1937
Sheffield
Born above the bakery on Carver Street, second of four.
"She kept the garden, and the garden kept her — and there was always one extra place at the table, for the chance that someone might need it."
Margaret Helena Brown was born in Sheffield in the spring of 1937 — the kind of spring that arrived late and stayed long. She was a gardener before she could read, a teacher before she could drive, and a grandmother long before any of us were ready for her to be one.
She had a way of remembering everyone's birthday and pretending she didn't. She kept letters. She kept the dog at the foot of the bed. She kept making tea for visitors long after she could remember why she had stood up.
Born above the bakery on Carver Street, second of four.
Trained as a teacher. Met John on the 23 bus.
First classroom; first garden of her own.
Moved south with three boys and a dog called Bramble.
Bought the cottage. Planted the apple trees.
Six grandchildren, and a knitting habit to match.
Took the RHS award for cottage gardens. Pretended not to care.
In her own bed, in spring, surrounded by family.
"Granny taught me to whistle through a blade of grass. I still can't do it but I'm still trying."
"She left courgettes on my step every August for twenty-six years. I never asked her to."
"We promised at sixteen we'd be at each other's funerals. She got there first, the cheek of her."
A short film woven from home footage and her own diary entries, narrated by her eldest grandchild.
"I still have the recipe for her ginger cake. I will pass it on."
"I planted snowdrops along the fence in her name. They came up."
"You were the first teacher who told me I could write. I have written for forty years."
"You sat with my mother at the hospital when none of us could. I never knew until afterwards."
"I will never forget the cardigan. I will wear it when I am tall."
"We've named the new pear tree 'Margaret'. It already has fruit."