What a lady

Out at the shops today, she was everywhere.

I watched her painfully negotiate the pedestrian crossing – bent over her walking stick – as I sat in the car and listened to Bryan Ferry on the radio. She was the woman in the wheelchair, sipping a cup of tea at the table next to mine in the food court. Later, I saw her hunched shoulders in a green cardigan in the queue outside the butchers.

The last memory I have of my mother was when I visited her in hospital. I sat on her bed and watched helplessly as she struggled to support herself in a chair.

They won’t let me get in to bed, she’d said. I can’t take much more.

I didn’t know what to say.

I remember looking down at her bare legs, slippered feet, and thinking how shiny the skin on her shins was. I remember thinking that life could be cruel.

When my mother died, in the small hours of the following night, seven years ago, I lost a source of love that was bottomless and unique.

A mother’s love is irreplaceable.

Small wonder that so much hangs on that relationship.

As far as mother-daughter relationships go, ours wasn’t perfect, but it was precious to us both. Over the years, I’ve been able to unshackle myself from a lot of her influences that stop me from being myself. I’m still working on freeing myself from the restrictions of some of her judgements. My propensity to default to cleaning the house when I feel stressed is, I suspect, one of her legacies. Not that there’s anything wrong with cleaning the house! But when I clean the house in order to hide from my feelings — that’s a different matter.

Once, when I still lived at home, my mother – in a tone enraged with exasperation and disgust – told me that if I ever had a house of my own, it would always be so dirty and untidy, it would put her off coming to visit me.

Bear in mind this statement came from a woman whose cleanliness and tidiness rivalled that of the Queen.

Dog vacuumed, floors polished until your reflection was clearer than in the mirror and washing up done before the last mouthful of dinner hit the sides of your throat.

I’m doing well when it comes to the psychological scar tissue stakes. I’ve managed to eradicate pretty much most of it with a bit of plastic surgery. Currently, I live in a house that has so many cobwebs, the spiders think they own the place. Every time I turn the light on in the bathroom, and watch the feathery strands float around in the draft from the window, I imagine it’s the trapeze fairies practising their routines again. I wouldn’t want to spoil their fun.

And it sure beats feeling guilty!

But in deference to being a responsible parent and homemaker, I have scheduled in a spot of spring-cleaning during the school holidays.

Wouldn’t want my mother to think she was right.

But I miss seeing her eyes light up every time I’d pop home to visit; hearing the delight in her voice when I rang. My phone calls, no matter what the time, were never an inconvenience.

I’ll never forget the time we were on the phone and someone came to the door. I told her to hang on while I answered it. When they left I carried on with what I was doing, and later in the day, discovered the phone off the hook.

Her graciousness and my mortification still haunt me.

I miss the cup of tea every morning I lived at home, and the pyjamas warmed by the fire at night. The tears in her eyes when she heard a moving song.

She was my greatest fan.