When Mums Go Without

When Mums Go Without

Mum bought me a gold ring with diamonds in an S-shape when I was 40.  It was a bit too small, so I never really wore it.  She remembered something about a ring this morning when I told her it was ready to pick up from the jewellers … “I think I remember the ring. … Sonia darling, I didn’t give you a ring yesterday did I?”  No Mum, you didn’t ring me, you bought me a ring.  Do you remember it? “Well, I’m ringing you now aren’t I?”  No Mum, I rang you, but I’m talking about a little gold ring with diamondy stones in it.  “I  like the Rolling Stones”. I assumed it was cubic zirconia, but no, the jeweller told me it was antique gold with real diamonds and would have cost her a fortune.  Bang !  Heart thump ! I remembered Mum taking on extra cleaning shifts at the time.

I was listening to a wonderful interview this morning on Radio 4 with the mum and son who inspired the musical “Everybody’s Talking about JAMIE”.  He broke down in tears when his mum revealed how she’d gone short and was happy to do it, to make sure he got everything he needed to make his teenage drag queen life possible.  This beautiful woman with her soft County Donegal accent got me thinking … do we ever really appreciate what our parents have done for us when it comes to going without things themselves to give us what we need?  Probably not, after all they are parents, it’s what parents do.  I’ve never had the joy of having my own children, so I don’t have first hand experience, but I know that I’d give my precious sister everything I had if she really needed it.  In a heartbeat.  Does that count?

Mum was never able to hold a real job down as her attention span is, let’s put it kindly, short.  It always has been.  And she was never going to get the Employee of the Month badge as she was constantly confusing her bosses.  I remember my Dad telling me that she was cleaning for a local family who’s patriarchal figurehead knelt down to prey at least three times a day.  Mum was sacked when she rammed her Hoover into him, telling him to “get up off your knees with all the preying nonsense – you’re in my way!”  Not the cleverest way of ensuring long-term employment.  When she moved to the coast and took a job in a local care home she raided the kitchen kitty and shared it out with all the residents, telling them to buy sensible biscuits as she didn’t like the digestives.  The Scratchwood Services boss let her go when she kept banging on the doors of the hotel rooms when businessmen were “having a rest” with women in tow … she took offence to the “easyshags” (her term) and often chased them out of their rooms early with an admonishment and waggy finger.  I know that waggy finger – it’s terrifying – I used it once recently myself – never again !  Somewhere there may still be footage of Mum cycling to Scratchwood Services from Hendon – up the M1.  yes, the M1.  She got very fed up with the police pulling her over all the time.  ALL THE TIME ??? She told me that lorry drivers were the worst … hotting and honking, flashing their lights, stressing her out.  My little 5’1″ mum with her flowing red hair, cycling on her battered old bicycle on the motorway.  To make it even more perilous, she got so fed up with the lorries that she rode in the middle of the lane so they couldn’t keep pushing her onto the hard shoulder and yelled at them as they sped by.  The lovely part of all of this – apart from her not being killed – was that she had a huge amount of affection for the police officers who knew her name and were always giving her a lift to the services with her bike in the back of their car with fruitless requests that she promised not to cycle back again.  She promised. She didn’t keep her promises of course.  If anyone ever remembers a friend, family member or fellow police colleague recalling these incidents I want to shake their hand and say thank you.  It always amuses me to think that maybe, just maybe, a car driver who passed her on his way to a secret assignation at the Scratchwood Services hotel would end his liaison with a loud knock on the door and a muffled “GET OUT!”.

She was never afraid of work – and worked constantly.  I can remember wondering why I was often at some weird person’s house after school, but got used to it .  Now I realise it was Mum going out to save up for special birthday parties, or a fancy dolly,  a dinghy for my brother, lean cuts of meat (that she’d often combine with very odd ingredients, but that’s another story), or a new pair of shiny shoes.  And this one that slays people when I tell it.  In the television industry we’re nearly all freelancers and when a contract falls down it’s the usual game of chess to get other work in.  On this occasion three things fell down at once and I was worrying about the bills and mortgage.  I called mum to say that I’d wait for a week or so until coming down to see her as I needed to conserve my money. She, of course, was fine with that as she’s never, ever been one of those mums who gives you hassle for not visiting.  The next morning the postman arrived with a little parcel – Mum’s writing on the packet and a roll of sellotape used to wrap it up.  Inside was her little silver leather purse with £3.84 in it.  I called her to thank her and her words were, and I’ll never forget them … “Well Sonia darling, my pension comes on Monday and I can do until then and I thought you’d need this more than me”.  That purse is one of the things I’d rescue if I ever had to leave the house in an emergency.  That £3.84 would have bought her 2 Salvation Army breakfast bacon sandwiches – her favourite brekkie as she refused to use her gas cooker.  And as always, for my sake, Mum went without.

