ROCKY TIMES
My relationship with Mum had always been good, but there were times when we disagreed; she could be domineering and I could be stubborn. When we rowed she would act the injured party and sulk. Neither of us would apologise.
My world began to fall apart when my house was flooded during a heavy summer rainstorm. The house was in a slight dip near a bend where three roads met. The drains in the road outside couldn't cope with the volume of water, the level rose, the flow of traffic forced waves of oily water, mud, cigarette ends and other detritus in to a depth of approximately 6 inches; the smell was foul. The fire brigade said there was no point in coming as there was nowhere to pump the water to. It took weeks to clear up, dispose of sodden carpet, dry out the walls, negotiate with the insurance company and return to normal. After that, whenever it rained heavily, or for long periods, if I was away from home, panic would set in with the urge to get home as soon as possible. Some time after, when Mum was staying with me, we went out leaving the car parked near Balham station. On our return to Balham the heavens had opened so I told Mum to wait under the Sainsbury's canopy; I would get the car and pick her up. Driving along the High Road the weather worsened; even with the wipers at full speed Sainsbury's could barely be seen, let alone my Mum. The traffic lights at the station were looming, I was too close to stop, the only thing to do was to take a left turn and drive round the block again. At the second attempt I was able to stop a couple of yards beyond Sainsburys; seeing Mum emerge from under the canopy I jumped out to be met with her annoyance at the time it had taken and that I hadn't stopped at a precise spot where she wouldn't have to get wet. My anxiety level had been rising steadily, I was soaked from walking to get the car – I just lost it. I stood on the pavement in the pouring rain and screamed at her: “You f...... selfish bitch.” Through the mist of anxiety and rain I was vaguely aware of horrified passers by. We didn't speak for three days. Then Mum returned home.
In her late sixties Mum started suffering from angina, which made her breathless, lacking in energy and unable to walk up hills; she had difficulty in walking home from the village. By this time my brother was married with his own home. The rented bungalow she had lived in for more than thirty years was in need of repair. With no central heating it was difficult to keep warm and dry. It was not likely that the landlord would make any improvements, so we thought about moving her to somewhere flat that she could call her own. On Mothering Sunday 1979 we viewed a cosy terrace house with central heating and small yard/garden in the centre of Ellesmere Port, priced at £7,500 which, with a loan of £2,500 from the bank, I bought for Mum. She was to pay me rent out of her pension to repay the loan.