J: (pausing to work this out): Mum, I'm speaking to you on my phone, it can't be ringing.
MM: Oh, it must be mine then, bye.
I stand bemused holding the phone which clicks then makes the noise which says the line has disconnected. I put the phone down and start to go off to tell H, grinning to myself. The phone rings. Gales of laughter ring down the line as my mother tries to excuse her own daftness echoed by throaty guffaws in the background from my father which translates as she's done it again.
I was reminded of this conversation whilst watching Lost for Words, a play by Deric Longdon about his mother's last months when she struggles through a succession of increasingly debilitating strokes affecting her mental health and speech. It is a warm, tender portrait full of humour as well as sadness - a loving portrait of a kind, loving strong woman who had already battled through a difficult marriage and caring in her home for four older sisters in succession. If you haven't seen it, I recommend it - it is very funny and uplifting, too.
My Mother, mercifully, did not have to suffer any of the indignity of stroke and confusion. She did however face old age with the same good humour that she had shown throughout her life. Despite a childhood spent in real poverty (youngest but one of a family of twelve, with a father who took increasingly to drink, living in a tiny house in what could only be described as a slum), my Mother took life with both hands and found amusement in every situation. She loved children of all ages, but especially babies, and was tolerant of teenagers; proposing herself as nanny and housekeeper without pay to the local butcher whose wife had died suddenly, when no-one else seemed to know what to do was typical of her acts of kindness. She worked hard and had a horror of being seen to be getting above herself, but never felt herself inferior. In unfamiliar settings she was diffident, not one to speak out of turn, but amongst family and friends it was different - she loved to laugh and didn't mind if she was the butt of the joke, but she rarely said anything that could be taken as unkind, even in jest. Life with my Mother was full of fun, we never knew what (or who) she might bring home from her weekly trips to the neighbouring town. Who else would have gone out to buy new sheets and come home with a live rabbit because no-one else wanted him? She seemed a magnet for funny situations and she often did silly things. Many family meals ended in uproar, as trying to describe her latest exploit she would laugh until tears ran down her face and we all laughed until our sides ached as we tried to work out what she was talking about. Many of her adventures have become the stuff of family legend, their catchwords - the toasted doughnut and the pan scourer, the woman in Woolworths, the trip to the Turkish Baths, immediately raise a grin between me and my brother, and have been passed on to the younger generation..
Her old age was not a bed of roses, she lost a toe (and nearly a leg) after a fall and she nursed my father through various illnesses only to have him die after a routine and allegedly risk free minor operation. Never at any time did she fail to be thankful to the people who helped her and to find joy in the silly everyday routines.
Her greatest admonishment through our childhoods was always 'You'll miss me when I'm gone', and we do, even after 22 years.
The following is just a little taster of the amusement she gave us: it was frequently like living in an Alan Bennet play.
Having had a few problems with her leg, she had asked for a Dr's visit and the surgery had said they would send a locum. Standing up to go to the kitchen, she looked out of the sittingroom window and saw a vehicle draw up and a man get out carrying a largish bag. 'Quick,' she said to my father, who, by that time, had lost a lot of his sight to glaucoma, ' you answer the door, while I take my tights off.' Dad shuffled off to the door and let the man in. He flashed an identity card, which Dad couldn't read, and preceeded Dad into the sittingroom to find Mum arrayed on the sofa, bad leg and foot at the ready. 'Thank you for coming,' she said graciously, 'I'm afraid my leg's been a bit of a problem.'
'Oh, dear,' the man said, glancing at her foot, 'I'm sure it has - but I'm afraid I'm the chap your son asked to come and look at the TV connection!' As she said, 'After I'd taken my tights off, too'
I haven't bothered to edit this photo, she would have preferred to be out of focus
secgan wille,
