My mother Betty
Every single one of us who has lost a parent has regrets about the things that weren’t said and the questions that weren’t asked. For me, I wish I’d said thank you to my mum more often, but when you’re with your parents – despite all the evidence in the history of the world – we do believe they’re going to be around forever.
The other reality is that parents are often very irritating and can make us feel incredibly frustrated.
Because I left home as soon as I turned 18 to study overseas, and returned to New Zealand only for concerts and holidays, a large percentage of my time with my mother was when I was a self-opinionated teenager dying to break free and get on with my own life.
There is no getting away from it that despite our great love for each other, we spent a high percentage of our time arguing. What made it worse was that my older brother Tony was perfect in every way and was always compliant.
My dad didn’t help either because he would always find a way of never making a fuss. It was only in my mum’s final days, when she talked about this, that she actually said I was a lot of fun. So despite my regrets, I think she enjoyed the sparring between us because my mother and I actually had the same complicated mix of personality traits.
Can I give you an example of what my mother and I had a bitter argument about when I was 14?
At Shirley Boys’ High School, Mrs Paterson, a new deputy music teacher, arrived and had the unenviable task of trying to enthuse her unwilling students. Mrs Paterson could play the piano really well and it wasn’t long before she was accompanying me for concerts.
My mother, in appreciation, decided I should give her a present. Being a family without much in the way of spare cash, my mother carefully placed in a matchbox her tiny, carved, wooden elephant and instructed me to give it to Mrs P.
There was no way in the world I was going to give anyone such a stupid, sissy present so I argued long and hard with my mother, as only a 14-year-old can. Despite my best efforts my mother won so a blushing, awkward Mark gave Mrs P the most embarrassing present of all time.
A few years ago I was tracked down by Mrs P’s daughter, Noeline, to tell me that her mother, now 88, was living in a rest home in Nelson. Noeline wanted me to know that despite the fact she was going blind and losing her memory, her mum still talked about me and still carried around that little carved, wooden elephant in her handbag.
When I heard this I was so glad my mum was no longer around as she would only have gloated.
I have since heard from Noeline that my old music teacher died in November and the precious little elephant has now settled into Noeline’s handbag as a reminder of her mum.
Was I right to argue with my mum all those years ago? Well, I think any spirited 14-year-old boy would have stated their opinion, but in hindsight it’s pretty clear who was right. Mums know best.
My mother was born Beatrix Sherburn-Hall and grew up in the village of Haslemere in England. She was a free spirit and cycled with a friend around England, staying at youth hostels.
My mother took after me, so she wrote and hand-illustrated a book about these travels, which is now one of my prized possessions. Betty studied art and music at Training College and ended up teaching art at the famous, breathtakingly progressive Bedales School in Hampshire. Betty inherited her inspiring teaching abilities from me and the results she achieved with her students were stunning.
As I mentioned in an earlier article for The Press about my father, my mother set off for New Zealand to get over a broken heart as her dashing young airman had died in a fatal crash.
Betty – a highly educated, beautiful young English art teacher – couldn’t resist a persistent, besotted Kiwi sailor called John, who was 13 years younger than her.
My parents were married in Timaru and settled back in Christchurch. My artistic mother found it hard to exchange her bohemian cultural life in England for her new, financially challenging life in Linwood.
Interestingly, my mother never returned to England, even for a visit, as by the time she could afford to travel she didn’t want her memories dashed. And, anyway by then she had fallen completely in love with New Zealand.
My mother taught art at several schools, including St Margaret’s in Christchurch. But she had been spoilt by her very creative teaching experiences in England.
My father’s parents sadly never really accepted my mother and I’m still mystified why, even though mum played the starring role in producing three grandsons. She tried hard to win their affection by constantly painting pictures of their grandchildren and even made a clay statue of my eldest brother. Bill. that sat on their mantelpiece.
Funnily enough. I too never felt I won my grandparents’ affections and can only think that I was a complete pest or maybe it was because I was too much like my mother.
Life was busy for Mum with three young boys and a large quarter-acre section from which we produced so much of our food. Both Tony and I were born with debilitatingly bad eyesight, so she spent a huge amount of her time writing things out for us in lovely. big. clear printing so we could read it.
Betty, by the time she had me, was much older than most of our friends’ mothers, so we just accepted that after lunch each day we had to be quiet as she needed a sleep.
I had a disastrous start to learning music at Linwood North School (now Whītau School). I hated it with a passion because I couldn’t read the music notes written on the board. This didn’t deter Betty, who, when I was old enough, enrolled me for Saturday morning recorder lessons at the Christchurch School of Music, which sent me into torrents of tears.
But at that first lesson I was given my very own recorder book, which I could perch at the end of my nose. I could now read the music and my life changed forever. Mums know best.
About this time my eldest brother was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s disease and over the next few years the whole family struggled. Bill went in and out of remission but sadly we lost him and my mother never really recovered from this devastating sadness.
It was some compensation that Tony and I were excelling with our music and she put all her energies into us, driving us to rehearsals and attending all the performances. Because the Waltons did not have a car for many years, my mother learnt to drive only when she was in her 50s and if I said she wasn’t a great driver that wouldn’t be unkind.
I’d only been playing the clarinet for a short while, but I must have done well enough because she started saying on repeat that she wanted me to become a world-famous clarinettist or a comedian. I think this statement says more about my mother than about my abilities.
She also said on repeat, “just by smiling at a stranger, or saying something nice, you can turn their day around”, and without a doubt Betty was a master of this skill.
Something else she said ad infinitum was “your father will marry someone much younger when I die”.
When it was evident that my mum did not have long to go she drew up a list of three possible names for my ever-compliant father. Sure enough, when this came to pass, Ailsa, the second lady on the list, was happy to oblige. With my mother’s blessing, Ailsa and my dad had 20 happy years together.
What my mum was completely unable to do was to praise me to my face as she had a paranoia that I would grow up to become big-headed and a show-off. This continued until the day she drew her last breath and she trained my ever-obedient father to be the same.
On the occasion when I finally returned from England to perform as soloist with the New Zealand Symphony Orchestra, we all came back to the family home in Worcester St after the concert. I thought finally my mum was going to break down her shield of indifference and for once tell me she was proud and that I had done well.
Not to be ... my mum simply said “who’s having first bath”?
Of course she was actually terribly proud because I overheard her the next day talking to her friend and it sounded just like bragging to me.
Although my mother was a wonderful correspondent and illustrated all her letters, she never had the desire to go back to sketching and painting. She did, however, find great happiness in her garden and going on day trips with my father, exploring Canterbury with their picnic box, Thermos and deck chairs.
When, at the age of 82, my mother was diagnosed with a brain tumour and had to go into care, she was outraged at how old the other residents were.
Although I was living in Sydney, I spent a lot of time with her in her last few weeks and I treasure those memories to this day. Mum had her own room looking out on to the most beautiful flowers and together we listened to music, holding hands, and we couldn’t think of anything to argue about.
I know, if I ever get the chance to meet up with my mum again, I will get in a few quick heartfelt thank yous before we start rubbing each other up the wrong way again.
Tomorrow, on Mother’s Day at 4pm, Mark Walton, an internationally recognised clarinettist and saxophonist, will give a concert called From The Heart at The Piano in Armagh St, Christchurch. This concert is dedicated to all mothers.