Margaret Mary Meyer
A Night at the Ballet
by Vanessa Lynne
Granny
(Margaret Mary Meyer) was never a normal grandmother, I realised quite young
in life. Take her name for instance. I don't mean Granny; I called her that
to avoid any more embarrassment caused by her self appointed name. No, when
I became conscious of the fact she was a grandmother and that most grandmothers
were called Nana, Gran or Grandma I also discovered she was called Nounou.
"Why Nounou?" I asked her one day "Because when your brother was born, I
felt too young to be a grandmother and besides which, when I wheeled him
in his big pram for the first time I felt just like a French Nounou." I had
to be satisfied with the explanation as I didn't really want to know what
a French Nounou was.
Ever present in my young life, I thought it quite normal for the parents
of one's mother to live in the same house. She was a fine grandmother as
far as I could tell. The fact she still controlled my mother's life was none
of my concern then. As long as she continued to make me rock cakes and listen
to my childish stories I was happy with the arrangement. And my grandfather?
Fortunately he was called "Grandpa". He lived in the garden or in the shed
where he made beautiful wooden objects or painted beautiful pictures. Granny
ran his life too. Actually, she ran everyone's lives.
At some stage in her existence, Granny must have decided she was aristocracy,
and she relentlessly pursued this illusion for her entire life. Doggedly,
in fact given the total absence of any tangible evidence to back her beliefs.
She was the first of seven children born to an Irish couple leading unremarkable
lives. Her mother was far too busy having babies to do anything much else
and her fireman father died suddenly when she was twelve. She made a great
deal of the fact that of the seven children she was the only one with black
curly hair while the rest were red or golden. I think she must have set herself
aside then, because she said she never felt as if she really belonged. Many
years later when I met her elderly sisters, they delighted in telling me
what an unspeakable snob she always was. But the whole family thrived on
bitchiness.
The
closest Granny ever came to realising her dreams of grandeur were the three
years she spent as governess to a countess in France. Sadly, my black-haired,
blue eyed Irish grandmother didn't catch the eye of a handsome count. She
had to wait several more years before catching the eye of my handsome
grandfather. As a realiser of dreams, he came close mind you. His father
was French and he had a very fancy, double-barreled French name. His potential,
she later discovered was never reached either, so poor Granny lived her life
a failed aristocrat.
Disappointment became her in some odd way. It meant she always made that
extra effort. A little like Hyacinth Bucket, but with more intelligence and
a far less irritating manner. Take her appearance for instance. Wraith-like,
standing less than five feet tall, Granny didn't consider herself dressed
unless she was wearing her corset, suspenders and stockings underneath it
all. What she thought the corset was holding in I never worked out. Once
outside the house, she always wore hat and gloves, no matter what the weather,
even in the height of a Perth summer. She insisted on calling her umbrella
a "parasol" (pronounced parasole) and waving it about over her head to keep
off the sun. No one, but no one else had a grandmother who used a "parasole".
The hats themselves are a story. Granny didn't believe in subtle headwear.
All her hats were as dramatic as good taste would allow. One of the more
memorable was an emerald green felt number with a wide sweeping brim that
tilted upwards on one side. It was adorned on the down sweeping side by a
clump of equally green feathers. She wore this hat with great aplomb. It
was her "determined to make a statement" hat. It was often worn with a black
wool coat with a thick fur collar. If she really wanted to make a statement,
she would wear a plainer coat draped in a rather sad looking fox fur stole,
head, feet, tail and all.
Granny was hard to ignore even in spite of her minute stature. She had a
very outgoing personality and a firm belief in her ability to entertain people
whether they were entertained or not. She held forth on most topics but was
most forceful on the subject of politics where she occupied the right hand
side with the likes of Ghengis Khan and Margaret Thatcher. Winston Churchill
was her great hero along with Field Marshall Montgomery. Granny distinguished
herself nationally when an ABC cameraman caught her hitting a Labor supporter
over the head with her "parasole" during a political rally. She didn't like
his placard, she later confessed. That made it all right. I often wonder
if one of the reasons my mother married my father was because he was the
son of the secretary of the Communist Party in Manchester. That really annoyed
Granny, even more so that the fact he was Jewish, which was bad enough. Mum's
choice of husbands was certainly one way she got her own back on Granny.
As she had three of them, it was a substantial amount of back getting indeed.
Going out with Granny could be very embarrassing sometimes. She simply said
what she thought with little regard to the feelings of others. Sitting in
the front pew at Mass one Sunday she noticed the priest leaving the sacristy.
"Oh Damn!" she announced in a very loud whisper, "I can't stand this priest."
I nearly died and could find no-where to hide as she hauled me out of my
slumped position telling me, again in a very loud whisper, to sit up straight.
She had a way of dismissing people with an imperious wave of the hand that
left them in no doubt as to her opinion of their status.