I’ll never be able to repay her “withouts” but I can always give her respect and love, drive down to the coast whenever I can and have wonderful conversations with her. She’s never asked for anything in return – her only recent demand is for chocolate toffees and to sit calmly with her to hold her hand.  That’s whenever she’s not flinging food or sweets at other residents or wagging her finger at Carol who keeps trying to Nick her biscuits.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

5 Mumbelievable Truths

5 Mumbelievable Truths

Clive, Colin & Olive are the only Snow White dwarves worth caring about, Michael Pillow is the best broadcaster about train journeys, my head looks like a giant sugar cube, scrambled eggs and toffee will keep you going till 100 and Piers Morgan is the best James Bond ever.  According to Mum, these facts are all true and everything else is fanciful thinking on my behalf.  She’ll often berate me for ‘getting above myself with the intellect’ and corrects me by giving me ‘proper’ stories to relate … and when you think about it, they all make sense – Mum sense.  A load of old Mumsense and I love it.

We’ve all had those moments when someone says something hysterical in front of a crowd and when that person is completely unaware of what they’ve said it makes us laugh even more, even though we know we shouldn’t – but it’s fun isn’t it?  It’s panto season coming up and Tony and I are the panto band again – this year it’s Bluebeard, not Snow White, but Mum won’t be convinced that there won’t be dwarves in it.  She won’t be able to come and see it this year and that’s probably just as well.  The last theatre experience I took her to was to see Tommy Steele in Scrooge and we had seats at the back of the gallery – always a sensible place for Mum as she can’t resist joining in and causing a few shhhhhh’s and menacing looks over the shoulder for those too scared to do a shhhhhh.  Back of the gallery?  Yes, good thinking as she was so far away from the stage, she couldn’t possibly shout out to the performers .  Wrong.  Shout she did. Loudly, waving arms, mentioning me in every sentence.  “Whoooo-ooooo Tommy Steele !  My daughter here wants to marry you”  and a little later “Whhooo-ooooo Tommy Steele !  Do you have a dog?  My daughter wants a puppy.”  Where did THAT come from?  Neither of these heckles were true of course and even though I’ve told myself a million times that people will only be reacting to Mum’s antics and not associating me with the mayhem, I was wrong.  They did and told ME to shut up and stop encouraging my Mum.  Tommy Steele did eventually respond with a “Hello up in the Gods – I’m the star of this show”.  It didn’t stop her and how we weren’t ejected I’ll never know.  Scrooge was similar to panto with its jokes and crafty asides to the audience, so we managed to stay till the end.  She went to the loo after the curtain call and then I lost her.  She’d gone.  Nowhere to be seen.  It was about twenty minutes until one of the ushers asked me if I was THE Sonia?  Oh dear, here we go, straight back to childhood horrors of being rounded up by policemen as Mum was unexpectedly taken into care.  “Yes – is everything ok?”  Yes, Mum says that she’ll only be 10 minutes or so as she’s hoping to get to see Tommy after the show.  Luckily (for me) she’d not got past Stage Door and came back into the main foyer on the arm of a very camp, red-faced young usher who kept patting her arm.  She’d loved every minute of  Scrooge of course and said she’d felt part of the show.  I think I shrunk at least 2 inches by compressing my spine and trying to be invisible.

