The sound of the waves brought it all back. At least, that's what she told me.We were watching the rising tide together, the taste of salt on the breeze and sun sinking on the horizon. A family day at the coast, drawing to a close . I had seen my grandmother taking a seat on a bench behind us and moved over to join her. She looked, all of a sudden, completely exhausted. "Everything ok, Nana?""Oh, yes. Fine. Just ... a memory." she gave me a faint smile, "A very old memory."We shared a quiet moment, lit by the colours before the sunset. My parents and brother were occupied, no sounds but the waves washing over the sand and birds overhead. Our shadows stretched out long and dark behind us. She took my hand in hers and met my eyes. It was so unusual for her to be serious that I began to smile, expecting a joke."David." she said, "If I tell you a story, will you write it down for me?"
***
So, that's how this all began. What follows are transcripts of 4 conversations between myself and my grandmother in the remainder of that year. Before we go any further, I'm sure some of you are thinking, why did she ask me to do this? And why did I agree? I don't intend to include much detail about myself here, this is her story not mine, but I would like to take a moment to answer those questions. I agreed for a variety of reasons. First, if I'm honest, I had a great deal of free time after losing my job. The Covid pandemic has not been kind to the hospitality industry. Second, I was a keen writer when I was young and had recently returned to it, publishing several short stories which my grandmother had read. She didn't like them much, but she read them nonetheless. Finally and most importantly, I simply loved to listen to her speak. Everyone did. She could tell a tale like no-one else I've ever met. Her voice, her smile, her turn of phrase and occasionally colorful language. She made you feel like child again, caught up and carried along in whatever adventure she retold. Sadly, I'm not sure how well her talent carries across in the written word, if at all. You will just have to take my word for it. Taking these points into account, it made sense I would be my grandmothers choice to document her experience. As to why she wanted to tell this story? Those reasons will always be her own. I do know her health had been failing, especially her mental acuity. Perhaps she felt those memories slipping away and didn't want them to be lost forever. I try not to think about it too much. It was painful work at times. To see someone who had been so fiercely independent her entire life, so sharp, begin to struggle. To see someone who had always been so capable, so competent, become confused and frustrated with simple tasks. I would catch her growing angry with herself and trying to hide it from us. Or laughing it off. If you haven't experienced it I pray you never have to, grieving for someone still with you. Watching, helpless, as this person you loved your entire life is stolen away, a piece at a time. But she never gave up. Never. She got on with her life, fighting for every second until the end. So the least I can do is get on with this, like she asked.Our first recording session was in late October of last year. I asked as few questions and interrupted as little as possible. My apologies if certain sections feel a little disjointed, she was often very tired and couldn't talk for long, and when she did there was a great deal of forgetfulness or long unrelated digressions. I have kept every relevant detail she mentioned and didn't later correct by herself. I have altered names and placenames to protect the privacy of those concerned. My grandmothers name was Annabelle Mackay, so in the transcripts of our conversations she is "A" and I'm "D". I've also included a series of notes from myself, the reasons for which will become apparent.