Living through two wars, the depression and a great number of disappointments
enabled Granny to rise above most adversity. In fact she had a singular way
of turning it to her advantage. Like the time she was blown over by the wind.
Everyone knows how windy it can get in St George's Terrace in Perth. Many
a skirt has reached new heights as the prevailing wind howls through the
tunnel of buildings. Granny was picked up by a particularly strong gust and
deposited on the steps of the then R&I Bank. She sustained a broken hip
and was hospitalised for a number of weeks. The newspapers picked up on this
event and reported her misfortune. Granny was most incensed. Not that they
had reported her accident, but that they had added a year to her age.
As she rather enjoyed the best of bad health, Granny made several meals of
her recovery. She spent as long as she could on crutches and then progressed
onto a walking stick. Unfortunately, her walking stick became a permanent
substitute for her "parasole" and the populace of Perth who disagreed with
her were now at the mercy of her proddings on a much more regular basis.
She held forth a length about her accident waving the stick about for emphasis
and made great use of her "lameness" to get her own way. She would proudly
show people how her leg was now shorter as a result by transferring her weight
onto her good leg and swinging the "gammy" one a good inch above the ground.
The fact she was also leaning to the side of her good leg thus elevating
the bad one was overlooked by everyone but her family.
We
had many private jokes about this and another more embarrassing habit of
hers. In her later years she used to break wind and carry on as if nothing
had happened. In fact she did this so often, my brother nicknamed her "Farty".
Farting wasn't very acceptable in my family. It was one of a number of things
considered "not quite nice". That and clearing ones throat, talking about
sex, breast feeding in public, belching and anything concerning bodily functions
in fact.
Like so many raised in the Victorian era, Granny was very cultured. She spoke
French fluently and read at least one book a week up until a few months before
she died. Her taste in literature was fairly ghastly in my opinion. I have
an aversion to historical novels of the Catherine Gaskin ilk, but that is
just a matter of preference and she never expected me to read them. Like
all the women in our family, Granny loved the ballet so when Copelia came
to Perth I decided to have a special night out on the town with Granny and
my mother. The "three generations" she used to call us. When my daughter
was born a year or so later she burst with pride whenever the "four generations"
gathered together.
Anyway, we planned the evening to include a dinner in Perth at a restaurant
followed by the ballet and a nightcap to follow. I felt rather daring getting
out as I had a young baby at the time and seldom left him, even with his
doting father. There were a few practical problems to overcome before the
evening could eventuate. Not the least of which was how to get Granny around.
By this time she was very frail having broken yet another hip in less dramatic
circumstances. Parking the car, walking to the restaurant and then to the
Entertainment Centre assumed monumental proportions in my planning process.
The obvious solution was to borrow a wheel chair for the night and push Granny
around in style. The easy part was arranging a loan from the nursing home.
The hard parts were as yet unimagined.
The night of the great outing finally arrived. Granny and Mum were beside
themselves with excitement and determined to make a dramatic impression.
Mum donned a posh frock topped with a fur coat and finished the effect with
large, dangly earrings and bright lipstick. Granny stole the show. She wore
a vivid blue, velvet caftan-style dress, long strings of pearls, pearl drop
earrings and a different fox fur cape with clasps made from the hapless animal's
front paws. Fortunately, this one lacked a head. Her silvery-blue hair was
meticulously arranged. I was, as usual, less dramatic. In fact my lack of
drama in choice of clothes is still a source of bewilderment to my mother.
Rebellion hasn't occurred to her as a reason even yet. I chose a three tiered
floral skirt popular in the late 70s, a peasant blouse and shawl. I was happy
with my appearance even if my elders were a little disappointed.
The one difficulty I had anticipated fairly early in the piece had not as
yet been revealed to Granny and Mum but soon became apparent. There was going
to be some difficulty getting Granny, Mum, a folded wheelchair and me into
a Honda Civic circa 1974. When Mum realised she would have to sit in the
back seat with the wheelchair, a frosty silence descended over the gathering.
There was no option. I was the driver, Granny needed to sit in some comfort,
if not for the sake of her hips, at least for the sake of her dignity, and
the only space other than in the tiny boot, was squeezed next to the wheelchair.
Granny settled herself regally into the front while Mum poured herself into
the quarter of the back seat not holding the wheelchair. She completed the
whole journey on one buttock listing dangerously like a human Titanic.
Fortunately, she is blessed with a sense of the absurd and her humour returned
after a little while. Which is just as well, because then, quite naturally,
it started to rain. Pour actually. The journey into Perth from Subiaco was
quick and didn't allow the rain time to desist. Our options on arriving near
the restaurant were to wait in the car for the foreseeable future or make
a dash for it.
