The Bright Light Between Them

Here’s a photograph of my maternal grandparents, taken at my mother’s 40th birthday, when they were in their late seventies and early eighties. Looking at it now, I can see the connection between them so clearly. He adored her, and she loved being adored by him. Of course, that wasn’t the whole story — how could it be after more than 60 years together? But that’s how I remember them: there was a bright light between them, even then, that charged up so many other lives.

They met at a dance hall in Rozelle in the late 1940s. Both had strict Irish Catholic upbringings. My grandfather’s family ran a dairy in Balmain — now part of the site of Callan Park. My grandmother’s father was a jeweller on the main street of Rozelle. She loved telling us the story of how they met, and looking back now, I credit her storytelling with shaping my own sense of romanticism.

Rozelle, she’d say, was the lesser well-to-do area back then. So in the early days of their courtship, she’d catch the tram up to Balmain so he wouldn’t know where she came from. I’m not sure how well that bodes (!)— but for them, the story turned out beautifully. They had four children, my mum the youngest by ten years. Thirteen grandchildren, and more great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren than I can count — my sister and I contribute four to that tally.

My grandfather was a chemist who worked in The Rocks, in the building that rises like a chimney — you can spot it as you pass over the Harbour Bridge. She raised the children but also worked for Beville’s department store. A job that truly suited her glamour and gift for being able to connect with anyone.

They moved to West Ryde to raise their children. My grandmother’s older sister lived just up the road with her own large family, and according to my mum, she was often tasked with running up and down the street delivering letters between the two women, who were — as family lore goes — frequently at loggerheads.

My grandfather was a beautiful pianist. I remember spending time at their place while he played Rachmaninoff and sometimes Gilbert & Sullivan showtunes. My grandmother would sit nearby with a pile of knitting or a cup of tea, listening from her comfortable spot on the couch. In their long retirement, he’d spend his afternoons doing maths and chemistry equations in his study; she’d play bridge and socialise.

They were a warm and constant presence in our lives growing up — at every family event and often after school too. They’d almost always be there when school reports came home, and as Mum read through them, they’d find great joy in remembering hers. That always made us laugh.

Their love wasn’t perfect, but it was enduring. And in that photo, I see the quiet joy of a lifetime spent together. A real love that lit up generations

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