GRANNY’S PASTIES
For the first time in twenty years of marriage, I was heading off on holiday alone. Well, it was only for two days, there and backfor a school reunion. My husband had politely declined, saying that chapter belonged to me alone, and hed rather not intrude. Honestly, I was relieved; the real reason for my trip was a different visit altogetherone that concerned no one but myself.
I met up with my old classmates. Everything unfolded as it usually does at these thingsfirst comes the parade of personal triumphs, proving the years hadnt gone to waste, then, after a few glasses of wine, we all start bemoaning lifes miseries, letting old facades slip.
I saw my opening and snuck away. I told a few people Id be back shortly, but no one really minded by then. Tanyamy closest mate in upper schooldropped me by the cemetery gates.
I had no idea where to go, so I wandered in, clutching a bunch of white roses for my grandmother. For more than an hour I weaved between headstones, searching fruitlessly for her name. It was stiflingly hot. I was parched and wanted to cry out loud.
Only three hours to my flight. How would I ever find her? Overwhelmed and desperate, I finally broke down, wailing for her the way I had as a child: Granny, Granny! Where are you?
Whats her name? Surname? A raspy mans voice startled me. I dropped the flowers to the ground, heart racing.
Dont panic, not a ghostI work here, replied a scruffy man emerging from a freshly-dug grave nearby. He reeked of ale, and in a moment was standing beside me, shovel in hand.
Rachel Rachel Bennett. My grandmother. I moved away and never once visited her grave.
Right then, follow me, he announced, setting off in exactly the opposite direction to where Id been looking. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes later, I found myself standing before a polished marble stone. There it was: Rachel Bennett.
How do you know where everyones buried? I couldnt help asking.
Look here, he said, pointing at the stone. You dont see that every day.
I stooped to read: Leaving my recipe for fluffy pasties to my grandchildren and everyone else. Enjoy! Love one another. Granny Rachel. My heart jolted; I recognised her handwriting instantly. Below, the very recipe my mother had once passed down to me. I sank, exhausted, onto a battered bench.
Your grannys famous round here, said the man with a grin, lighting a cigarette. Everyone knows her name. Mustve been a characterleaving that on a headstone! And the pasties, I tell you, delicious with a proper pint.
I fumbled for my purse, pulled out a few twenty-pound notes, and handed them to him. Sorry, but Id like to be alone now, if thats alright. There was so much I needed to say. Once hed gone, I spread my coat out and lay across the sun-warmed marble, hugging it as if it might produce a heartbeat.
Granny its me, Lucy. Im living in Cambridge now, just like you hoped. I have a familyhusband, two lovely girls, your great-grandchildren. Im a nurse, its tough work but respected. Our flats nice, weve travelled a bit. Everything looks fine enough on paper but, truthfully, I havent felt real joy in so long. My husbands lost in his own world. And me, Im just adrift. What am I living for? For whom?
A gentle breeze brought a rare moment of freshness. The familiar dusk choruscrickets strumming, leaves fluttering, grasses rustlingechoed the memory of endless summer evenings as a child. Granny, I miss you so much! Tears rolling, I let myself sob quietly. No one and nowhere ever felt as right as being with you.
With eyes closed, I imagined her, calm and poised as always, setting the table on the off-chance someone might pop by: a bowl of fluffy pasties, a pot of porridge, home-pickled cucumbers. Her warm hands fondly stroking my hair. My darling, she murmured as if shed never left, dont chase happiness outside yourself. Trinkets and thrills are fleeting. Youve only a drop of love in you now, and youre afraid to pour it out. But the more you give, the more youll have.
Oi, are you asleep? The scruffy caretaker was back, jolting me from reverie. Brought you some pastieswife made them this morning. And some of our own ginger beer.
It was exactly what I needed. I realised how hungry I was, thanked him, then glanced nervously at my watch. Barely an hour to my flight. Id never make it…
Can I call for a cab around here? Is there even taxi service? In a panic, I didnt know what to do.
Come on, then, he said, gripping my arm, and in ten minutes I was in the back of a taxi, zooming towards the airport.
And then dread seized meId left my handbag with my passport, ticket, and wallet on that bench near Grannys grave.
Please, turn back! I beg you! I shouted to the driver.
He cursed under his breath, spun the car around, and braked hard near the cemetery gates. There was the caretaker, panting, my battered handbag dangling from his hand, old bicycle on the pavement beside him.
Here you go, loveyour bag, he said breathlessly.
I hugged him like a dear friend and offered him a crisp fifty.
He shook his head. Not in it for the money. I do it for your gran. I often visit her, sit and have a chat makes my heart lighter, and keeps me out of the pub.
By the time I settled onto the plane, the whole day crashed over me, flooding me with gratitudefor the caretaker, who Granny herself had surely sent; the taxi driver, who let me weep without a word; the strangers whod scribble down Grannys pastie recipe from a headstone to share with their own; my husband, well-meaning but never quite getting it right lately; even my daughters, stubbornly tuning me out at times.
My dearest ones, how wise my Granny Rachel turned out to be. She set me straight: happiness is no ones gift to give, unless I become the source of joy, comfort, and warmth myself.
Pulling out my phone, I snapped a photo of her recipe, then laughed out loudstartling the woman beside me. When I explained, she asked for a copy, then passed it on to her friend, back from her own break. Suddenly, my story was bouncing from row to row. We laughed, swapped memories, and traded tales of our own beloved grannies. By landing, not one of us was a stranger anymore.
When I finally got home, the house was emptygirls at school, husband at work. I showered, rolled up my sleeves, and started making dough for Grannys pasties.
