Lynne barrett-lee

ARANDOM weekday in February. Mum’s flat in Llanishen. The internal temperature sits somewhere between “hot flush” and “solar flare” and the television is tuned to ITV. It’s a little after three, so we are, of course, watching Lingo, as has become our habit these past couple of months.

“I love this,” she announces, double-tapping her left temple. “Helps keep the old grey matter sharp.”

Mum says these words every single time we watch Lingo. Then today, as on most days, she goes on to prove it, shouting “Heart!” at the telly. Or “Robot!” or “Crown!”, and more often than not beating the contestants. She’s also a dab hand at working out the puzzle word, though, more often, at intervals, she’s telling me to apply for it.

“You and Georgie,” she’ll qualify.

“Then I can watch you on the telly.”

So, today, same as yesterday, I find the right page on the internet and show her that they’re not looking for contestants right now.

“Well, when they do, you must,” she says. “You’d be brilliant on that quiz show.”

Then I make another pot of tea,

Proud holder of the Wales Columnist of the year award, lynne is a novelist, ghostwriter and creative writing tutor. a dedicated supporter of the Oxford comma and semi-colon, she is also a professional grandmother and amateur moth-fancier. try to tempt her with some jelly and we go back to watching the rest of Lingo.

When Mum died last Thursday, very peacefully, in the wee hours, I felt what I imagine many do in my position. She’d lived a long life (she was 91) and was independent for most of it and the cancer that claimed her seemed almost a blessing, given the dementia that was increasingly encroaching on her life, having already snatched away her short-term memory. There was little, bottom line, for Mum to look forward to. Just that heart-rending slow fade to total oblivion, via the waking nightmare (and it would have been) of leaving all that was familiar on the inevitable move into a care home.

And yet. As Pete commented when we awoke the following morning, that day was the first in my entire existence when I didn’t have my mother in my life.

A simple thought, trite even, but one I still had to get my head around. Not in the sense of thinking, “Uh-oh, I’m next then”, and not, I’ll admit, in the sense that I was floundering. I’ve been looking after Mum for too long now to feel that, as many of my generation do.

It was just the finality and, with that, the sudden freedom.

Then the guilt about that unbidden thought about freedom and the whole raft of secondary thoughts that went with it. Then the understanding, finally, that the end point of that responsibility – however challenging at times, however emotionally draining – is at the lip of a big Mum-shaped hole.

The Mum-step that’s still in the boot of my car. The two £1 coins I still have in my coat pocket (our Sainsbury’s coins – one for me, one for her – at the ready for our regular brace of trolleys).

The little pang when I pass the “disco” car wash on Newport Road (seriously, it’s fabulous, it has multicoloured foam), scene of many a silly video to send the kids.

The Sunday night jaunts to the Riverside

Chinese restaurant, where Mum didn’t care what we ordered to eat, just as long as she had her beloved crispy beef.

Her response to “Are you all right?” being, always, “Half left”. Her “top-and-tail” flannels. Her random mad gifts. The little bags, within boxes, within bags, within boxes, in which treasures we’d all given her, dating back to our childhoods, were – are – still so safely stowed. The white noise of my suddenly silent phone.

I suspect this is familiar to many, if not most. When faced with the absolute nature of death, the gaps in our lives take a bit of getting used to, the new, unfamiliar rhythms proving hard to embrace.

And yet. With each day, the mist clears. Beyond the fog of the near past’s travails and frustrations lie rich emotional landscapes I’ve not wandered in for years.

Mum arriving on the ward, 1969, after my appendectomy, with a mountain of clothes she had made for my doll, Ann-Marie. A whole trouser suit – wow! – knitted in green and pale pink, with matching top, socks and even a hat! I can still feel the thrill of it now.

That liver and bacon and potatoes she whipped up when I returned exhausted from a 20-mile hike with the Scouts.

The tiny books she made me – I just loved to play “schools” – sewing the spines up with skeins of different coloured threads.

The school summer dresses that were the envy of my classmates.

The unerring work ethic – my God, she had a work ethic – which we, her children, carry with us to this day.

That Christmas when I was sick and couldn’t go delivering presents. Sitting cuddled on the sofa, with a bowl in my lap, as she told me all about living through the London blitz.

Her fairy cakes, flapjacks, her custard tarts, gravy.

The presents stuck on presents with a half-roll of sticky tape. Because one present would never, ever do.

The trips to the dentist with a promise of a comic.

The length of time she’d let us linger in the library. The holidays in Cornwall, and Bournemouth, and Norfolk.

The best, and the biggest, sandy picnics bar none.

Her mastery of splinters. Her prowess pulling plasters. Her button tin. Her pinking shears. Especially her pinking shears. Those December afternoons when we’d sit in the kitchen and make deckle-edged tags from the previous years’ cards. And, decades later, in my kitchen, with her grandkids. The endless games of Newmarket and Bonanza.

I was chatting to my friend Chris the other day while we were out walking and we mused on the nature of motherhood and death. She hoped she would live a very long time, she told me, not because she wanted to be a burden on her children, but, rather, so that when her time on Earth was up, her children would miss her but no longer need her. That she’d stay till the mothering work felt largely done and she knew they’d be fine on their own.

Mum did that and I’m grateful. I love her and I’ll miss her.

But it’s okay. Sleep tight, Mum.

I’ll be fine.

@LynneBarrettLee www.lynnebarrett-lee.com

Down a small side street, Jack Smylie-Wild is sweeping down his tiny yet perfectly kitted-out Bara Menyn Bakehouse. He’s been up since 5am turning out his artisan naturally-leavened sourdough loaves and croissants. He’s due to shut his doors in an hour and his shelves are bare – it’s been a good day, he admits, and everything has sold out.

He ran a cafe just around the corner for seven years but moved to his bakery on St Mary Street five months ago. He sums up the appeal of Cardigan in one eloquent sentence.

“It’s a fiercely independent Welsh spirit fostered by its geographical and cultural position,” he said.

That Welsh identity was important, he said, adding that Cardigan had one of the highest proportions of bilingualism in Wales as a whole.

He continued: “We’re proud independent people who appreciate the importance of community and local produce and it’s a great high street.”

Life as a baker is hard work but he wouldn’t change it for the world: “The queue out the door on a Saturday morning makes it all worthwhile,” he said with a wry smile.

Of course, Cardigan is synonymous with Crwst – the renowned bakery run by husband-and-wife team Catrin and Osian where pancake stacks come dripping in Pembrokeshire sea-salted caramel sauce. Stopping to chat to one family on holiday from Newport, Gwent, their first stop was to be an indulgent brunch at the light and airy cafe off the high street – proof that Crwst’s reputation extends far beyond west Wales.

But there’s also Cardigan’s acclaimed Pizzatipi, a fairy-lit waterfront tent run by four brothers serving wood-fired pizzas on the banks of the Teifi. Wherever you look, it seems, there’s something for everyone, all the while with a strong focus on local and sustainable produce. In The Welsh Wind, an award-winning gin distillery which started life in a cowshed, has not long opened a gin bar on St Mary Street.

Back on the high street, the sweet waft of cookie dough and sponge cake spills out of an attractive pink shop, its windows piled high with sugary creations and Truly Scrumptious scrawled in another shade of dusty pink above the wooden door. Inside, 37-year-old Katy Lemessurier is putting the final touches to a pink baby shower cake while her mum Sarah mans the till.

The pair barely stop smiling as they explain how it’s the sense of community which sets Cardigan apart from any other town.