When my brother was born, Mum had severe post-natal depression which was, as far as I can ascertain, undiagnosed and written off as eccentricity.  She’s never liked her red hair and when my brother arrived with his gorgeous shock of ginger hair she associated him with herself and didn’t connect.  She was a ballerina who’d been asked to dance with Nuryev, so she couldn’t possibly look after a new baby.  She broke toes going up on pointe in the hospital ward and cut the hem of her hospital gown to look more like a tutu.  I’d heard the stories from Dad and Pop as they were always brought up as funny anecdotes, but underneath I knew that things weren’t right with her at the time and although they were funny antics they were, as I started to realise as I got older, the result of severe mental health problems.  The gap between my parents was 13 years – she was the older one – so it had its challenges as a marriage in the 60s when that age gap was more unusual than now.  She was always very astute though in her own way and in between her muddled thinking and outrageous behaviour, there lurked a philosopher and deep thinker.  I can remember going to the ballet and asking Mum who all the dancer characters were.  I must have been talking out loud as there was lots of shhhhhhh’s dotted throughout this memory.  “Sonia darling, what you have to remember in ballet is that dancing has to be very clear on who is a man and who is a woman otherwise people get confused.  That’s why the men have their willies on show and the ladies wear short skirts.  These were the actual words she said.  Yes, willies on show.  I was confused and asked her afterwards if it was ok for men to show their willies on stage?  Yes she said, as long as they are in a ballet.  I wasn’t convinced but went along with it.  I asked her later if it HAD to be men and women getting married, or could men marry men and women marry women.  Only in America she told me.  Ah, only in America, ok that made sense to my 5-year old brain.  Soon afterwards I remember meeting one of Dad’s friends at a concert he was playing in and this man had a funny voice.  I asked him why he had a funny voice and he told me he was American.  Ah – are you sleeping with a man? I asked. Dad spat out his Guinness and his colleague walked away after smiling at me in that I’m-smiling-but-I’m-not-happy way.  Mum had told me that men marry men in America, so surely that made sense?  Why were grown-ups so confusing?

Mum told me yesterday that the care home has a box of James Bond films and she’s going to watch the Piers Morgan one.  Try telling her that it’s Pierce Brosnan … she berated me again with a friendly chide … Pierce? What kind of a man’s name is that?  OK Mum, which film is it?  Tomorrow Never Dies?  The World is Not Enough?  Die Another Day?  “Oh do be quiet Sonia darling, you’re so depressing at times you know”.   We’re having a couple of excerpts of the James Bond theme in panto – when the baddies gets chased by the goodies, so I’ll be thinking of Mum and her box sets at the next rehearsal, fantasising about Tommy Steele in the main role maybe, wondering if any of the flash, bangs or wallops will happen in the right places.  It’s going to be fun – oh yes it is.

As for scrambled eggs and toffee … Mum woofed down a whole jar of Potter’s malt extract and cod liver oil when the carers weren’t looking and had the inevitable digestive ‘alterations’ to her normal routine and she’s on a protest … only accepting scrambled eggs or toffees to eat … to teach her carers a lesson.  A lesson in what, I’m not sure, but with every day we speak I continue to learn from this extraordinary woman.  Dum diddle-um dum,  dum-dum-dum-dum,  Dum diddle-um dum,  dum-dum-dum-dum, Daaaaa Dum, Da dum dum …

5 Mumbelievable Truths

5 Mumbelievable Truths

Clive, Colin & Olive are the only Snow White dwarves worth caring about, Michael Pillow is the best broadcaster about train journeys, my head looks like a giant sugar cube, scrambled eggs and toffee will keep you going till 100 and Piers Morgan is the best James Bond ever.  According to Mum, these facts are all true and everything else is fanciful thinking on my behalf.  She’ll often berate me for ‘getting above myself with the intellect’ and corrects me by giving me ‘proper’ stories to relate … and when you think about it, they all make sense – Mum sense.  A load of old Mumsense and I love it.

