TOO HARD

“Look, Grandma, I have found something wrapped in brown paper.” Ruby was fascinated with the chest and its contents, pointing to her discovery. Grace put her glasses on and rummaged in the chest until she saw what her granddaughter was referring to. As she feared it was the old family Bible: fragile, the spine broken, the pages yellowed with age, the stories both Old and New Testaments, well-read yet misquoted, and the memories this book evoked. Long summer evenings outside listening to her Father reading the Psalms, Mother leading her little ones in hymns. Or indeed of evenings by the fire, of Christmas Days long past…

“Oh, darling I have been looking for that, fancy you being the one to find it.”

“Why?” Ruby was simply curious.

“Well my dear, this Bible has been in the family for years. My Grandfather gave it to my Grandmother, she gave it to Father, Father gave it to me. Daddy was asking about it the other day, he gets it next, then if it is still intact it could be yours.”

“Oh,” said Ruby who wasn’t really interested.  If it were not something to colour in, she lost interest very quickly, but Ruby was only five, Grace left that part of childhood long ago.

“Where did I put my colour pencils, Grandma?”

“Over on the table dear, by the colouring book.”

“Oh yes, sorry Grandma.”

“It doesn’t matter dear.” Grace smiled, closing the lid of the chest and holding the Bible carefully.

Ruby as you would expect ran off, and having settled down, started colouring in, deep in concentration, her tongue protruding. Her next question would be “Can I have some milk?” Of course, Grandma would allow it. Grace read the front page where the family names and dates of birth, death or marriage were recorded. Then she started to weep, there were two names missing. 

“Oh, William I wonder where you are now my love or where…” but it was too hard to go there still after all these years. She went back to the page, nonetheless, as though it had a magnet drawing her in to remember, then equally close the chapter of her life, for no one in her current circle knew about, “it” for “it” was just too hard. She went back to the page.

‘Oh yes Cyril, I remember him he had TB, Jane the same, no, she died in childbirth, poor love.’  Ah, the years had passed so quickly. Her elder brother Gerald, then Grace Joanna Morrison, her birthdate, their wedding date, Paul’s birthdate and Paul and Joan’s marriage, but not Ruby’s birthdate as yet, though it would soon be rectified. Paul was the son she could acknowledge, and all other family members in between except William, though John had been a good husband. Of course, there was …

She recalled her childhood and teenage years vividly; the magnet was at work again. How she loved William. William the Headmaster’s son. William chubby-cheeked, red hair, freckles; forever in trouble always sent to the corner, by the class teacher.  Where Grace would have been mortified William shrugged his shoulders, nothing seemed to worry him unduly. Eventually, as childhood sweethearts, William tempted Grace to try all sorts of things, from the latest ice cream to drinking water from the river; the act of cupping hands and drinking albeit with wet patches on her dress caused merriment. She did not think Mother really approved of William, but Grace learned not to worry about that. If anything came of first love, she’d deal with it.

One pleasant Saturday afternoon in spring, William and Grace had taken their sandwiches to the riverbank intent on sharing what had also been packed. William had brought a little bottle of his father’s cider, without permission. Grace brought her mother’s fruitcake to share, with permission. Soon it was evident that between the warm sun and the cider they were a little sleepy. They lay on the blanket, holding hands. William looked at Grace and stretching over kissed her, a long slow kiss. This was bliss, this was love… this was what it must be like; this was trouble brewing.

The first signs of another life within her frightened Grace. She had heard stories about what happened to young girls who… Oh God, how would she tell Mother? Her pious longsuffering mother.

She decided to tell William first; he was shocked but after a while said:

“I will speak to Dad.”

Next day William met Grace, and though he smiled, the cheeky fun-loving look was not there.

“Dad was not impressed, angrier about the cider than…” William smiled “I’m eighteen and you soon will be. Gracie, I’m going home with you tonight and will ask your Father’s permission to marry you.”

It seemed so easy, but the word was final; William was not marrying Grace, Grace would stay with a relative until after the baby was born, and be brought up as the relative’s child: after all she had three of her own. Something could be fixed. Mr Morrison said nothing, he would not dare.

Unlike the virgin Mary, staying with her cousin and receiving clear instructions from God, and in addition her fiancé’s support, Grace was banished, and alone. There would be no finishing school, no influential position, no prestigious marriage; in her mother’s words Grace was a slut and she wanted nothing more to do with her, even if she miscarried. Mrs Morrison found forgiveness a burden. In due course Grace had William’s son, she did not get the privilege of naming him.

Even years later, sitting in her comfortable home surrounded by beautiful things and the memories of her husband John, who never asked what caused the angst between mother and daughter, Grace wanted to weep. These days were so different. The sixties would be remembered for the Vietnam War and hippies; peace and love, but peace was often elusive.

“Grandma, can I have some milk, please?” Ruby asked from her place near the window. Something caught her eye “oh that looks like Daddy, he’s talking to someone.”

 Milk forgotten; Ruby went out to meet her Daddy. Paul was coming up the front path with a stranger.

“Hullo, Poppet, I hope Grandma has the kettle on.” Paul ruffled her hair “this is Bill, he has moved in across the street.”

Grace, standing at the front door listening to Bill’s voice knew that no introductions were necessary. Whoever stated that God did not answer prayer was wrong.