Journey Back

After a few days of abstaining, I’m back at my laptop. 

I finished reading The Remains of the Day and it was sad.  Stevens travelled to see Miss Kenton, wheels of the past murmuring about dignities, whirring around integrities, trust, all for nothing.  Her letter told him she’d left her husband, and he hoped she’d come back to Darlington Hall.  When he eventually met her, he learned she was back with her husband.  He feels sad and as if his life has passed him by, but quickly pulls himself together.  So, what does he think of, in the end?  He thinks of improving his bantering skills for his master’s sake.  Wow. 

A scenic drive to Peebles released a mist of memories into the banks and braes of my mind.  The fields are turned into a spring levy of gambolling lambs.  Mum and I in the car, mum chatting, me adding the odd word, my concentration on the road, once a well-travelled one for us.  We would walk up and down the high street, going for tea and scones at the Coffee Pot.  On the approach into Peebles, I saw Venelaw Hill, the layers of trees filming my mind with more memories.  Whenever we parked the car, in the carpark opposite, I would ask, ‘did you know I’ve climbed that hill.’  How boring, but she smiled every time.  Wilkies had such a creaky floor, I loved it.  We would walk down passed rails and rails of blouses, dresses, stands with shoes and shelves bearing handbags and scarves.  The iron monger, the ice-cream shop, the chippy.  Two or three times we’d be naughty and buy a poke of chips.  They were great chips.  Today I was going for butcher meat, Forsyth’s being the best butcher around. 

My mum enjoyed her trips to Peebles and so did I.  We stopped going latterly.  I’m not sure why?  She never seemed to want to go.  I can only think it was too much walking for her.  Even so, how can I ever go again without her being there, in my head.  It’s been eight and a half months since her passing and still questions pop up, and things I want to say, like, I’m looking after your Peace Lily’s and your orchid.  I want to tell her I grew the lilies I gave her for Mother’s Day last year.  I’m hoping they come back again this year.                              

I went to the library for a book by Joan Didion.  We’re studying her this week in zoom writing class.  None in stock right now.  I’ve had them order one.  Not the one I wanted – Slouching Towards Bethlehem – but I’m happy just to get a handle on her writing.  Joan Didion died just last month, on 23rd December.  I watched a programme on the TV about her.  She was intriguing.  It turns out she wrote from a very young child and was an avid reader.  I can relate to that.  She worked for Vogue, did journalistic work as well as being an author.  I wrote as a young child, read a lot and had dreams of being a journalist.  But my life went down a different route.   

Instead of one Joan Didion’s books, I got a book called Goblin, from the library, by Ever Dundas.  What a great name.  She’s from Edinburgh.  I’m sure Nicky once told us she was his cousin.  I must ask him.    

Yes, now I want to tell mum, I’m still Writing with Nicky.  I’m learning and think there’s improvement.  There should be, I hear her say.  She once said I thought more about my stories than I did about talking to her and I’m sorry she thought this.  It probably did look that way.  I was completely wrapped up in myself, but I want to tell her I was worried about her, I was worried about other things too, and I felt so bad for her, for her pain, her struggles in even such simple things as buying clothes, dodgy fridge, and desire for a new chair.  Delving into reading and writing took me away from my worries.  I want to tell my mum to believe me when I say I felt so much for her in her decline, which began seriously in October 2019 when she went into heart failure and had to be hospitalised.  I want to tell her all of this.

The History Cupboard, my novel, an auto memoir, is more important to me now, than ever.  It brings my young mum alive.  It brings her mum alive, and writing it has brought my memories alive.