We’ve all had those moments when someone says something hysterical in front of a crowd and when that person is completely unaware of what they’ve said it makes us laugh even more, even though we know we shouldn’t – but it’s fun isn’t it?  It’s panto season coming up and Tony and I are the panto band again – this year it’s Bluebeard, not Snow White, but Mum won’t be convinced that there won’t be dwarves in it.  She won’t be able to come and see it this year and that’s probably just as well.  The last theatre experience I took her to was to see Tommy Steele in Scrooge and we had seats at the back of the gallery – always a sensible place for Mum as she can’t resist joining in and causing a few shhhhhh’s and menacing looks over the shoulder for those too scared to do a shhhhhh.  Back of the gallery?  Yes, good thinking as she was so far away from the stage, she couldn’t possibly shout out to the performers .  Wrong.  Shout she did. Loudly, waving arms, mentioning me in every sentence.  “Whoooo-ooooo Tommy Steele !  My daughter here wants to marry you”  and a little later “Whhooo-ooooo Tommy Steele !  Do you have a dog?  My daughter wants a puppy.”  Where did THAT come from?  Neither of these heckles were true of course and even though I’ve told myself a million times that people will only be reacting to Mum’s antics and not associating me with the mayhem, I was wrong.  They did and told ME to shut up and stop encouraging my Mum.  Tommy Steele did eventually respond with a “Hello up in the Gods – I’m the star of this show”.  It didn’t stop her and how we weren’t ejected I’ll never know.  Scrooge was similar to panto with its jokes and crafty asides to the audience, so we managed to stay till the end.  She went to the loo after the curtain call and then I lost her.  She’d gone.  Nowhere to be seen.  It was about twenty minutes until one of the ushers asked me if I was THE Sonia?  Oh dear, here we go, straight back to childhood horrors of being rounded up by policemen as Mum was unexpectedly taken into care.  “Yes – is everything ok?”  Yes, Mum says that she’ll only be 10 minutes or so as she’s hoping to get to see Tommy after the show.  Luckily (for me) she’d not got past Stage Door and came back into the main foyer on the arm of a very camp, red-faced young usher who kept patting her arm.  She’d loved every minute of  Scrooge of course and said she’d felt part of the show.  I think I shrunk at least 2 inches by compressing my spine and trying to be invisible.

When my brother was born, Mum had severe post-natal depression which was, as far as I can ascertain, undiagnosed and written off as eccentricity.  She’s never liked her red hair and when my brother arrived with his gorgeous shock of ginger hair she associated him with herself and didn’t connect.  She was a ballerina who’d been asked to dance with Nuryev, so she couldn’t possibly look after a new baby.  She broke toes going up on pointe in the hospital ward and cut the hem of her hospital gown to look more like a tutu.  I’d heard the stories from Dad and Pop as they were always brought up as funny anecdotes, but underneath I knew that things weren’t right with her at the time and although they were funny antics they were, as I started to realise as I got older, the result of severe mental health problems.  The gap between my parents was 13 years – she was the older one – so it had its challenges as a marriage in the 60s when that age gap was more unusual than now.  She was always very astute though in her own way and in between her muddled thinking and outrageous behaviour, there lurked a philosopher and deep thinker.  I can remember going to the ballet and asking Mum who all the dancer characters were.  I must have been talking out loud as there was lots of shhhhhhh’s dotted throughout this memory.  “Sonia darling, what you have to remember in ballet is that dancing has to be very clear on who is a man and who is a woman otherwise people get confused.  That’s why the men have their willies on show and the ladies wear short skirts.  These were the actual words she said.  Yes, willies on show.  I was confused and asked her afterwards if it was ok for men to show their willies on stage?  Yes she said, as long as they are in a ballet.  I wasn’t convinced but went along with it.  I asked her later if it HAD to be men and women getting married, or could men marry men and women marry women.  Only in America she told me.  Ah, only in America, ok that made sense to my 5-year old brain.  Soon afterwards I remember meeting one of Dad’s friends at a concert he was playing in and this man had a funny voice.  I asked him why he had a funny voice and he told me he was American.  Ah – are you sleeping with a man? I asked. Dad spat out his Guinness and his colleague walked away after smiling at me in that I’m-smiling-but-I’m-not-happy way.  Mum had told me that men marry men in America, so surely that made sense?  Why were grown-ups so confusing?

Mum told me yesterday that the care home has a box of James Bond films and she’s going to watch the Piers Morgan one.  Try telling her that it’s Pierce Brosnan … she berated me again with a friendly chide … Pierce? What kind of a man’s name is that?  OK Mum, which film is it?  Tomorrow Never Dies?  The World is Not Enough?  Die Another Day?  “Oh do be quiet Sonia darling, you’re so depressing at times you know”.   We’re having a couple of excerpts of the James Bond theme in panto – when the baddies gets chased by the goodies, so I’ll be thinking of Mum and her box sets at the next rehearsal, fantasising about Tommy Steele in the main role maybe, wondering if any of the flash, bangs or wallops will happen in the right places.  It’s going to be fun – oh yes it is.

