MEMORIES OF A MARVELLOUS MAMA
Author Prue Leith recalls the upside of her formidable mother’s later years
My mother’s mother was away with the fairies by the time she was 70. She was very grand, and I remember her asking my dad politely how he took his tea. ‘Weak please,’ he said, ‘no milk, no sugar.’ She graciously passed him a cup of strong, sweet, milky tea with a dusting of cigarette ash floating on top.
My mama went the same way in her 70s, laying the table with corkscrews and bottle openers in place of silver and pouring herself a glass of wine for breakfast, but remained good company for the next 20 years. After she turned 90, however, the intelligent, interested and funny woman she once was had gone. It was very sad.
But we were lucky. She had enough money to live in her own house. And, towards the end, to just afford a brilliant couple of carers who alternated week by week. So I never had the worry, the chore, the boredom, the pain, the sheer hard work of looking after someone who was no longer all there.
For my brother James and me, visiting our mother was mostly a pleasure, although I confess that if I was desperately busy the temptation to skip the visit was strong. She’d never know, I’d tell myself. But even if she didn’t recognise me, just having a hand to hold, just joining in a joke she didn’t understand, just offering me a drink at nine in the morning gave her pleasure and made it worth it for me.
Towards the end, she hadn’t much of a clue who we were, or what our children’s or spouses’ names were. She’d get round this with, ‘And how are you and yours?’ It was heartbreaking. She had a large photograph of her father prominently displayed on a table. One day, our brother David, her eldest son, arrived to see her after quite a few years in South Africa. She thought he was her father who had been dead for 50 years. By now in his 70s, David did look a little like his grandfather, but to be called ‘Daddy’ by your mother isn’t easy.
But there were some very funny moments. James installed a phone above her bath with our numbers next to it. One day she rang me.
‘Do you know, darling, it’s most odd, but I cannot get out of the bath.’
‘Mum, listen, I’ll tell you how to get out of the bath. You turn over…’
‘What are you talking about? I know how to get out of the bath. I do it every day.’ ‘OK then, do it now.’ ‘Why should I? I’m very happy in it. I’ll get out in my own good time.’
I gave up, but a few minutes later the phone rang. ‘Darling, it’s most odd, but I can’t get out of the bath.’
I rang the fire brigade, and also a neighbour who promised to talk to my mum through the window until someone arrived.
Soon Mama was back on the phone. I said, ‘Don’t worry, darling, the fire brigade is on its way.’
‘What do I need the fire brigade for? I’m fine. Just thought I’d give you a ring.’
And then I heard her neighbour calling. My mother said, ‘I have to go. There’s someone at the door.’ ‘But Mum, you’re stuck in the bath, remember?’ ‘What nonsense…’ And so it went on. I kept her on the phone, sometimes having to ring her back if she put the phone down to ‘deal with the mad woman outside’.
After ten minutes of this she exclaimed, ‘Good Lord, there’s a policewoman in my bathroom!’
The policewoman had managed to climb through her bedroom window.
When I rang a little later, Mum was thrilled. ‘Darling, there are two handsome firemen and a woman police officer here. No idea why, but Elaine [the name of a neighbour,
though not the right one] has made tea and we are having a lovely party.’
I found a contraption that would lower her gently into the bath water (and, more importantly, hoist her out of it) and booked a salesman to give us a demonstration. Since carrying a whole bath around would have been impossible, he demonstrated his lowering device on the tap- end of a sawn- off half-bath. ‘What do you think, Mum?’ ‘ Two things: first I don’t want a bath in my drawing room. And secondly, if you filled this bath the water would run straight on to the floor.’
Once, I spent all afternoon weeding her garden in the rain. And she spent all afternoon telling me not to, and to come and have lunch (which we’d already had). She also objected to my replacing her broken and rusted garden furniture. She felt sorry for it, she said.
The next day she greeted me at the door, ‘Oh, darling, you must come and see the garden. It looks so beautiful. Your darling brother has weeded it, and look, he’s bought me lovely new garden furniture.’
One New Year’s Day I cooked lunch in her house for everyone: garlicky green salad with hot grilled chicken. We were tucking in when she suddenly stood up. ‘Darlings, I am so, so sorry. I am such a filthy cook and this is truly disgusting. Come on, we’re going out to lunch.’ Penny, my sister-in-law, protested and we refused to budge. Soon Mama was saying, ‘ This is delicious. Penny, you are such a clever cook.’
But my favourite memory is of her indignant protests when I offered her (a staunch vegetarian for 40 years) the veggie menu in a restaurant.
‘Why are you giving me this? I’m not a greeny, sandalled hippie. I’ll have a steak, thank you very much.’
Not all of her mind deteriorated at the same pace. It was the same with my gran, who had spent her whole life as a rich colonial wife, playing bridge at the Kempton Park Club in Cape Town. Even when she no longer recognised who she was playing with, she could still play a terrific hand. Having lost all inhibition, she’d bark, ‘Finesse, finesse, woman,’ at her unfortunate partner of 20 years.
My mother held on to the crossword bit of her mind almost to the very end. When she could no longer see, and didn’t hear too well, I would try to help her. I’d bellow the clues at her and she’d sit, immobile, staring into space. Presuming she’d lost the plot, I’d say, ‘OK, Mum, let’s try another one…’
‘No, no,’ she’d say, ‘I’m still trying to work out an anagram for “pluralist”,’ or ‘It must be Rosencrantz because Guildenstern doesn’t fit.’
If I had been my mother’s carer, it would be hard to remember the good bits, I think. But because she was in her own home, surrounded by familiar things, cared for expertly, we had the luxury of telling ourselves she was as happy as she could be. Of course old age is no picnic, and a lot of it is horrible. But when I follow my mama and gran into senility, as I am sure I will, I hope I am as good-natured as my old mum was at the end.
When she was younger, I was quite scared of her sardonically raised eyebrow and her facility with the waspish remark. We used to call her the Duchess. But by the end she was positively sweet. ■ Prue’s latest novel, The Prodigal Daughter, is out now in hardback (Quercus, €27.99). from Easons and all good bookshops.
Mum exclaimed, ‘Good Lord, there’s a policewoman in my bathroom’