Always by my side
Dear Linda,
I can’t believe it has been over 32 years since we last saw or spoke to each other. I hope you heard me talking to you that morning on 15th March 1990, just before you left us.
Even then I wasn’t ready to give up on you, still planning that one last caravan holiday together at Golden Sands, Rhyl, where we went as kids.
Though of course that never did happen as you passed away from complications of a heart transplant at Papworth Hospital. So now, here I am left remembering all of those beautiful memories that we did have a chance to make together. Where do I start?
You were six when I was born in 1957, and were right by my side from the beginning.
I remember you helping me build sandcastles and holding my hand as we paddled in the sea on holiday or watching you riding one of the bikes our dad Ernie had hired, wishing I was big enough to go on the back.
Then there were the snowball fights at the maisonette where we lived in Blakenall, West Midlands.
There I’d be, dressed in my snow suit and wellies, hiding behind the barricade you’d built to keep me safe.
‘Guard the snowballs!’ you’d wink while you and our sisters Christine, the oldest, Maureen and Evelyn had snowball fights with the other children.
Or what about the long midsummer days having fun at the Walsall Arboretum with our bag of sandwiches and bottles of pop?
Many hours would be spent there, playing in the pool or on the swings before our walk back home, tired but happy.
One day, Dad bought a three-wheel bike with a stand on the back, so that we could all use that instead.
I was still too small to peddle or even climb onto it!
It was only later I learnt we’d had a brother called Johnathan who had been tragically killed while riding a similar bike before I was born.
He’d been running an errand to the shops for our mum, Phyliss, when a milk float reversed out of an alleyway as he passed, killing him.
You were so young when it had happened you didn’t really remember him and it was one of those things that didn’t get talked about. Worse still was that the man who ran him over was a friend of the family.
Time passed and, at 16, you met your future husband, Barry.
Barry’s pal Joe was going on a blind date with a girl called Sue who brought you along. The four of you hung out on a local canal bridge – not the most romantic of places, but something must have sparked between you both!
You went on to start your own family, having Mark, Carl, Julie and Paula. Meanwhile,
I met and married Colin and had children, Lyndsey and Garry. Our sisters married too.
On Boxing Day we would all go to Mum and Dad’s. It was utter chaos with us five sisters, our respective partners and kids. How they managed to cram all 26 of us into the living room, I’ll never know.
Do you remember the year Barry got beetroot juice on Mum’s best white tablecloth? We were all trying not to giggle as he quickly covered the stain with a plate.
Of course, he was soon busted when Mum cleared the table and spotted it.
‘It was Colin!’ he fibbed.
‘Not me, I hate beetroot!’ Colin protested.
By the end we were all crying with laughter. We still laugh about it now, and Mum’s tablecloth survived as she managed to get out the stain with one of her famous remedies.
When you moved to nearby Pelsall, you had a lovely big garden where you had more
room for your joint hobby, pigeon flying. You even named a pair after me and Colin – only to find out a few weeks later that Colin’s bird was female!
‘We’re renaming her Colleen,’ you giggled.
We tried to visit weekly, often staying till late at night, leaving the kids to fall asleep behind the settee while we laughed the night away playing darts in the kitchen.
Life went on with days out at Walsall Show and Pelsall carnival, meeting up with our other sisters and having fun.
Until the fun times came to a sudden halt when Mum died suddenly of heart attack in December 1984.
I was just 27 and you 33.
You were so quiet about it, never talking about how sad you must have been even though you were, as ever, there for me.
After that, our bond became even stronger and it was always you and Barry who I turned to if I had a problem.
Then a few years later, you caught some sort of mystery virus that affected your heart.
Heavy smokers, you and Barry gave up on the spot. But the damage was already done.
On one of our visits to the cemetery, you struggled to walk up the hill to where Mum and Johnathan were buried, because you were so breathless.
A consultant told you that a heart transplant was needed.
‘I hate the idea of waiting for someone to die so that I can live,’ you fretted.
But in the end you agreed to be put on the waiting list.
