Mum’s Sister

Since I am full of that smelly fruit called ‘Durian’, there is a case for digressing slightly away from Mum.  This is not, really, apropos of anything specific, I just don't feel like writing about Mum right now.  Is that OK?

When Mum was ‘chosen’ at the orphanage she was taken to the flat where Nan and Granddad Billy lived.

Billy worked on the buses.  He remembered a time of horse drawn buses and hearses.  When there was a funeral they would pad the horses feet as a sign of respect, no noise to disturb those who were mourning the deceased.

Times change, don’t they?

Long after Mum came from the orphanage, during the Great Strike, Nan saw all the men from the bus depot hanging around in the street outside her flat.  She fetched Billy’s rifle from the First World War, opened the window and waved the gun at them shouting, “Get back to work you ‘lazy people’,” or words to that effect, in her broad Cockney!

[She used to call me ‘Ducks’, it was a term of affection but it confused me for many years!]

The police came and disarmed her, gave her a severe ‘tutting’ and went away.

Nan was a lady who had terrible ulcers on her legs.  The health service in those days was non-existent.  She would go on a particular day to a clinic for poor people where they would line up all those with leg ulcers.  Then, with what looked like a wallpaper brush, they would ‘paint’ all the legs with some solution from a bucket.  There was no thought of disinfecting the brush between ‘treatments’.

That was life in those days.  You just put up with what you had.

Mum discovered that she had a ‘sister’.

Her sister was a shade older and had a terrible temper.

At one time there was an argument during which sister threw a knife at Nan and Mum.  They were already heading out of the door, which they slammed shut to hear the knife thud and quiver into the other side of the door.

Another time, sister was banished to her room.  Later she was found sitting in a major pout in the middle of the room surrounded by wallpaper; none of which was left on the walls.  Billy said it saved him a lot of trouble since he planned to redecorate anyway.

Mum was in trouble at school.  The school had glass partitions so the classes could see each other.  The teacher got the cane out to punish Mum; at which point sister appeared.

“You are not caning my sister,” she raged.  Grabbing the cane she snapped it over her knee.

Ultimately, sister married a man who I was not, personally, very keen on.  I suppose he was all right in his own way but I could never be comfortable with him.

They lived on the banks of the river near Twickenham and had three children.  A boy with two younger sisters.

The boy was chased by the swans once, possibly he had wandered too near their nest.  Frightened him, as you might imagine.

He also had a time when he was dour and reticent.  Sister sat him down and told him that they were not leaving his room until he told her what the problem was.

Seems there was a lamp-lighter preying on young boys.  Sister rolled up her sleeves...  The police saved him.  Pity, really.

They were all coming to Devon, to us, for a holiday but the husband reversed the car into the river, thus cancelling the holiday.

They all became sick.  Very sick.

They were, all of them, active members of the local Church.  Nobody came to see how they were.  Nobody came to help.  Nobody.

Until.

‘Tap, tap, tap,’ on the door.

“Ugh?  We are sick, you can’t come in,” sister croaked at the smartly dressed ladies.

“Deary me.  That’s no bother.  You go and lie down, we’ll soon sort you out.”

They did.

In no time they had organised people for shopping, cleaning, laundry, cooking and feeding.  They sorted out a doctor to come and made sure the medications were taken appropriately.  They kept this up for two weeks.

Thus sister and her family became Jehovah Witnesses.

Ultimately they moved to a better life in Canada.  I was told my cousin had died so it was with some surprise that Mum had a letter from her shortly before she passed away.

Billy had complained of a stomach pain.  Nan was never one for much sympathy for sick people, “Pull yourself together, Billy,” she told him.

When the ambulance came she was seen running after it calling out for her Billy.

She never saw him again.

You just never know, do you?

And that’s why, every time I say goodbye to BOM, I say, “I love you.”

Because you never know.

Perhaps it is best that I get on with writing now.  Because?