by Various
“What do you need a solicitor for mum?” I had asked.
“I’ve changed my will again.”
“Ok.” I had laughed trying to think who was out of favour with you at that precise moment. “Well you know I don’t want anything; I am happy here so why don’t you just leave everything to Steven?”
“Because there are two of you and things have to be shared equally and I’m not daft.”
“You’re not alright.”
In spite of this, it always seemed to be my brother that you loved the most. Now I realise that it was just because he came to you with all his problems and, although a giant of a man and he acted tough, he is really a softy. He relied on you a lot, mostly as a sounding board when things went wrong yet again for him. He did a lot of coming home for a while to sort himself out when he was younger. I suppose I held my feelings and life happenings closer to my heart. Hidden deep for no one to see until I was ready to either make a choice or had already done so. He may look like your father you had said, but you are more like him in the things that you do. Not being an avid fan of my father, these words went deep. Deeper than you ever realised.
Sitting on the floor in a cold hallway in a rented house after my acrimonious divorce and talking to you on the phone in my coat. I was rock bottom in mood but trying to sound cheerful and you said, “Your brother is in trouble again, his marriage is on the rocks. He is moving in with me for a while whilst he gets his head straight. Thank God I don’t have to worry about you. You always fall on your feet. You always have. My advice to you though is to never-ever forget your roots. Your granddad was a miner and that’s the stock we are from.”
I remember looking around and thinking ‘never forget my roots’? And it made me smile to think that you hadn’t a clue how low I had got. But the determination inherited from you got me through.
I had disembarked from my plane that morning at the airport and even took time out for a cup of coffee. As I watched the planes taking off and landing, I allowed myself a little time out to reflect. Then there was the metro train ride and a bus journey home. A listed cottage now, I had come a long way from my days of sitting in a cold hallway in a rented house and was trying so hard to hang on to all that Ian and I had recently achieved. The red light on the phone was flashing for the messages to be read. Usually I would take off my coat, make myself a drink and then go and listen. There would just be your voice on it talking to me. If there were other messages, yours would wipe them off as the stories you told were so long, and I would then phone you.
Why I didn’t do it on that day I don’t know. Now I’m biting my lip as I look at the phone here in the lounge and dare to remember. Those moments that I had pushed so far back in my mind and refused to bring forward. I had picked up the phone at the same time as dropping my case upon the nearest rug. It wasn’t your voice on the three messages that were there. The first was from your carer saying please get in touch, with a number to ring. The second was from the hospital Accident and Emergency department asking me to ring them. The third was from the coroner saying that he was sorry for your death, with another number to ring and that I needed to go to the hospital to identify your body.
One, two, three. Just like that you had been taken from me. The pain in my chest that had risen to my throat had ended with an outward piercing cry. Who was making that noise I had thought. “Nooooooooooooooooooo!” I am the calm one. Stay calm. Breath. With shaking hands I had phoned the carer’s number. There was an answer machine. I left a message. I can’t remember now what the message had been. Then the uncontrollable shaking began. Continuing on with my quest, a new number was keyed into the phone. The staff nurse that picked up the phone asked me to wait while she went to fetch the person in charge. Next, a man’s voice had said, “Hello?” then there was silence.
“It’s ok,” I had heard myself say almost professionally. “I know my mum is dead – I have a message from the coroner.”
“We tried, we really tried,” the voice had continued. “The ambulance crew worked on her all the way to the hospital.”
“Please,” I had said, “Don’t say anymore.” Then I had found myself thanking him. Why? You would have hated it all. Your wishes had been that if anything happened to you, we were to let you go quietly, with dignity, but instead they would have put a tube down your throat and bounced up and down on your chest. Had they broken any ribs? Oh God. We had to go and identify the body he had told me. Identify the body. How often had I heard that? Unexpected death they called it. Although you had been ill for a long time, and we had really thought that you would live forever.
I told the nurse in charge that I would travel up but it wouldn’t be until the evening as I had to call Ian in London, where he worked, and, if he brought me in the car, the journey home would take him three hours and then we had to travel on up to you. I had asked if my brother had been contacted. He hadn’t. I told the staff nurse it wouldn’t be a good idea for him to come alone as he wouldn’t cope and would probably be so angry that he would hit out. I would speak to him and we would come together.
“Don’t worry,” I had said, “he will be calm by the time we get there.”
I had then telephoned the coroner. No reply from that number either. Be calm I had told myself. Stop and think now. Still shaking and so cold despite wearing my coat, I had wandered through to the kitchen, put the kettle on and went to the toilet. Before I attempted anything else, I just needed to stop for a minute or two. Somehow the coffee had been made and I was holding it in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and leaning out of the stable door of the kitchen feeling sick. I had sipped my coffee then had been startled by the phone ringing. It was Ian.
You really loved this one, didn’t you? You got on so well, always laughing. He loved you too you know. Never a mother-in-law joke or not wanting to visit you.
“You ok love? Good journey?” he had began.