As for scrambled eggs and toffee … Mum woofed down a whole jar of Potter’s malt extract and cod liver oil when the carers weren’t looking and had the inevitable digestive ‘alterations’ to her normal routine and she’s on a protest … only accepting scrambled eggs or toffees to eat … to teach her carers a lesson.  A lesson in what, I’m not sure, but with every day we speak I continue to learn from this extraordinary woman.  Dum diddle-um dum,  dum-dum-dum-dum,  Dum diddle-um dum,  dum-dum-dum-dum, Daaaaa Dum, Da dum dum .

 

Barbara Windsor’s new job

Barbara Windsor’s new job

The nights are drawing in and Mum wants to go to bed around 6pm, even though that’s when Barbara Windsor serves dinner.  She’s started a whole new game … and a great idea for a new television reality show … Celebrity Carers … could that work?  A couple of weeks ago Donald trump had gone to work there (he of the rotten soggy toast) and now it’s Barbara Windsor who’s given up life as a superstar and has dedicated herself to caring for my mum and her friends.  She’s probably getting a bit mixed up with snippets of another conversation that we had a few months ago … take a deep breath … here goes.  “Barbara Windsor … I love her but she chose some very strange men, didn’t she?”  Well, her lovely husband now is Scott and he is the love of her life, Mum.  Maybe you’re thinking of the old days when she was involved with Sid James from the Carry Ons and Ronn … Mum, interrupts with a hilarious aside “Oh yes, Sid!  He was your grandfather, Sonia darling” (He wasn’t of course, but my Pop did look a bit like him with his twinkling eyes, razor-sharp humour and tight, curly hair).  Are you thinking back to Barbara’s links to the London crime scene, Mum?  “Well, wasn’t she married to one of the Two Ronnie’s? Was it Ronnie Corbett?”  No, Ronnie Knight mum – he was the gangster, Ronnie Corbett was the comedian. “He was short too.  She’s short isn’t she?  Little Barbara Windsor?”  I think you’re getting your Ronnies mixed up, Mum.  “Ronnie Barker!  Yes, she was married to Ronnie Barker – no wait – Ronnie Barker??? Ronnie Barker was a gangster?  He never struck me as a violent type. Barbara Windsor – she’s quite short too – that’s probably why she liked him. Did she marry both of them?”  I tried to interrupt her and steer her in the right direction, but tea has a nasty habit of catching in your throat when trying to stifle a laugh, making you cough and staining your new white blouse.

Luckily the tea stain came out.  It’s fascinating how the memory can re-arrange life into brand new scenarios.  Mum is very happy in her world – whenever she re-invents people, times, situations or whole periods of her life, it’s as though she’s suddenly remembered a whole new memory that had buried itself.  She genuinely believes that Barbara Windsor works in the care home and it’s not my job to deny it or change that – if that’s what makes her happy, that’s fine isn’t it?  I’ve spent a lifetime trying to re-configure her thinking as I thought that was the responsible thing to do, but looking back on it, that was purely my way of re-aligning my world to cope with her odd views.  As a very little girl I’d apparently passed an audition to go to stage school.  Mum had always wanted to see me on the big stage – saving every penny she had to put on Cinderella, starring me when I was 7.  I remember a huge cut-out carriage stuck to the side of a big hooded pram, little boys dressed in white horse costumes and Prince Charming with his deep red velvet coat and white stockings.  I think we had a piano player and sang songs from the Disney film, but it’s all a bit of a haze as it was in-between Mum depositing me with various friends overnight when she was either working extra hours or having to take time out with her depression.  Each time she did this, my father would return from work as a classical musician to find an empty flat.  It must have been terribly stressful for him of course,  but nothing I ever actually saw, apart from one night that sticks in my memory.  Mum had told me to go and get changed into my new stage school uniform and show Daddy.  I was so excited, but it was another one of Mum’s manic episodes … she’d bought the uniform, despite Dad saying that although I’d passed the audition, I couldn’t possibly go to the drama school as they didn’t have the money for it.  Back in those days I don’t think there were scholarships.  So I had to take the uniform off, put it back in the bag and Dad marched off with it – probably to take it back for a refund … all very confusing.  Hey ho.

