My grandparents had a great love story - and it changed my life forever

Lessons for life: A young Francesca Street with her grandparents - Francesca Street
Lessons for life: A young Francesca Street with her grandparents - Francesca Street

It’s 2001. I’m seven-years-old. And I’m learning cribbage with my granddad. We’re in Cape Cod, Massachusetts, in America. I’ve never been to America before, and I’m enthralled by the New England seaside. The wide, grassy expanse of sand dunes, the American food, the array of Mary-Kate and Ashley videos on offer in the local rental store. But most of all, I’m enthralled by my grandparents.

Back in England, my dad’s parents live near Liverpool and I live in coastal Kent. Here in America they live a few rooms down the corridor in our rented cottage. In the mornings, when the first glimmer of sun radiates through the shutters, I bounce out of bed, tiptoe down the corridors and get into bed between them, alongside my little brother. They put the crossword to the side, and the four of us plot our plans for the day.

Over the course of our three-week holiday we visit every museum on the peninsula, from the aquarium to the Fire Museum. My grandparents love to explore, to travel, to have adventures. They tour the world, take photographs, come home and show us, tell us, share with us.

When they aren’t travelling, they plan their next trip. They’re devoted to their family, who are scattered across the UK and Europe. Every few months, I come home from school and they’re there, sitting at our kitchen table, photo albums ready on the table. It’s the highlight of my month.

Francesca Street - Credit: Francesca Street
Learning to play cribbage in Cape Cod: Francesca and her grandfather Credit: Francesca Street

My grandma is the chatty one. She’s vivacious and beautiful, magnetic in her charisma. She tells me stories about people she meets: the other couples on their tours, the people in Peru, in China, in Egypt. My grandad is quieter, stoic and warm, practical and caring. He’s the one teaching me cribbage; my grandma sits besides us.

It’s early evening in Cape Cod, but it’s still hot and I can hear the hum of crickets outside. The back of my legs sticks to the chair. Maths has never been my strong point, but somehow my grandad has successfully taught me every way you can get numbers to add to 15. Nevertheless, he normally wins. Whenever he shows his winning hand, my grandma teases him, nudging him gently.

“Lucky in cards, unlucky in love,” she says, knowingly. He looks at her lovingly. I giggle. Even then, we know the truth couldn’t be further off. They both know it. It’s evident to everyone who meets them. My grandparents’ lives are defined by love. Love for life, love for each other and love for their family. To be near them is to feel simultaneously shrouded in this love and inspired to embark on adventures.

It’s 2012. I’m 18 and I’ve embarked on my first adventure. I just went to university, hundreds of miles away from my hometown, alone. Now I live in Edinburgh. It’s a Saturday in October, I’m a month in, and I’ve got my first visitors. My grandparents have driven up from Liverpool to see me, stopping off overnight on the border. I’m still young enough to take this a little for granted. I still define my grandparents as the adventurers of my youth.

Francesca Street - Credit: Francesca Street
Francesca's grandparents arrive in Edinburgh - and promptly get lost Credit: Francesca Street

They arrive and promptly lose one another. I spend much of the morning circulating my large halls of residence trying to reunite them. When I find my grandma, we walk along the corridor and she says hello to every blurry eyed student we bump into. They’re so bemused they all say hello back.

Reunited, the three of us spend the day searching for the city’s best soup and admiring the sweeping panoramas. For the first time in my life, I find myself looking after them, not the other way round. They forget where they parked the car. I text my dad to help us track it down.

I show them my cubbyhole of a room. The walls are covering in photographs, postcards and fairy lights. The shelves are packed with books. “It’s very you,” my grandma says and hugs me tightly. Come evening, we eat at an Italian restaurant. Afterwards, they give me money for a taxi and I wave goodbye through the back window until the glow of the street lights obscures the view. I know they don’t go inside the hotel until the car turns the corner.

It’s 2017. I’m 23. I’m lucky; all four of my grandparents were present throughout my childhood. Their stories are part of me: their wartime childhoods, their favourite musicals, the songs they fell in love to, the places they’ve lived in, their passion for family.

For the first time in my life, I find myself looking after them, not the other way round.

It’s spring and I’m with my dad’s entire extended family. All 22 of us. My grandparents’ four children, their grandchildren, their partners. We’re looking out across the Mersey river, each holding a bouquet of violet forget-me- nots. The grey-tinged spires of Liverpool are in the distance.

In the 1950s, my grandma lived in Liverpool, my grandad in Chester, on opposite sides of the Mersey River. To visit one another, they had to travel on the ferry across the Mersey - later made famous in the 1965 song.

My grandma loved to tell stories of the journey and of the moment she fell in love with my grandad. “I just knew,” she said. I imagine the moment; I picture the journeys back and forth. I wasn’t there, but I know the story. It’s my story as much as theirs.

My grandma and grandad passed away within days of each other. It was a blur of tears and sadness, laughter and union, heartbreak. My family were all there.

We’ve been pouring over photographs. I track my grandparents’ lives through the albums. Each time I’m struck by their love, the warmth, the laughter on their eyes. It makes me ache and makes me smile. I’ve never experienced grief before and it’s tiring, crushing and elating all at once.

Francesca Street - Credit: Francesca Street
Ferry across the Mersey: Foget-me-nots in remembrance of Francesca's grandparents Credit: Francesca Street

We’re nearing Liverpool. The eponymous song comes over the speaker: “Life goes on day after day,” sings Gerry and the Pacemakers, “Hearts torn in every way.” I feel the lightness of the forget-me- nots between my fingers.

“So ferry 'cross the Mersey

'Cause this land's the place I love

And here I'll stay.”

My brother, my parents, my aunts and uncles and my nine cousins, on cue, toss our forget-me-not posies over the side of the boat. They float away, on the tide, and we watch them until the boat obscures the view.

My grandma loved to tell stories, stories about travel, stories about family. Most of all she loved to tell stories about my grandad. She told me about how they met, about their life together. She told me about bringing up their children and grandchildren.

Now we are the storytellers, remembering the lives they lived. Their stories, their memories, are our memories, our stories. Enriching our lives, always.

This piece was a runner-up in our annual Cassandra Jardine Memorial Prize, in memory of The Telegraph's much-loved feature writer who died in 2012. It is open to female writers aged between 18 and 25.