“No! Mum is dead.” Silence. What a shock it must have been for him to be told like that. I thought that I was so in control. I said I was going to throw a few things in a suitcase and get the next train up here.
“No,” he had said, “by the time you get to the station, wait around for the next train and everything, I will be home. I’m leaving now. I need to be with you.”
All I could think of at that time was you, alone in that hospital. My mum. Not just a body waiting to be identified. All those annoying phone calls. What I would give for one from you now. I look at the photo on the bookcase and smile. Joking with you and talking out loud.
“Hello this is Mum phoning from heaven. Its real nice here, you know, and I’m just having a cup of tea with your grandma. Granddad says, remember your roots.”
My friend from the next village had come through the cottage door without being invited. She had taken one look and wrapped her arms around me. My husband must have telephoned her. I cried then – a lot. It was alright to cry in front of her. It took a while to stop. With the tears pouring down my cheeks, I had insisted that I was ok.
“You think you are but I’m telling you you’re not. Now listen, you go put the kettle on for me and I will repack your case or you will have fifteen pairs of knickers and bugger all else.”
Then she had sat and wrote a to-do list. Her own mum and husband had passed away the year before. She talked as she wrote and I know I should have been listening to her, but I can’t recall a word she said. Thank goodness for that list that she had tucked into my suitcase. Me, the organised one, later crossing things off a list like a zombie as my muddled mind wouldn’t take things in properly.
I had then phoned work to let them know what had happened and that I wouldn’t be taking the on-call that night. They had said to keep in touch.
“Hi love, are you on your own or do you have people with you?”
“Why? What’s up sis? Are you ok?” my brother had asked.
I could hear crowds of people in the background. He was walking through town; it was his dinner hour.
“I’ll wait until you’re back at work love.”
“No, you won’t. Tell me now.”
“It’s Mum, I think she had a funny
“It’s Mum, I think she had a funny turn. She fell.”
“Is she at home or at the hospital. I’ll go to her now.
“Is she at home or at the hospital. I’ll go to her now. How bad is she hurt?”
“Erm, there’s no easy way to tell you this.”
“ Nooooooooo!” is what I heard before the telephone went dead. I had stood rigid next to the telephone and waited. What had I done? I hadn’t handled that at all well. The waiting had seemed like an eternity and then the telephone had rung.
“Why didn’t they phone me?” Steven’s hurt voice had said.
“I put my number on her calendar and care notes and it’s my number on her previous hospital records probably.” I had replied. He had people around him now he was back at work. I overheard someone say let’s take a look at that hand
“What’s wrong with your hand?” I had asked.
“Its ok,” he said, “I scratched it.”
We made arrangements to meet, have a quick drink and then go to the hospital together.
I look further along the shelf. We were out to lunch in this photo Mum. It was a special day for you. You were seventy. No age these days. You were plucked from us too soon. I smile again as I look more closely at the photo, you with your glass of wine and very red face as you were never a big drinker, and me with my cigarette under the table trying to hide it. Ian looming large as life, making everyone happy and laughing. We had arranged a wheelchair for the trip. You had made so many excuses not to go. Having lost your confidence for a couple of years before you left us. It took until dinner time before we finally had you ready and then you complained that you were hungry all the way there.
I am laughing now. You would say the most outrageous things after your stroke. Didn’t care a jot and I got used to the surprised look on people’s faces as you made comments about their appearance and the like. Before that you never said anything bad about a person. If we did you would think of something nice about them and say, “yes but—.”
You were the entertainer. You loved people and especially children. It was a cruel blow when my brothers ex-wife didn’t bring the children to visit anymore. I had tried to make amends for this by having my children and grandchildren to stay and, as part of our time together, we would always come up here. The children all enjoyed it as the house is so near to the beach. Happy, cheerful times. All the games that have been played in this room. Then there was the time just after your stroke when Ian and I decided to let you win a game of scrabble. It would boost your confidence we thought. Oh, how hard it was to let you win. You lost your patience quickly at that time and when it wasn’t your go would constantly say, “Whose go is it now?”
It should have been easy for us to lose really as we just found it funny and couldn’t concentrate anyway. Then came the time when you won for real and we knew you were getting better. You knew what we had been up to and told us that night that we would get a run for our money. You won the pile of pennies.
Always smiling, people opened up to you. The secrets you must have known about family, friends and neighbours. Never once did one pass your lips and you took them with you to your place in heaven.
Informing Ali and Marie had been especially hard on me. More so for Marie, being abroad and so far from home. She wouldn’t be able to get back for your funeral and I knew that would devastate her. She was also pregnant and emotional.
“Oh no!” she had said, “I need to be there for you; I will find the money. We will come home”
“No,” I had insisted. “Your Nan wouldn’t have wanted that. She knew what a struggle it was to get the money together to fly out there. She was so proud of you and wouldn’t want you to change direction now.”
Marie had been on her own with the children and I didn’t put the phone down until she promised faithfully to phone her husband to go home to her for a while.
