comfortable. I enjoyed the challenge and the
responsibility. Mother didn’t have much energy, it seemed, so while she rested
I dusted and swept, cleaned windows and made the place as warm and cheerful as
I could. I changed the sheets, aired the bedrooms and cycled to the village
shop for some provisions.
From
time to time I checked on my mother. She wasn’t very chatty, but once she
managed to quote Yeats to me:
‘Move most gently if move you must
In this lonely place.’
It was from ‘Long Legged
Fly’ and I couldn’t remember the next line, but I thought it was something to
do with being part woman and part child, so I felt it unwise to complete the
poem anyway.
By
eight o’clock that evening, when we sat down to a bowl of soup and warm toasted
rolls, everything was cosy and clean. My mother had had a bath and changed into
a cream lace blouse with a ruffled red polka-dot skirt. Sitting by a roaring
fire, rubbing her hair dry with a towel, she gave a contented sigh. ‘Ah, thank
you, Johnny … thank you.’ Her smile was wide and heartfelt.
I felt
the warm glow of satisfaction at a job well done when, after tea, she looked
into the fire and recited a poem of lighter sentiment:
‘There is so much good in the worst of us,
And so much bad in the best of us,
That it hardly becomes any of us
To talk about the rest of us.’
I laughed. ‘That’s a new
one. Who’s it by?’
‘My
favourite,’ said my mother. ‘Anonymous.’
I felt
relief wash over me. It seemed the worst might soon be over and we could begin
to be happy again.
Over the next few weeks my
sole concern was my mother’s recovery. I cooked us a hearty breakfast before I
went to school each day and rushed home afterwards. Then we would stay inside
in the warm, reading together and occasionally listening to a play on the
radio. Like my mother, the house plants filled out slowly and began to flourish
again. A social worker from the hospital visited now and then, checking that
medication was being taken and that family life was progressing along
acceptable lines. I was delighted to see the colour returning to my mother’s
cheeks and to hear her laugh once again at the antics of a ladybird or the
impertinence of a sparrow.
Outside
our happy home, though, things were not so rosy. I already knew from the
whispers and titters at school that my mother’s naked ascent of Hythe town-hall
clock had not been forgotten.
Boys on
the bus, knowing of my fondness for poetry, would sing unkindly:
‘Hickory, dickory, dock,
Whose mum ran up the clock?
Johnny’s ma forgot her bra,
Hickory, dickory, dock!’
Within the village
community it was less of a laughing matter. Mental illness was clearly regarded
by some with great suspicion.
‘I hear
they’ve allowed your mother home, then,’ said Mrs Brampton, one of our local
busybodies, outside the post office one day.
‘Yes,
thank you. She’s doing fine.’
‘Don’t
thank me, young man. Our Bible-studies group has been praying for her — praying
they’d leave her in there and throw away the key!’
I
wanted to protect my mother from these malicious remarks, and that was easy
while she remained at home in isolation. But within a few months she was as
robust as she had ever been, and as spring came and nature began to awaken,
there was an added glint in her eye. Late one night I found her standing by an
open window, inhaling deeply. She held her breath for thirty seconds, then
exhaled through her mouth, letting out an animal groan. ‘Aaaeeuugh!’
‘Are
you all right?’ I asked, afraid a relapse was heralded.
‘Never
better, sweetness. The marsh … it’s calling me! Listen!’
Indeed,
I could hear a strange, goose-like croak in the distance. My mother had always
had a passion for Romney Marsh, and didn’t much care for life outside it.
Ashford, the nearest town, she declared dull and suburban, and she loathed
supermarkets with a passion. We grew our own
responsibility. Mother didn’t have much energy, it seemed, so while she rested
I dusted and swept, cleaned windows and made the place as warm and cheerful as
I could. I changed the sheets, aired the bedrooms and cycled to the village
shop for some provisions.
From
time to time I checked on my mother. She wasn’t very chatty, but once she
managed to quote Yeats to me:
‘Move most gently if move you must
In this lonely place.’
It was from ‘Long Legged
Fly’ and I couldn’t remember the next line, but I thought it was something to
do with being part woman and part child, so I felt it unwise to complete the
poem anyway.
By
eight o’clock that evening, when we sat down to a bowl of soup and warm toasted
rolls, everything was cosy and clean. My mother had had a bath and changed into
a cream lace blouse with a ruffled red polka-dot skirt. Sitting by a roaring
fire, rubbing her hair dry with a towel, she gave a contented sigh. ‘Ah, thank
you, Johnny … thank you.’ Her smile was wide and heartfelt.
I felt
the warm glow of satisfaction at a job well done when, after tea, she looked
into the fire and recited a poem of lighter sentiment:
‘There is so much good in the worst of us,
And so much bad in the best of us,
That it hardly becomes any of us
To talk about the rest of us.’
I laughed. ‘That’s a new
one. Who’s it by?’
‘My
favourite,’ said my mother. ‘Anonymous.’
I felt
relief wash over me. It seemed the worst might soon be over and we could begin
to be happy again.
Over the next few weeks my
sole concern was my mother’s recovery. I cooked us a hearty breakfast before I
went to school each day and rushed home afterwards. Then we would stay inside
in the warm, reading together and occasionally listening to a play on the
radio. Like my mother, the house plants filled out slowly and began to flourish
again. A social worker from the hospital visited now and then, checking that
medication was being taken and that family life was progressing along
acceptable lines. I was delighted to see the colour returning to my mother’s
cheeks and to hear her laugh once again at the antics of a ladybird or the
impertinence of a sparrow.
Outside
our happy home, though, things were not so rosy. I already knew from the
whispers and titters at school that my mother’s naked ascent of Hythe town-hall
clock had not been forgotten.
Boys on
the bus, knowing of my fondness for poetry, would sing unkindly:
‘Hickory, dickory, dock,
Whose mum ran up the clock?
Johnny’s ma forgot her bra,
Hickory, dickory, dock!’
Within the village
community it was less of a laughing matter. Mental illness was clearly regarded
by some with great suspicion.
‘I hear
they’ve allowed your mother home, then,’ said Mrs Brampton, one of our local
busybodies, outside the post office one day.
‘Yes,
thank you. She’s doing fine.’
‘Don’t
thank me, young man. Our Bible-studies group has been praying for her — praying
they’d leave her in there and throw away the key!’
I
wanted to protect my mother from these malicious remarks, and that was easy
while she remained at home in isolation. But within a few months she was as
robust as she had ever been, and as spring came and nature began to awaken,
there was an added glint in her eye. Late one night I found her standing by an
open window, inhaling deeply. She held her breath for thirty seconds, then
exhaled through her mouth, letting out an animal groan. ‘Aaaeeuugh!’
‘Are
you all right?’ I asked, afraid a relapse was heralded.
‘Never
better, sweetness. The marsh … it’s calling me! Listen!’
Indeed,
I could hear a strange, goose-like croak in the distance. My mother had always
had a passion for Romney Marsh, and didn’t much care for life outside it.
Ashford, the nearest town, she declared dull and suburban, and she loathed
supermarkets with a passion. We grew our own
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