It had gold curved legs and a marble top and was the smallest of a nest of three.  It was always placed at an angle on her right despite the awkward way Gran had to sidle past it to get through to the kitchen.

“You should place it on your left side Barbara,” mum always told her.  “You’re going to fall one of these days.”

“I don’t like it on the left.  I have to twist round to reach my things.”

I leaned forward trying to balance my cup and saucer on my lap.  I gave up and placed it on the hearth, and then gathered up the higgledy piggledy pile on the table.

Gran leaned towards me and jabbed at each photo as I looked at it.

“That’s my mum, your great grandma.  There’s your dad when he was a baby; he was a bonny lad.  That’s my brother Tim.  That was taken at cousin Jenny’s wedding…”

Most of the photos were black and white and dog-eared, and I had looked through them so many times.  A few were old square polaroids, in bleached colour with white borders.  I smiled at my great aunts in short skirts and wide straw hats, and laughed at my brother – about seven? – in wide legged trousers of dubious fabric and a navy bomber jacket with knitted cuffs.

“Who’s this Gran?”

But she had nodded off, her chin slumping down towards her chest, her mouth slightly open.  With exaggerated quiet I cleared the tea things, and gathered up the photos into an organised pile.  I turned over the black and white image of the pretty face I was unfamiliar with.  A scar ran across her cheek. 

Kitty Gribble was written in an old fashioned and unfamiliar hand.

Friday

“Do you want Apple or Cherry Gran?”  I brought the tea cup through and placed it on her right.

“Isn’t there any lemon today?  That was a beautiful meringue.  Did you make this in a pot?” she gestured towards the tea.

“Yes Gran.  Apple or Cherry?”

“Apple my love.”

She took the plate I returned with.  “Did you make this?”

“No Gran, mum did.” 

Sniff.  “Hmm.”  She sliced through the pastry with her fork and speared the apple below.  “Bit dry.  I like mine with a bit more sauce.”

“What have you been up to today Gran?”

She placed the already empty plate beside her and slurped at her tea.  “That new warden  looked in today.  She’s nice enough I suppose.  Made the tea in the cup though.”

“It’s kind of her to look in on you.”

“Yes, well, she visits everyone, not just me.”

“Even more so then.” I drank my tea. I loved the old familiar tea set we always used.  It was old fashioned, with  gold rimmed cups and plates and saucers; a thatched cottage surrounded by hollyhocks that transported me back to my childhood reaching for the crockery from the second shelf in the pantry and the Battenberg on the shelf above.

“Gran, who’s Kitty Gribble”

“Kitty?  Where did you hear about her?”

“Her name was on the back of one of your photos.”

“She was a cousin of mine.  Now let me see. She was raised by Aunt Clara, who was my mum’s sister, but she wasn’t her daughter.  She was born, you know, out of wedlock,” - mouthed – “and fostered out to some distant cousins in Ireland to start with.”

“Didn’t her dad marry her mum then?”

“Well, yes, that’s the funny thing.  They did get married and go on to have more children, but he would never acknowledge Kitty, and her brothers and sisters knew nothing about her.”

“Why?”

“Oh things were different in those days.  Not like now.  Everything was done properly.”

It was too hot to challenge the logic of that statement.

“Don’t you bring trouble into this house, my mother used to say to me, or you’ll be the death of me.  I used to worry about it; didn’t even know what it was I wasn’t supposed to be doing!  Things were different then…”

Her voice drifted off and I thought she was nodding off again.

“…Poor Kitty, she wasn’t very well treated in Ireland you know.  Got her face burnt – not very well treated at all.  Aunt Clara rescued her and raised her.”

“Then what happened?”

“I don’t know.”  Her brow furrowed as if she was trying to remember.  “I was very young, and it wasn’t really talked about.  Not like now; no-one's private any more.  Are you making more tea my love?  And another piece of that delicious pie!”

I sidled past the table into the kitchen.

“Make it in a pot!” Gran called after me.

 

Saturday

Kathy - the new warden – and mum talked quietly in the kitchen.  I crouched down on the floor next to Gran and held her hand.  Her skirt was rucked up above her saggy knees and her head rested against the armchair.

“You’ll be all right Gran” I reassured her.  “The paramedics will lift you when they get here.”

“I don’t know why you had to call an ambulance.  I’m perfectly all right!”

“They just need to check you over.”

“You should move that table Barbara!” mum came into the room looking cross.  She had been gardening when Kathy had called.  “I’ve said before.  There’s not enough room for you pass safely by.  I’m surprised you haven’t fallen before!”

"I don’t want it on the other side!” Gran almost shouted.  “I have to twist to reach my things.”  This was quieter, by way of apologetic explanation to Kathy.

“Perhaps we could look at rearranging the room for you, Mrs Wilson.  You could have hit your head on the hearth.”

Gran looked mutinous.

“All this fuss!” she muttered.

The paramedics arrived.

“Come on my love; let’s have a look at you!”

We retreated to the kitchen.  Mum removed the black lid from the kettle and filled it at the sink.

“Stubborn old woman!”  Quietly, to herself.  She was upset, and not just about the interrupted weeding.

“Make the tea in a pot Carole!” Gran called as the paramedics hoisted her back into her chair.

“You’ll stay for a bit of pie won’t you?” she asked them. “She’s a dab hand at pastry, I’ll say that for her.”

 

Sharon