***
A : Ready?D : Yes, ready when you are. A : You just tell me if I'm talking too fast for you, in case you can't keep up, okay? (laughs) Alright then. It was 1955 and wintertime. November I think. I was 8 years old and I'd been in the system, or in care, or whatever they call it now, for about 3 years. Cliff Park was the fourth childrens home I stayed at. An orphanage, run by the Sisters of Mercy, who were part of the catholic church. Oh, I know what you're thinking, but they were all very kind to me in my time there. Some good people. This isn't going to be that type of story. I saw it at other homes that's true, more than once. The things you've read about in the papers. But never at Cliff Park. They had ... a different problem. You know, just saying the name, thinking about that time again, brings those feelings back. Wish I had a photograph somewhere to show you. It was a beautiful old building in miles and miles of grounds. Four floors, white stone, dozens of tall windows and dark oak doors. Wonderful woodland on three sides, rolling hills and sand dunes on the other. Maybe a quarter mile from the coast. Family who owned it, the Whytes, were rich as Creosote. Old money. I remember the first time I saw the place. I was in the back seat of the Sisters Alices car, listening to her chatter away as she drove. She had a lovely singsong highland accent that would have lulled me to sleep if I wasn't so nervous. I had only one bag with me I recall, and I was holding it tight beside me like someone would take it away. The road to the home wound through the woods, then came out at last, right at the coast. And there it was, Cliff Park. There was music playing on the car radio, Jimmy Young "Unchained Melody". Strange that I can remember that, isn't it? I'm getting so bad I can't hardly remember why I left the house half the time. But I remember that. Those lyrics, "lonely rivers flow to the sea". Maybe that's why it stuck in my head. Silly I suppose. I like that version of the song best you know, I used to have it around here somewhere. On an old vinyl. You wouldn't remember them, would you? Before your time. Anyway. Oh. Where was I?D : First arriving at Cliff Park, in the back of the car.A : Ah that's right, that's right. You'll be thinking, how did a place like that become an orphanage? Well, it wasn't planned that way. The sisters originally ran a childrens home in the nearest town, until it had burnt down a few years earlier. Everyone made it out alive, which was a bit of a miracle really. A better miracle would probably have been no fire in the first place, but there you go. So, overnight, 60 children had nowhere to go. The way I heard it told, they had all been gathered up in the church, trying to figure out what to do, when their prayers were answered. In walked Mr and Mrs Whyte, the sole remaining members of the Whyte clan, owners of Cliff Park and all the grounds. They offered up their home, just like that, and to purchase 60 new beds and everything that would be needed. Said they wanted to do something for the community. Something for the church. Apparently they had been away travelling, all over the world, and wanted to give back to their home country. Altruism always makes me a little suspicious, don't know about you, but they were taken at their word. And so Cliff Park Orphanage was born. D : What were they like, Mr and Mrs Whyte?A : Oh, a handsome couple. Like something out of a Hollywood movie, the pair of them. They were both tall, dark haired, always immaculately dressed. But ... distant. Or sad. (shakes her head) I don't know. There was a melancholy about them. As mysterious and exotic as they were to a penniless orphan like me, you could still see it in them. I heard a rumour that they had lost their own child. A boy. He had died when they had been travelling through India and that was why they had come home.D : And what about you? How did you come to be there?A : Me? I wasn't very interesting! Not compared to them, not at all. Just another girl without a home. No shortage of them sadly, not then or now. My mother, your great grandmother, had passed away when I was 4. Pneumonia it said on her death certificate. I tracked it down when I was older. Not sure why, I just ... just wanted to know. I only had the one memory of her. Sitting next to my bed, stroking my hair and whispering to me as I fell asleep. Maybe I just imagined it, made it up when I was so young that it got mixed in with the real memories. Just make believe, so I had something of her. Something more than nothing. Who knows? My father, well, I'm not sure what to say about him. A year or so after my mother died he gave up on me. Decided he couldn't do it anymore, looking after a wee lassie. Blackhill House is where he took me. Running at his heels, a skinny little thing with nothing but the dirty clothes on her back. He told them he would come back for me but he never did. I don't remember much about it, not really. I know I cried for him, to come for me, something that was never going to happen. I know he never looked back. I found his death certificate too, you know, same time I found my mothers. He was dead before I even made it to Cliff Park. Drank himself to death in a Glasgow slum, so I guess I was better where I was, eh? Funny how things work out. You can't see it when you're in the middle, but a little distance and things can look very different. I wouldn't have listened to anyone saying that at the time though, not a chance! I was a feisty wee terror, forever getting the belt or a slap and it was well bloody deserved (laughs). I just wouldn't take a telling. Ha! I was a bad one for stealing anything I could get my hands on, which got me into the deepest bother. I used to be ashamed of that, looking back on it. But I learned it's more common than you might think. Among orphans. When you're always moving, you take what you can get I suppose. So that's how I ended up at Cliff Park. No-one else would have me.D : And what about the orphanage itself? Did you notice anything out of the ordinary when you first arrived?A : No. No, not really. I thought it would be just another childrens home. I didn't know how much it would change me. Change my life. I didn't think I would see people die.
