Joan: A story.

There was a little girl called Joan. She lived in a land with no trees, just grass and hills and peat and rock. And the sea. The sea had claimed her father, and her stepfather, as was its habit in those days. The men of the island didn't get buried there. The graveyard by the little church was full of women, and babies, but only a handful of men. Joan could see the church from the front door of the croft where she lived with her mother, and sisters, and her grandmother, and her great grandmother. It was a very small church, and Joan used to think of it as being hunched against the wind. Today, Joan was looking at the church, and the beach, and the waves, and wondering whether she would see them again. She promised them she would come back, one day. Joan didn't want to leave, but the living was hard in those days, on that island, and her mother couldn't support Joan and her three sisters with the money she got from sewing on the island. They would have to move. Not down to the big town, on the other island, but away, away south, to the really big city, full of dirt and dust and smoke.



Joan's mother had promised her that there she would be able to go to a proper school, and have proper shoes. But Joan didn't want to go to a proper school, or wear proper shoes. She liked the walk across the hills to the tiny corrugated iron school with its old oak desks. She liked the warm fur bootees that they made themselves, with the extra bits of fur to tie round their legs in the winter to trudge through the snow.

"Joey!" Joan's mother called her from inside. Joan's grandmother was called Joan too, so although Joan was her proper name, her family called her "Joey". She hated it. With one last look at the blue water and gleaming white sand, she turned back inside to help her mother pack their meager belongings.

~~~

Joan stood in the playground of the big school. It was intimidating: a big, grey imposing building, full of other little girls running around. There were boys too, but they were in a separate bit of the playground, and had their own door. The little girls here weren't very nice. They teased Joan because of her accent; she spoke with the soft, singsong dialect of the Islands, while they spoke "proper", like everyone in the Big City. Joan was slowly learning to speak like they did. She didn't want to lose the soft burr of the islands, but no-one here understood it.

But, as hard as it was fitting in, Joan enjoyed school. She got to learn the English, and the French, and Mathematics. She enjoyed English the most, because they learned poetry. Each day they had to go home and learn a verse, and then recite it in class the next day. Joan was clever, and her teachers said she would do well. Perhaps, they said, she should go on to take the exams, and maybe become a teacher.

Joan found herself a quiet corner of the playground, and took out her poetry book. She was learning another poem, not one from class, but one which she liked the sound of. A shadow fell over her book as she murmured the words to herself. She looked up.
"Joey Moar? Hello. I'm Margaret Black."
"Hello." Joan said cautiously.
Margaret sat down beside her, and glanced at her book. "Oh!" she cried, "Do you like that poem? I love it, I've been teaching it to myself."
Joan laughed. "I love it too, it sounds so good. I've been teaching myself too."

Every day, the two friends would sit on the playground wall at breaktime, holding hands and reciting poetry together. But they were getting older. Margaret was the oldest of ten children, and although her father was alive, the living was hard for her parents. They couldn't afford to keep Margaret on at school. She would need to find work.

It was the same for Joan. Although there were only four children, Joan was the oldest, and her father and stepfather were dead. Her mother couldn't afford the uniform and the school fees. Joan would also have to find work.

So, one day, when they were fourteen, they said goodbye to each other, and to the school playground, and to their dreams of teaching. They promised to recite the poems to themselves, every day, so that one day, if they met again, they would once more be able to hold hands and say the words they knew so well, and maybe recapture some of the innocent dreams of childhood.

~~~

Joan is an old, old lady now. She's got married. She's had children. Some of them died, and some of them lived. She's seen a war, and rationing, and she's been bombed. Her daughter has died. She's seen her husband die, and her sisters. She's watched her other daughter live, and grow. She's seen her meet a boy, and she's been the Mother of the Bride. Her daughter has had children of her own. Joan dotes on her grandchildren. She's done well with her life, with the chances she was given. But now, her health is failing, and she must be looked after. So she is moved into a home. A nice home, but still a home.

One day, she meets one of the other residents, Maimie. They get to talking about where they grew up, and where they went to school. They found out they went to the same school, and were even in the same year.
"But," says Maimie, "I didn't know a Joan. I did know a Joey Moar though."
"That's me!" exclaims Joan. "But I didn't know any Maimie. I did know a Margaret though, a Margaret Black."
"That's me!" exclaims Maimie.

And so there they sit, the two old ladies, who have seen their lives pass, their friends and family live and die, who have survived a war, and bombing, and who have raised children, and grandchildren. They sit in the sitting room, and hold hands, and recite poetry from those long ago days. They both remember all the words, perfectly. Here, in the impersonal surroundings of the care home, at the end of their lives, they have a friend from the very beginning, with whom they will see the very end.

And when Joan's granddaughter comes to visit, they tell her the story, and they recite the poem from that day in the playground, Margaret with her "proper" voice, and Joan with a trace of the old, soft accent from the islands. They hold hands, and they know every word.


~~~Fin~~~


Joan is my Grandma. I love her very much.