I never lived with my grandparents.

For a short time they lived with us - my mother, father and the five of us children, with a sixth on the way.

They were an enigma, interacted with us very little, did not take us out, no bush walks, no fishing trips. Neither drove. I have no stories that either of them told me. That's my biggest regret.

I just remember them as very quiet.

My grandmother smiled frequently, my grandfather, with his ginger hair and neat moustache, pipe in hand, was watchful and alert, keeping out of the way of the busy life happening around him. Their loving relationship was evident, and we all watched as Grandma gently looked after her husband. We didn't understand why, at that time.

This was an interim period, after selling their home, while they were awaiting a vacant cottage in a retirement village. My grandmother would soon go into the Nursing Home section as she had a number of illnesses. Caring for them both, along with looking after five young children and a large house, was difficult for my mother.

My grandfather had fought in World War One, doing his duty for his country. He returned to Australia a broken man. Today he would be diagnosed as having PTSD, but then it was referred to as "shell shock". He was quiet and withdrawn, smoked a pipe to steady his nerves, and tried to avoid sudden noises.

After the war he'd had a small farm, and worked hard to raise his family, with the hope that country living would restore him to better mental health. He could not work in the city as many companies had sirens to signal the start and end of the working day, and he could not cope with what to him were the sounds of air raid sirens. His hands would shake violently, and he could not remain standing.

They'd lived a quiet life, not exciting in any way. After their children married, my grandparents moved to a quiet suburb, where as a young family we were close enough to visit them. My memories include a wonderful and huge mulberry tree in their back yard. We loved to climb in it, and collected mulberry leaves for our silk-worms. There was also a spreading custard-apple tree, excellent for playing hiding games and making cubby houses. We enjoyed the abundance of fruit from both trees.

The adults enjoyed home-baked cake and tea in the sitting room while we ate and played outside, so as not to jar our grandfather's nerves.

There was a fine garden at the front, where my grandmother grew roses, gerberas, honey-suckle vines, and snap-dragons amongst many other flowers. Their home was always filled with flowers.

After our play, of course we had to wash in the bathroom - and they used Pink Palmolive soap - what luxury! We always had Green Palmolive soap at home, and its fragrance did not compare. To this day I remember the beautiful floral scent of their soap. I remember those things more than their short stay with us in their later years.

Not long after they moved into the retirement village, my grandmother's conditions worsened. She passed away in her sixties.

I had always accompanied my mother on her visits to them, and continued to visit my grandfather. Three months after his wife's death, my grandfather walked with us to the door of his cottage, and hugged us both as we prepared to return home. Unusually for him, he remained standing at the door waving good-bye till he could no longer see us.

My mother was troubled. He was very lonely, and could not manage well without the smiling figure of Grandma beside him. She had always been the strong one, smelling of Pink Palmolive, growing and arranging flowers, caring for him.

He died that night. The results of the autopsy were not released to my mother. Perhaps the empty medications bottle could explain.

I wish he could have spoken of his war-time pain. I wish there had been more support and help for young men who had returned from the horrors of war, alive in body but broken in heart and soul. I wish there had been more support for a bereaved man, dying of a broken heart.

I wish I had some stories.