Ali had been a rock. She had asked if it was ok to come up put the phone down until she promised faithfully to phone her husband to go home to her for a while. here and stay with me for a while. She was the strong one, strong for me. She held it altogether for everyone until late on the second day when she disappeared into the bathroom and broke down, thinking that no one could hear her. We let her cry it out. She needed a release.
Everyone felt guilty, Mum. Everyone had something to feel guilty about. I hadn’t phoned you. Ali and Marie hadn’t visited for some time. Steven had said that he should have called in that morning and why did you both have to argue? He had only been here two days previously. You know, don’t you? You know that we all loved you and still do. There is such a huge void in our lives that you once filled. No one can imagine the impact of the death of their mum until it happens to them.
I met Steven outside of this house and we came in first followed by my husband and my brothers’ girlfriend. Nothing seemed out of place until we reached the bedroom. The first thing we saw was your chair on its side. Blood had been spilt on the carpet by the chair, over the radiator and also on the bed. The curtain was torn and half-hanging where you had maybe tried to save yourself while falling. I remember seeing the tubing and the empty oxygen mask packets left by the paramedics during the attempt to save your life. I mentioned nothing to Steven or Ian but just picked them up and put them in the bin. That was my cross to bear, so to speak. Too much knowledge on the subject is not a good thing when it comes to one of your own. Thank god I had found and disposed of them before Ali had arrived. Being in the same line of work, it would have affected her too.
I hadn’t met Steven’s girlfriend before that night. I was too upset for awkwardness though and had insisted that my brother bring her. He would need a shoulder to cry on when we weren’t together. Surprisingly though he didn’t shed a tear until many months afterwards. I think the comment I made was, “Look, it doesn’t matter who you are with. No one would have been good enough for you. Just do what you feel is right.”
He had told me about the argument between you both. You had also told me. I had stood with the telephone in my hand and listened to you both within a couple of hours of each other. Obviously you were both very upset by it all. It was tearing at your hearts. Did it matter who was right? You were right though, Mum. He has moved on now and lives with Molly, and they are real soulmates. I can’t really find any reason for you not to have liked her.
I had glanced at the thick plaster dressing on Steven’s left hand and then at him.
“Lamppost,” he said.
“Right,” I had answered.
Ian had been the practical one, making a pot of tea and insisting that we all had a drink before leaving for the hospital. I think back now and know what a wonderful man he really is. He must have been feeling as bad as us because he really did love you, but no one acknowledged his pain at the time.
Steven went to the cupboard here. He had poured himself a whisky from the bottle that you always kept for him. He offered to pour one for us too. We declined as he was the only one that enjoyed a whisky besides you, except his was neat and yours was so watered down. We got a telephone call from Ali; they had been held up in traffic. So it was decided that while we left for the hospital, Ian would stay here and wait for her, Chas and the children.
We were shown to the relative’s room and asked to wait. It was a stark, bare room with just the necessities in it. A table, chairs, a few magazines and leaflets about funeral directors and had one partially open window.
“Why are we waiting?” Steven had asked me impatiently.
“We have to wait for either the coroner or police to go with us to identify Mum,” I had gently said.
He had been pacing, up and down, he was a coil in the old-fashioned clock, ready to spring release at the sound of the alarm. The pulse in his temple was throbbing; he looked deflated and wild at the same time.
&nb
sp; He would then stop and say, “I just want to see Mum.”
“It will be ok. Soon,” I had replied.
A nurse had brought in a tray with some china cups and saucers and a pot of tea. Ironically, I smiled at this, the best china from the Accident and Emergency department, reserved for mourning relatives. I had been that nurse.
Then there were voices through the open window.
“There they are,” I heard Ali cry. Not long after, both she and her husband came through the door. More hugs.
Ian had stayed behind here with the children. In an attempt to take their minds off things, he had in fact taken both the children and the dog to the beach in the dark. The tide was out and he thought that it would be an adventure for them.
We were led down half-lit corridors and outside a room where two policemen stood. They stood straight, silent and expressionless. The nurse had asked us to sit down. We had sat on the seats outside the dreaded room, waiting and gearing ourselves up for the moment.
Steven had turned to me. “I can’t do this.” He was ashen now and visibly shaking.
“It’s ok. I’ll do it.” I replied.
I took a deep breath. I almost knew what I was going to see. So often I had been the one in the nurse’s place as she stood there now.
“There will be a plastic screen,” she said. I looked at the policemen.
“I would like the screen taken away please.”
They had looked at each other and turned, opened the door and went inside the room.
When they came out, I remember standing and following them, at least my head and shoulders did. They were hurting with a strange sensation of pain and numbness. I had no idea where my legs were.
“I will come too; you shouldn’t be on your own,” Ali had cried then.
“No. I’m fine.”
Every part of me wanted it to be someone else and not you. No thought was spared for some other poor soul that it may have been instead. Just that a miracle may have happened and there had been a mix-up. There was no mix up. I tried not to look at the tube still attached to the corner of your mouth. Not that it made any difference now, but knowing what you had been put through was the thing that hurt me the most.