People have often said that I’d be a good actress and I guess it comes from being able to put on a whole new skin with “normal” people from a very young age when Mum was behaving in strange ways.  And you get very skilled in finding three very different ways of telling the same story to 3 parents – unpredictable Mum,  sensible Dad who was exasperated by unpredictable Mum and step Mum, the wonderful new breath of fresh air and apparently normal influence in the family.

It’s all been a bit of a drama;  with Mum now centre stage as the character that people are really coming to love.  And Ronnie is now figuring in a very different way – as my beloved step grandson and brand new member of the family.  I hope that one day he may get to meet Mum – I wonder what he’ll think of her with his brand new eyes – one thing I do know is that Mum will adore him and will tenderly stroke his chin, as she does to me every time she sees me.  Love you Mum.  Enjoy your early nights.

 

 

Burn Joan of Arc, Burn

Burn Joan of Arc, Burn

Scrambled eggs and malt extract with cod liver oil are Mum’s current favourites. After a couple of years of refusing to eat anything apart from white bread & butter, the occasional spoonful of peas or half a sausage, she has picked up her appetite at last.  Good luck to anyone trying to tell her that 5 sudden spoonfuls of malt extract on the trot may not be good for her digestion.  Energised and super alert she quizzed me about the people I’m working with. Time for a mind exercise I thought.  Mum – try and think of one of the biggest black male singers the world has ever known.  “Yes, ok Sonia darling.  Shirley Bassey?”  Male, mum. “Shirley Williams?”.  I think you’re thinking about Iris Williams. No Mum, think male singers.  “Andy Williams?”  He’s white Mum.  Think younger, part of a group called The Jacksons.  “Jack Jones?”.  I can almost hear us all shouting out at the screen as I write this, but bear with it … she gets to her answer in the end.  Mum, he did songs like Thriller, Heal The World, I Want You Back.  “Star Wars??? Your father was in that wasn’t he, Sonia darling?”  Where are you going with this, Mum?  “Your father was in Star Wars”  He played on the soundtrack, Mum.  But which black, male singer was in Star Wars Mum? “Chewbacca !!!”.  What?  She’s realised that she’s made a joke and feeling very happy with herself.  Joyful to see.  I Want You Back – Chewbacca.  Yes, I can see in mum’s mind why that makes perfect sense.  She’s completely lost interest in the original question and is now hurling biscuits at Chris, her favourite resident in the home.  Her boyfriend.  “Oh I love him Sonia darling, I really do. Maybe I’ll marry him one day”.  She insists on calling him Keith, which is the name of the mini-bus driver who was the previous object of Mum’s affection.  “He’s left now, Sonia darling” (He hasn’t and still drives the mini-bus, it’s just that Mum’s a little too fragile these days to take the bone-rattling bumps of a long journey).  Chris is a very sweet, docile chap who is obviously fond of Mum and is constantly picking bits of food off his clothes as Mum can’t take anything over to him,  so hurling will have to do.

Back in 1997 food, hurling and games took a very different turn.  She was independent, mobile and self-medicating with whiskey as she was going through the first stages of painful hip degeneration and aware that her mental capacity was waning.  It was always upsetting to hear her wondering out loud why her brain wasn’t doing what she wanted it to do, despite me telling her all the time that she was my Mum and I loved her whatever her brain did.  Looking back of course she needed proper medical help and support with mental illness, but her phobia of doctors and hospitals made it impossible to get her to see anyone and she was functioning in the real world – in a way that always alarmed me, but seemed to suit her.  She was a mother in the 60s and 70s when mental illness was something that people swept away and her bad behaviour was treated as a conscious decision on her part to misbehave and do ‘crazy’ things.  People would smile, throw their hands up in the ‘who knows?’ gesture and hope she’d stop doing it.  These days her illness would have been seen for what it is and she’d be supported,  not dismissed.  Anyway, this particular day she’d drunk what appeared to be half a bottle of whiskey as she turned up to my first wedding in a beautiful shocking pink two-piece with a straw hat and posh shoes. She looked lovely and my heart sank when I clocked that she’d been drinking, despite promises of staying sober.  Oh dear … this was going to be a challenging day anyway with all factions of different families meeting for the first time and Mum … drunk … I told myself to let go, try not to focus on it and enjoy the day. Yes. Right.