Given the state of Granny's mobility, making a dash probably wasn't the best
option to choose. Mum and I emerged from the car and wrestled the wheelchair
out of the back while Granny offered unhelpful suggestions from the shelter
of the front seat. We unloaded Granny as fast as various physical constraints
would allow and made a beeline for the restaurant. Granny had the foresight
to bring her umbrella (no longer a "parasole" now winter was upon us) which
she tried to hold over herself and the rest of us. This was an obvious exercise
in futility so I suggested that as I was the only one not wearing a dead
animal, it didn't matter if I became a little wet. I needed clear vision
to steer the wheelchair in any event and I was in danger of losing it on
the end of an umbrella frame. Mum took control of the umbrella and I took
control of the wheelchair. Or at least I tried to.
Granny
was not one of life's relaxed beings. Running everyone's existence required
a great deal of vigilance on her behalf. She seldom sat still and if she
did it was on the edge of the seat - literally. Now sitting on the edge of
a normal seat is really only an inconvenience to her, and she didn't think
so, so I guess it wasn't. Sitting on the edge of a wheelchair was a very
great inconvenience to me. Because I couldn't see very well in the dark,
in the rain, with an umbrella waving in front of my face and my fringe dripping
into my eyes, it took me a while to work out why I seemed unable to steer
the wheelchair. Granny was, after all, only a very tiny person. But sitting
on the edge of the wheelchair, she was just heavy enough to upset its centre
of gravity and prevent me from maneuvering it with anything approaching ease.
In fact it required super human strength which I don't possess, being somewhat
small myself. When the penny finally dropped as to why we were getting no-where
and very wet in a hurry, I had to persuade a reluctant Granny to shuffle
back and allow me to get on with my job.
The meal passed relatively uneventfully. Well, as uneventfully as anything
could pass when Granny was out in public. She charmed the waiters and told
them all about her broken hips. They smiled indulgently and told us how wonderful
she was for her age, which of course she also delighted in telling them.
Mum and I tried to get some attention too but as always, slipped back into
our accustomed second fiddle roles.
One good aspect of spending time in the restaurant was that it gave the rain
time to stop and the wind time to gather strength. We ate in a small place
in Shafto Lane, which as natives of Perth know is quite steep, sloping down
towards Wellington Street where the Entertainment Centre is located. Holding
onto the wheelchair, going down the steep hill was enough of a challenge
for me. My three tiered, cotton skirt rising above my head was rather too
much. Not only could I not see, but the whole of Perth could - and what they
could see I was not willing to share with them. Mum shrieked with laughter
and tried to hold my skirt down. The wind only succeeded in raising the parts
she couldn't manage. Still, half of my knickers on display was better than
the lot. Granny cackled in her wheelchair issuing yet more useless instructions.
The next major obstacle was crossing Wellington Street. All six lanes of
it. We found a section with a gap in the median strip and I judged it safe
to cross. Not so my older relatives. Mum is terrified of traffic and considered
the bus leaving the Causeway some three kilometers away too close. Granny
raised both arms and in perfect English bobby pose, stopped the imaginary
traffic with an imperious wave of her white gloves. I gulped, tried to look
invisible and kept pushing. Then it rained again.
We moved as fast as one can pushing a cackling Granny and urging a terrified
mother to cross the road, now completely devoid of traffic. The umbrella
was back in Granny's possession and she continued to threaten my eyesight
waving it around trying to keep us dry. My conscience wouldn't allow me to
dart off leaving Mum on the other side of Wellington Street so I parked Granny,
dashed back over the road, grabbed my protesting mother and my once again
airborne skirt and pulled. Fortunately, Mum's arm did not detach from her
socket and finally we moved into the shelter of the Entertainment Centre
foyer.
At about this time, God took pity on me. And so he or she should. I was drenched
to the skin, my arms ached from holding Granny back from certain doom in
Shafto Lane and I was wishing I'd suggested fish and chips in front of the
telly. I presented our tickets to the usher and instead of taking us to our
booked seats, he wheeled Granny to the front of the theatre and parked her
right next to the stage. Another usher brought two chairs and set them next
to Granny for Mum and I to sit on. Granny was in heaven. Aristocracy at last.
She removed the bedraggled fox fur with a flurry and spread it out on the
floor in front of her to dry. She loudly insisted Mum do the same. I was
more than grateful for my simple, knitted shawl. The floor was beginning
to look like a prehistoric cave.
The ballet was divine and Granny whispered all her opinions about it very
loudly throughout. Fortunately, the whole episode tired her out so I was
relieved of taking her for her nightcap. Instead, we repeated the whole
wheelchair pushing performance, this time uphill. Finally loaded into the
car, I drove a very tired but happy Granny home.
Years
later, I still can't go past Shafto Lane without recalling the night we went
to the ballet and thinking about Granny. You know, they don't make Grannies
like that anymore.