Memories of glorious afternoon chats with my dear Marmee

Bill Handbury treasured his grandmother, but fears he failed her in her final years

IT is oft said grandparents can provide a special relationship with children, one that differs yet complements the role and function of parents.

As a grandparent myself, I look with affection to my grandmother as a role model.

To her nine grandchildren she was known as Marmee, self-nominated and, of course, derived from Little Women.

A remaining frustration in her life was being denied the opportunity of going to university. As a girl in the 1800s social expectations dictated that “little ladies” should focus on preparing themselves for marriage.

Denied university but not daunted, she entered Melbourne Technical College to study Early Childhood Education, which led to her being a founder of free kindergartens and kindergarten training, a passion she contributed to all of her life.

She had a vitality, was a generous listener, but didn’t tolerate fools gladly.

Marmee was one of the first women to get a driver’s licence in Victoria, a process that entailed a hand-written application, including one’s religion, together with a character reference.

Driving in her 80s she ran into a car that had stopped in front of her. When the driver approached her she took the front foot and said “How dare you stop like that in front of me.” He, a young policeman, said “Madam I usually do at a red light”. The front foot changed quickly to charm and she got a warning on the proviso she considered using taxis.

At 17, I lived with her for a year. She was then a widow saddened by her children’s refusal to let her remarry.

The day would start with making her breakfast and taking it to her bed. On the tray a flower from the garden, fresh grapefruit, toast with homemade marmalade, Bushells tea and the obligatory Nulax. God help me if I forgot the Nulax. This was accompanied with the daily papers, which I was expected to have read first, and more than just the sporting pages.

There were smiles, a few words as to what the day looked like so she could dress appropriately, then a kiss before we went our separate ways for the day.

When I returned late in the afternoons there was always a warm welcome followed by a ritual of “Darling, pour me a drink and tell me everything”. It was an era when women didn’t drink on their own.

This was a special time. I would pour her a brandy and soda, take the lid off the biscuit barrel and we would yarn about the events of the day. First, personal things that might have happened, followed by news in the papers.

Gossip wasn’t her thing, but humour was, and at times it was wicked.

Reflecting on those conversations, only now do I fully appreciate how

wonderful they were. Marmee guided introductions to the subjects discussed, but never dictated direction or outcomes. She tolerated my brashness, youthful ignorance and had the knack of making me say what I really thought. Then she would contribute her thoughts, but not dogmatically.

The chatter would continue at the dinner table. Marmee’s cooking was delicious and generous. My contribution was washing and drying up, and in the process at times I would hear a voice calling “It’s rubbish tin night”.

There was, by the way she lived her life, a conspicuous discipline, particularly for manners and this was imparted as a lesson by example. If there is such a thing as soft discipline this was it.

After dinner, I would do my studies and she would read, both aware of the other with an unspoken contentment.

Marmee had a love for the arts and once a fortnight we would go to a gallery or theatre. Then she would want to know how I viewed the experience. Her philosophy embraced experiences being more important than material things.

It was more important to visit the botanical gardens than buying new clothes. What a role model.

I’m inclined to agree with Barack Obama: “The world would be a better place if it was run by women.”

Today this remarkable woman could have been a professor of medicine or even a High Court judge. Oops, I nearly forgot, the High Court still has a glass ceiling.

I need to conclude with a confession of guilt. More than once Marmee would say “I’ve had a wonderful life, but if I ever lose my marbles or become incapacitated make sure my life ends”.

Embarrassed and naive, I would say, “Of course Marmee”. Then when she became demented and was put in a home, I would visit. Her eyes would stare at me and I knew I had failed the loving trust I had been given.