My mother was my home: the stale odour of the room in which she would sit and smoke while watching television, sipping Tia Maria; the piles of un-ironed washing in the hallway, because, as she might point out, it will still be there tomorrow; a greasy pan left on the hob, waiting for Dad to wash it before bed. To my knowledge she never threw out an empty shampoo bottle or newspaper, and there are still things at the back of the pantry that date from my early teens. She kept her purse in her shoppping bag, prefered silver to gold, and would not countenance pasta.
My mother had a unique way of yawning. She would inhale in the normal way, but on exhalation she would produce a descending scale of notes not unlike a sarcastic laugh. I remember being rebuked at infant school for attempting to immitate it. “But that’s the way my mum does it”, I said. That didn’t wash with Miss Smith.
She takes a few of my secrets with her. And, although I’m not embarrassed to divulge them, I will remain silent because they are hers to keep.
A couple of hours ago I flicked through my photo collection, picked out a suitable snapshot and slid it into the photoframe I received last Christmas. Mum stands in pasture at the bottom of Malham Cove in the Yorkshire Dales. That was when she had frizzy hair and enormous glasses. She is smiling broadly – proof that she is happy. She is flanked by sheep, and is wearing totally inappropriate footwear.