She’d brought a whicker basket on wheels and insisted on taking it into the ceremony room.  I wrestled it from her and put it safely in a corner of the registrar’s office before ushering her and her friend upstairs where the wedding guests were waiting.  There was some kind of altercation as she entered, but I ignored it and went back downstairs to carry on the registration process.  She’d heckled me throughout the ceremony of course and had apparently gone up to my friend Nigel in a loud voice saying … ” She should be marrying YOU”.  Eventually, we all got into cars to the Orange Tree Pub for our wedding lunch.  At the main table Mum was sitting next to my new mother-in-law who was sitting next to me.  My friend across the table kept gesturing to me with that jerk-the-head-to-one-side-to-indicate-something-was-happening-in-that-direction way.  Obviously jerking her head towards where Mum was sitting.  No, I wasn’t going to take any notice.  Mum always did weird things in public and this was my day, not to be spoiled by her drunken antics.  More jerking and pleading with the eyes to take notice.  Then I heard it …”I don’t like you!  You and your horrid, stupid hair.  You look like Joan of Arc”.  Mum didn’t like my new mother-in-law as you have probably gathered.  Well, that was rude, but what could I do about that? I didn’t like her much either.  Then I saw my friend’s eyes go wide and panic streak across her face as she went to get up from her chair.  Leaning forward to see what was going on I heard the flint of a Clipper lighter … one, two, three strokes … then a small flame.  “Burn Joan of Arc, burn …” as the lighter’s flame connected with the side of said mother-in-law’s head.  Her name was Pat and pat she did … patting out the flame that had taken hold of the small amount of crew cut hair she had.  Oh dear, oh dear.  I should have seen the portents that this marriage wasn’t destined for success. Thankfully, Mum’s friend took her home soon after that and we all continued the party and I tried very hard not to laugh out loud when I saw that Pat’s hair was salt & pepper grey on one side and singe-orange on the other.  I really did try.  I did.  I think there was a tissue that I managed to stuff into my mouth, disguised as a sneeze and a runny nose.  It was never mentioned again.

A couple of weeks later I suddenly remembered the whicker basket.  Did anyone pick it up?  I know that Mum didn’t have it with her when she went home, so I called the registry office and they said it was still there.  On picking it up, an apologetic, gentle lady put a hand on my shoulder and said “Im sorry, but we had to get rid of the contents.  I hope you don’t mind”.  Contents?  What was in there? “A few things from Selfridge’s Food Hall – a cooked turkey crown, half a stilton, a large fruit cake and a side of salmon – we didn’t realise until the room started to smell”.  I then realised what Mum had done.  From the bottom of her heart she’d wanted me to have a good day, so had scrimped and saved every penny from her pension to buy food for the reception.  She’d not checked of course if we had it covered and was going on what used to happen in her family when people got married.  Everyone in the family got together to supply the food for the wedding party as they were a mining family from Sheffield with very little spare cash.  My heart broke into twenty tiny pieces.  All that effort, all that money, the complication of going to Selfridge’s on a bus and picking it all up, getting to the registry office and having it taken away;  no wonder she was keen to keep it with her.  I had put it in a corner and written it off as yet another one of Mum’s silly things she does … a whicker basket at a wedding ceremony … I ask you!  In a calm moment a couple of weeks later I told her that we’d found the food – just that.  I didn’t explain about the smelly room or the time frame.  She simply said “I’m glad you got it … was it nice?”  At the time I though Yes, Mum it was nice.  It was the kind of the gesture, kindness and pure love that’s always going to be ten thousand times better than ‘nice’.

I love that Joan of Arc was probably a flaming red head – like Mum.  And that she had a short fuse – like Mum.  And she didn’t give a damn about what people thought about her – like Mum.   But unlike Joan of Arc, Mum hasn’t made the history books … yet !

 

 

 



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