plate of toast. 'It's about a girl who gets pregnant to a
butcher's boy and then hangs herself. It's an old Irish lament,
terrible maudlin.'
'Aren't they all?' I said, joining her on the sofa. 'Can I
have a piece of that toast, please, before you demolish the
lot.'
She sat perched on the end of the sofa, humming softly to
herself as she munched.
'D'you like this jam?' she asked. 'It's diabetic. It was going
half price in Boots so I bought a pot. There mustn't be much
call for it.'
We sat in silence, slurping tea. Why is there no call for
diabetic jam? I thought. My mind wandered. Weren't there any
diabetics who shopped at Boots? Or, if there were any, did they
have an aversion to strawberry jam? My mother's voice broke
this chain of thought.
'My poor mother ,' she said tenderly to herself. 'She died in
childbirth, you know.'
I did know. I'd heard it many times before and it looked like
I was about to hear it again. She had me trapped, a captive
audience. The stories my mother told about her childhood always left me feeling unsettled. A profound sadness hung
around me as I tried to link the lonely little girl of her stories
and my mother.
'It was a little boy,' she said sadly, settling back into the sofa.
'We called him James. He only lived for a week. A week after
we'd buried my mother at Flaybrick Cemetery we were back up
there with the baby. Four great black horses with black plumes
on top of their heads there was, pulling the hearse. It must have
cost my dad a fortune, money he didn't have.' She stared
unblinking into the glow of the fire, momentarily in a trance,
her eyes blazing like chip pans, recalling a memory of when as
a little girl she had stood by an open grave on a bleak winter's
morning listening to the rooks calling to each other over the
branches of the bare trees, and the quiet sobbing of the mourners
as the priest read out the final prayer. She gave a long sigh
as she came back from her dream and continued with her reminiscences:
'I can see my mother now, lying in bed in the front
parlour, her face white as a sheet and her lovely hair wringing
with sweat.' She paused to take a sip of tea. 'She was only in her
thirties, God help her. It was a complicated birth. The midwife
told me dad to run for the doctor, but it was too late . . . Her
heart gave out . . . When he got back she was gone . . . Before
she died, Aunty Anne crawled into the bed with her. She must
have only been five. Look after your dad, my mother said to
her, and d'you know what? It was a dying wish that your aunty
Anne kept till the day my dad died. Look after your dad . . .'
Her voice trailed off as she took another sip of her tea.
'Where was I? Oh yes, Annie and my dad. She was his
favourite . . . When Annie cooked his dinner he always used to leave a little bit for her on the side of his plate.' She laughed to
herself, nodding her head, enjoying some secret joke. 'She did
everything for him, even after she got married. Harold had to
move into Lowther Street because Annie wouldn't leave me
dad.' She lapsed into silence again. A blast of icy wind blew
through the entire house and the candles flickered.
Aunty Anne, known as Annie to the family but Nancy to her
mates, fell in love with Harold Fawcett from the moment she
first saw him serving on the altar of St Laurence's Church .
There was a touch of the Edward G. Robinson about him.
Determinedly she set about wooing him until eventually he
cracked and took her to the pictures. They were both fans of
American movies. Aunty Anne with her owl-like specs and
hyena's laugh fancied herself as a Janet Gaynor type and saw
Uncle Al as her Fredric March. Together they would quote
their favourite scenes from the movies they'd seen when they
were out courting. Aunty Anne, the eternal romantic, bagged
her prince and walked down the aisle with him wearing an
ivory satin dress from Guinea a Gown, a shop that specialized
in wedding dresses at just over a quid, with her sisters trailing
behind her as
butcher's boy and then hangs herself. It's an old Irish lament,
terrible maudlin.'
'Aren't they all?' I said, joining her on the sofa. 'Can I
have a piece of that toast, please, before you demolish the
lot.'
She sat perched on the end of the sofa, humming softly to
herself as she munched.
'D'you like this jam?' she asked. 'It's diabetic. It was going
half price in Boots so I bought a pot. There mustn't be much
call for it.'
We sat in silence, slurping tea. Why is there no call for
diabetic jam? I thought. My mind wandered. Weren't there any
diabetics who shopped at Boots? Or, if there were any, did they
have an aversion to strawberry jam? My mother's voice broke
this chain of thought.
'My poor mother ,' she said tenderly to herself. 'She died in
childbirth, you know.'
I did know. I'd heard it many times before and it looked like
I was about to hear it again. She had me trapped, a captive
audience. The stories my mother told about her childhood always left me feeling unsettled. A profound sadness hung
around me as I tried to link the lonely little girl of her stories
and my mother.
'It was a little boy,' she said sadly, settling back into the sofa.
'We called him James. He only lived for a week. A week after
we'd buried my mother at Flaybrick Cemetery we were back up
there with the baby. Four great black horses with black plumes
on top of their heads there was, pulling the hearse. It must have
cost my dad a fortune, money he didn't have.' She stared
unblinking into the glow of the fire, momentarily in a trance,
her eyes blazing like chip pans, recalling a memory of when as
a little girl she had stood by an open grave on a bleak winter's
morning listening to the rooks calling to each other over the
branches of the bare trees, and the quiet sobbing of the mourners
as the priest read out the final prayer. She gave a long sigh
as she came back from her dream and continued with her reminiscences:
'I can see my mother now, lying in bed in the front
parlour, her face white as a sheet and her lovely hair wringing
with sweat.' She paused to take a sip of tea. 'She was only in her
thirties, God help her. It was a complicated birth. The midwife
told me dad to run for the doctor, but it was too late . . . Her
heart gave out . . . When he got back she was gone . . . Before
she died, Aunty Anne crawled into the bed with her. She must
have only been five. Look after your dad, my mother said to
her, and d'you know what? It was a dying wish that your aunty
Anne kept till the day my dad died. Look after your dad . . .'
Her voice trailed off as she took another sip of her tea.
'Where was I? Oh yes, Annie and my dad. She was his
favourite . . . When Annie cooked his dinner he always used to leave a little bit for her on the side of his plate.' She laughed to
herself, nodding her head, enjoying some secret joke. 'She did
everything for him, even after she got married. Harold had to
move into Lowther Street because Annie wouldn't leave me
dad.' She lapsed into silence again. A blast of icy wind blew
through the entire house and the candles flickered.
Aunty Anne, known as Annie to the family but Nancy to her
mates, fell in love with Harold Fawcett from the moment she
first saw him serving on the altar of St Laurence's Church .
There was a touch of the Edward G. Robinson about him.
Determinedly she set about wooing him until eventually he
cracked and took her to the pictures. They were both fans of
American movies. Aunty Anne with her owl-like specs and
hyena's laugh fancied herself as a Janet Gaynor type and saw
Uncle Al as her Fredric March. Together they would quote
their favourite scenes from the movies they'd seen when they
were out courting. Aunty Anne, the eternal romantic, bagged
her prince and walked down the aisle with him wearing an
ivory satin dress from Guinea a Gown, a shop that specialized
in wedding dresses at just over a quid, with her sisters trailing
behind her as
Similar Books
