I’ve been staring at this old black and white photograph a lot recently, asking myself whether it is possible, if I stare at it long enough, or hard enough, I might see the woman inside it staring back.
I want her to meet my eyes, I want us to have a moment of recognition. I want her to give up her secrets, because I have spent the last two years trying to uncover them.
The woman in the photograph is my grandmother. She must be around 36 or 37 here. I’m guessing by the way she and her children – my mother and my uncle – are dressed it is autumn or spring, that would make it 1948 or 1949.
The truth is that the woman in the photograph, in her buttoned-down coat, her cute little beret style hat, and her smile, is a stranger to me. Or maybe I should say she was.
The version of her I knew looked nothing like this. She was a white-haired old lady, who sat in the corner of her home speaking gobbledygook. She would tut and click and lip-smack and gurn. I can count on the fingers of one hand h…
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