We all tried to carry on as normal, our numbers given to Papworth Hospital so they could reach you at a moment’s notice wherever you were.
Each time we saw you, though, you were growing weaker. On our last visit to Walsall Show, an agricultural show with a funfair, you were too poorly to walk so everyone took it in turns to push you round in your wheelchair.
We all laughed when you said, ‘Well at least I get to the front in this thing.’
Our last stop was always The Lions Stall, to have a go with the ticket tombola. That year they had a great big floppy-eared rabbit as the main prize.
‘Oh, I wish I could win that for Danny,’ you said. He was your first grandchild and you were such a proud granny.
Despite us all having lots of goes, no one could win it.
You looked so sad as Barry pushed you off in your wheelchair that I snuck off for one last try. Success!
Rushing over, I plopped it on your lap.
‘For me?’ you gasped. The look on your face would have made the angels cry.
The rabbit was bigger than you!
It wasn’t long after that the phone call finally came in March 1990.
‘We’re off to hospital,’ you told me.
‘I love you,’ I said. ‘And remember, when you’re better we’ll get that holiday booked.’
‘Promise me you’ll keep an eye on Barry and the kids if anything happens,’ you asked.
‘Of course, but you’ll be fine,’ I scoffed. ‘Off you go and I’ll see you when you get back.’
The heart side of your operation went well, but your lungs were just not strong enough to cope. It was a nightmare none of us expected.
I arrived in the early hours with Dad, who had driven like a bat out of hell to get us by your side in time. I had to take a few minutes with the staff nurse in her office and it suddenly hit me. I was losing you, Lindi Loo.
Sitting by your bedside, holding your hand, I was still clinging onto the promise of that holiday together as you took your last breath.
At 39, you were gone far too soon, but the life you did have was filled with love and happiness.
I’ve kept my promise to you, being there for Barry and the kids who are all themselves parents now.
Julie looks so much like you, it’s uncanny.
Barry has met a new partner now and we still take our holidays together. I know you come along too – that warm and loving presence you give off is hard to mistake.
I’ve always believed in the afterlife and I know your life has continued and that we will be together again one day.
Until then, I’ll cherish all those lovely memories we made.
I love you always.
You caught a mystery virus
Jenny xx
TURN OVER FOR MANDY’S READING…
Jenny says:
How lovely, I’m so glad Linda is with Mum and Dad. That was one of the main questions on my lips. Her message about life being precious is very relevant because I had two heart attacks a couple of years back.
Chris is our sister, Christine. We’ve always called her Chris, never Christine. Perhaps Tom is going to be the new neighbour who moves into the empty bungalow by us.
November was my 65th birthday. We didn’t have anything fancy, just a meal with the family.
My daughter Lyndsey started a new job as a hospital care assistant a few weeks ago. We tell her to believe in herself all the time, too.
The card was from my husband Colin’s auntie. She always sends me lovely handmade cards for my birthday. The cake is a Christening cake I made for a pal recently and the property Linda talked about is Lyndsey’s which is about five minutes from me. We live in Tywyn in Wales now.
Who or where the arguments are coming from, I don’t know.
As Linda knows, I was always piggy in the middle if there ever was one going on.
The electrics blowing hasn’t happened to us yet, but I have had things go missing that I’ve found again later when I don’t really need them any more, such as a pen or my glasses which will show up in a weird place like in a drawer I never use. It’s nice to know it’s her.
Just two hours before the reading, Linda’s hubby Barry was telling us about how the lenses in his new glasses are too thick. That bit made us laugh. When he visits her at the cemetery he takes three bunches of red roses, never a single rose. Colin doesn’t want new sofas, but I do.
Now I’ve been telling him we need to get them because Linda says so!
Harry is Colin’s dad who passed 25 years ago.
Wow, that was lovely. Linda was quite a shy person and, in previous readings, she’s not said much other than a quick hello which is a shame as it was always her I really wanted to hear from.
However, Mandy got so much through from her.
Thank you!