My Mum and Dad
My mum was a lovely woman, truly beautiful. I say “was” because she passed away half a year ago, just two weeks after my father. Although both had well outlived their eightieth birthdays, it still feels to me that their time together was far too shortafter all, they were my mum and dad.
I can picture her still, graceful and fair, and Id noticed it myself, even as her son and a boy with a mans eyes. Father never missed a chance to remind me of it, either. Whenever Mum scolded meover poor marks at school, or any of lifes little mishapsmy father would slip quietly into my room, sit beside me, sigh heavily, and, just as I would, clasp his hands between his knees. After a moments silence, hed end our wordless talk with gentle advice:
Now, lad, dont let your heart harden against your mum… She might lose her temper, she might have a go at us, but were no saints ourselves, are we? Besides, shes our girl and we both need her, like the air we breathe. Why dont you go and ask her to forgive you?
Me, in those moments! Id puff up with all the indignation a small boy can muster, my eyes burning as I glared his way. Sensing the storm in me, hed lift his hand, palm extended as if to quiet me, and with a measured, stern voice say:
Dont you even think of saying a bad word about my wife
And that was thatId deflate and fall silent, because I loved my father very much. I loved my mother too, deeply.
I suppose this was because I knew their storyhow they became husband and wife. Father would tell me, always stressing it was a secret, one never to reach Mum’s ears. But Mum too would let slip, under the same seal of secrecy, things she preferred Dad not to hear.
Mum was in her first year at university then, engaged to a fellow named Edwin. One day, Edwin turned up to their date with a mate, Bernardwhod just arrived in our big city and was at a loss for what to do alone in the evening. So Edwin invited him along on his outing with his fiancée, my mother-to-be.
Edwin made the introductions and off the three of them went for the evening. They wandered in the park until twilight, and, not wanting to pay for tickets, they climbedat my fathers suggestiononto the roof of the summer pavilion to watch a hilariously bad film at the open-air cinema nearby. It was Bernard, of course, who thought to do itEdwin would never have dared!
All evening, Edwin wittily recited poetry and spun tales of how he and Mum would live once theyd graduated. Bernard, on the other hand, barely spoke, just listened intently and, as Mum claimed, occasionally sighed.
When it was time to part, my father, holding Mums small, warm hand in his big, strong one, said:
Vivian, you dont need him. Marry me instead.
Mum was startled, and blurted out, When?
Bernard, wholly earnest, replied at once, Tomorrow.
And to finish the unexpected challengeto both Mum and Edwinhe added,
Well have a son, and both love him with all our might. Loving him, well love each other even more. And well name him Edward, after the old English kings
Alright, Mum agreed immediately, and so they were wed.
Edwin was Bernards best man at the wedding.
Afterwards, Mum and Dad finished their studies and moved up to Yorkshire, as their new diplomas proudly proclaimed them both geological surveyors. In the dales, they were given their first home, a humble room next to the village hallonce a forgotten storage cupboard, cleared out by order of the local foreman for the arrival of the long-awaited specialists.
In due time, along I came: Edward, as promised. They both loved me more fiercely than anything in the worldjust as my father had sworn.
To collect me and Mum from the hospital, Dad borrowed an old horse, Lady Alexandra, from the nearby stables. As we approached our little home (as Dad told it later), we saw Edwin standing at the door, hugging a shiny tin baby bath that hed acquired via some obscure connection. That bath became my first tuband, for a while, even my crib. Mum would tuck her large, feather pillowher only dowry from my grandmotherinto the bath, smooth a sheet over it, and lay me down to sleep. When it was bath time, the pillow was transferred to my parents bed, and I, with Mums loving hands and Dads gentle grip under my head, bathed like royalty.
Well, I didnt grow up to be a prince, but I did follow in their footsteps and become a geologist myselfhardly disgracing the family.
Curiously, my wife is a geologist too. We met at work not long after university. My mother, always warm, adored Susan at once. And my father, for his part, held a special fondness for her. Whenever wed visit Mum and Dad, and he and I stole to the balcony for a quiet smoke, hed say,
Hmm You know, I reckon I got lucky twice in this life: once when I met your mum, and again when you married Susan. Mind you cherish heras you know, shes our girl too
Father died quietly in his sleep, and Mum somehow understood it even before she woke up. After he was gone, she seemed to age overnight, growing forgetfulsometimes forgetting altogether that he wasnt coming home anymore. Even after we brought her to live with us, shed pass the long afternoons sitting by the window, waiting for Dad to finish his shift and come through the door.
To her very last day, she still made her marvelous minced meat pattiesJust how Bernard loved themSometimes, as the dusk filtered through pale curtains, Susan and I would sit beside her, quietly watching the fading light. Mum would turn to me, eyes suddenly young, and ask, Do you remember your fathers hands? He always had such warm hands. Id nod, and Susan would press her palm to Mums, both of them smiling at some secret only they shared.
On the night my mother died, a gentle rain tapped at the window. It seemed the whole world held its breath for her. As I sat at her side, she gripped my hand one last timea touch both feather-light and iron-strong.
Youre a good boy, Edward, she whispered, just as she had when I was small, when scraped knees and sorrowful hearts could always be mended with love and a cup of tea. Dont let your heart harden, not ever.
Afterward, I found myself searching for traces of them: in roadside wildflowers Mum would pause to name, in the shape of my fathers old pipe on my bookshelf, in the laughter echoing from the kitchen when Susan teased me just so. The story of my parentsof Bernard and Vivian, of secret promises and tin baby bathsbecame my anchor and my guide.
Sometimes, when our own daughter falls asleep in my arms, Susan will catch my eye and smile. And quietly, in those moments, it feels as though love is a small, precious inheritance, carried gently from one lifetime to the nextour own invisible thread through time.
And perhaps that is all any of us can hope for: to be someones warm hand, someones gentle memory, and, for a while, someones home.
