Mum took her time leaving usslowly, painfully, in a way no one would ever wish for. The oddest thing, though, were her eyes. The closer she drifted towards that dreadful inevitability, the darker they seemed to become. In her final days, they looked almost velvety, fathomless, all-knowingalthough, thinking back, perhaps that was just the contrast as her face grew paler by the hour.
One late summers day, I packed her up from the little cottage in Dorset and took her back to her flat in Croydon. It was already dark, so I decided to stay the night. Sometime, past midnight, she fell on her way to the loo. Turned out, shed broken her hip. For the elderly, thats practically the beginning of the end.
After that, everything happened fast: ambulanceA&Eoperationten days in hospital. On the drive to the hospital, my mind flickered back to my own childhood. For some strange reason, I remembered the week I stayed with my old nursery teacher, Miss Taylor, when Dad had his fatal run-in with a lorry on the A3 in the pitch black. Mum was twenty-eight, I was barely three, and she wanted to shield me from the truth. She told me Dad was off on business and shuffled me away during the funeral. She never remarriedsaid she worried a new husband wouldnt care for me as his own.
Once discharged, Mum needed round-the-clock care and someone had to step up. The notion of a private carer was well out of budget anywaythe youngest son was buying his first flat in Reading. So, I had no choice but to quit my job and move permanently into Mums modest one-bed. There I stayed, changing her pads, washing her, feeding her. She never complained, not once. Sometimes, if I was clumsy rolling her over, shed give a little Ooh! like a child. Then shed whisper, Its alright, love, truly. Dont you fret.
I never realised before just how feeble and squeamish I am. At night, curled up on the sofa-bed beside her, Id cry quietly at my own helplessness. Itd sound poetic if I claimed those tears were all for her. But, honestly, they were as much for myself as her.
Help was never going to come from anywhere else: my sons were tangled up in work and life, and my wife Well, she said, Look, shes your mother, love, not mineshes just another woman to me.
Hearing that, I suddenly remembered bringing my then-girlfriend, Julia, home to meet Mum for the first time. Mum was perfectly polite and welcoming all evening. After Julia left, I gave Mum a questioning look. She shrugged and said, I cant put my finger on it, but somethings not quite right But, son, its your wedding, not mine. You do you.
Yet, throughout their lives together, Mum and Julia always got on famously.
And so, just like all those years ago, it was back to Mum and me alone. In the evenings, after lights out, wed lie there talking for hours. Shed tell stories about Gran and Grandad, how the Germans came through their village, how she and her big sister hid behind a fence, peeking at the strangers, their harmonicas and booming laughter.
Shed talk about my father, who I barely remember. Maybe not at alla shadow in my mind, just a large, stubbly, tobacco-scented figure scooping me up and muttering, My lad, my boy! over and over.
Then Mum got worse. The nightly talks faded away. I told myself it was because my bland cooking was to blame, so I started splashing out on takeawaycurries from the local, roast dinners, anything she might fancy. I asked each time if the food was tasty. She just shook her head and said, You really have turned into quite the chef, havent you? But she barely touched a thing.
On Mums last night at home, completely out of the blue, she recalled when Biros first appeared at school. I was in Year 3 and desperate for one. But it was Emily Parkers dad who returned from somewhere with a shiny new pen for her. It was an object of utter wonder. That evening I presented Mum with this forbidden treasure. As soon as she realised where it came from, she belted me, hard, with Dads old leather belt. Then she marched meand the penround to the Parkers to return it.
I only half-remembered it, but Mum, lying there, grew teary, apologising for hitting me, explaining she was terrified I might grow up to be a thief.
I stroked her cheek and felt a sharp sting of shame, though goodness knows I never became a criminal.
Just before dawn, when it became clear her time had come, the paramedics carried her to the ambulance. For a moment she came to, took my hand, and whispered, Oh, God. However will you cope, all on your own here? Still young still foolish
Mum didnt quite make it to eighty-nine. The day after she died, oddly enough, I turned sixty-four.
