Whispers and Shadows

Hello everyone, today I am very proud to present to you this short story by Jean Garrod, I was stopped in my tracks when I first read it and it has caused me to stop and consider what my own legacy may be. Please read and share with your women folk and send me your comments, I will be very happy to pass these on to Jean. 

many thanks

Dee

 

Whispers and Shadows

By Jean Garrod

Just whispers. Nothing definite. The timing would be about right  though… Irish Potato Famine. Leave or starve to death. He took his fragile young wife and baby daughter. Terrifying journey across a hostile sea. The stench of vomit, the screams of the mother counterpointed by the howls of the little girl, who would forever now fear crossing water. Liverpool docks, still rocking beneath them as they struggled to recover their land legs. More bone-weary travelling to arrive in East Lancashire. Stunned relatives with little enough for themselves now obliged to help these refugees. The child was quieter now, just the occasional murmur. They discovered she had had a stroke, and would be permanently paralysed down her left side. He tried to find work, but what little there was, was not for Irish “bog-trotters”. With rising despair, he left his young wife and growing daughter for America – the land of opportunity for Irish refugees. At first the letters from America came with news and a little money. Gradually, inevitably, the letters dwindled. His news got bleaker: the money got less. She knew he would not return. With a burst of energy that surprised the relatives, she sailed for America, promising to send for the child when they were settled. 

In the hustle of New York City, she got the bus to his last known address. Almost there, she suddenly saw him from the window! She rushed off the bus and hurried after him. She watched him turn into a street and rounded the corner just in time to see him enter a house. Breathless, she patted her hair and dusted down her dress. A woman answered the door, smiling. “Excuse me, I’ve come to see my husband.” Frowning, “There’s only MY husband here.” The man, who was husband to them both, rushed through the door and away into the night. 

She collapsed on the doorstep. When she came to, she was on her way back to Liverpool. Arriving home, the relatives arranged for her to live quietly in a bedroom with the madness. Elizabeth was my father’s mother. Despite the poverty, she up married, had two children and a long life. My mother welcomed her into our home in her senior years. As one of six children, I vividly remember her scary stories that left me afraid of the dark for years.

Just whispers, nothing definite. But very believable against the backdrop of that history. Such legacies leave long shadows. Abandonment, rejection, poverty, pain and struggle. A deep-rooted legacy of shamefully being not nearly good enough. The Grammar School didn’t help me. No fitting in anywhere. The shame is overwhelming. My whole family is covered in shame.

But the shadows are deepest when the sun is strongest. What is this legacy for me? My great-grandfather left an intolerable situation to help his family – twice. Taking a great risk for those he loved. Trying to keep the family together despite the challenges. My great-grandmother,although fragile, seeking to know the truth of her husband, despite the cost. Survival is a strong theme here. And my grandmother? Well, she left me her gift of storytelling that our grandchildren love so much. She passed on the Irish gift of the ‘sight’ that helped her to “read the tea leaves without the tea leaves” and enables me to bring comfort, reassurance and sometimes a different perspective on life’s challenges. Family has been a strong force and I can now express my love for them in words without feeling shallow and pretentious.

All-in-all, I’m very grateful for the legacy that they left me. I have come to a deeper understanding of and gratitude for all they did for their future children. What’s your legacy?