It’s a week since our trip on the Uke Express up in Pickering. Mother phoned me on Monday to see that I was ok after my long journey home, clearly still buzzing from her adventures. The week passed by in a bit of a blur, and before I knew it, it was Sunday and I was watching the service from the cenotaph on the telly.

It’s a bit of a tradition for Mum and I, a cry at the telly on Remembrance Sunday. I’ve always insisted that my boys respect the one minute silence if they’re in the house.  Last year I was in Aldi, having completely forgotten the time, and the announcement came over the tannoy that the store would be suspending checkout and respecting the one minute silence. I ended up crying among the kale.

So, once the Royal wreaths had all been placed (no Queenie this year) I called Mum to see how she was.  It went to answerphone, so I assumed she was still weeping, or just engrossed in the programme. I made a mental note to call her later.

We’d had many conversations the week before, about Mum’s overall health. Although appearing robust, a run-in with breast cancer a few years earlier had proved her fallibility. Not that she shared much about it, silently keeping the news to herself for a few years, cautiously inspecting the lump every now and again to check on its growth.  I only found out about it when we attended a friends fathers funeral together in 2015. I bumped into an old school friend who Mum knew, and we began chatting in the street outside the church.  The friend told Mum and I that she had been diagnosed with stage 3 cancer, and had to go in for her second mastectomy, but she was optimistic that would be the end of it.

Mum had a lot of questions. Would she have any chemo? Would she have any radiotherapy? How long before she would be able to drive again? Would she drive herself to the hospital ? What was recovery like ? Finally I turned to Mum and commented that she seemed very interested in the whole thing, was there something I should know? (Jokingly, obviously). Mum dismissively replied that this was what her doctor said she needed, but she wasn’t convinced whether there was any point, at her age. The friend and I stared at Mum, agog as the realisation sunk in that Mum was telling us she had cancer. She told us how she’d been diagnosed with breast cancer 5 years earlier but hadn’t done anything about it, believing that the cure might be worse than the illness.

In the end, a few weeks later, after much umming, ahhing and numerous changes of her mind, Mum underwent the mastectomy that the doctor had been trying to persuade her to have for years.   The operation was a success. It was a Tuesday. She was back in the pub on the Saturday. Mum 1, cancer 0.

Apart from an operation to remove three gallstones the size of Maltesers in the late 70’s, I can’t remember Mum ever being ill. Even the breast cancer wasn’t bothering her, one of the major reasons she didn’t do anything about it for so long. Although her father died in the early 1960’s from lung cancer, her mother lived to be 94, and lived independently for all but the last few years.

One thing Nan did have (from about the age of 80) which Mum doesn’t, was a personal alarm. We talked about this on our trip, how come she was keen for Nan to have one, but doesn’t think she would now benefit her, even though she lives in the exact same house Nan did, with the exact same very steep staircase.

Given that Mum sank 9 pints on our trip the previous week, I couldn’t quite shake the danger of her drinking and then having to climb/descend a very steep staircase. Mum’s bed is downstairs but the bathroom isn’t. Surely it was only a matter of time before she lost her footing and found herself in a pile at the bottom wishing she had a red button around her neck to press. It was a conversation we had yet to finish, but was weighing heavily on my mind.

About 3pm I called Mum again, and again got an answerphone message. She’s probably gone to my older brother Jeremy’s for Sunday Lunch, I thought. I’ll try again later. When she still didn’t pick up at 7pm I thought it was odd, if she’d been out to Jez’s for lunch he’d surely have had her back home by Antiques Roadshow.

I don’t work Monday’s, so finding myself in a cafe around 11am, I called Mum again. After getting the answerphone again, I decided she must be upstairs having a wash. I called again at 3pm, and at 5pm, both with no answer. By now, I was getting uncomfortable. I called my brother Jez, to see when he had last seen her.  Saturday, he said was the last time he spoke to her. She hadn’t gone to his for Sunday lunch after all. So how come she hadn’t picked up?

Jez brushed it off. Mum had a habit of going awol, he said. Perhaps if I lived closer, I’d know more about this. Ignoring his jab, I suggested he went round to check. It’s a 25 minute car journey. It was 6.30pm on a Monday night but he’d had a beer and couldn’t drive. He promised to go check on her first thing in the morning. I pretended to be placated, but actually I was frantic. What good would going round in the morning be if Mum was already at the bottom of the stairs with her legs wrapped round her head?

I messaged another friend who lives close to Mum. No response. I only had one option left. I called the police.

The call handler was lovely and understood my worries completely. Yes, they would add it to a patrol and someone would go along and check on Mum. In the meantime, had I checked everywhere else she could be?  I hadn’t checked in with my two other brothers, so I rang Jez again for their contact numbers but Jez had already checked and she wasn’t with them.  I mumbled that the police were going to check on her. Before he could quiz me on this, I had another incoming call. It was the police. I hung up on Jez and took the call.

The police officer explained that they had “gained entry” to Mum’s house but she was nowhere to be seen.  Relieved that the mental picture I’d built up hadn’t been proved correct, but confused as to where she could be, I finally admitted that the only other place she could be was the pub.  The officers very kindly said they would go and check, they could clearly hear the distress in my voice.

Jez called back. What had the police said? I was explaining the conversation, when they called back again. They were back at Mum’s, having found her at the Upper George and escorted her home. The Officer explained that she was back safe and sound, but, he added, she’d obviously had a drink “or two”.  I asked to speak to her. He passed her the phone.  Whether she had a full grasp of what was happening I’m not sure, as she was very chilled about her home being invaded by the men in blue.  She’s not a massive fan of the police, although I never really knew why.

The first thing I did was apologise for calling the police, but – I blurted – I was really really worried and I had a vision of her having had some kind of terrible accident and she hadn’t returned my calls, and I didn’t know what to do, and I wouldn’t have slept, and.. and..

Mum, sounding very much like someone who has consumed numerous pints attempting to convince the judge they were sober, assured me it was no problem whatsoever, and everything was Suuuu-perrrrrb. I apologised again, said I would talk to her in the morning and asked for her to pass the phone back to the policeman.

I heard the phone leave her face, and as she passed the phone over heard her say (somewhat incredulously) “Are you a policeman??”

I heard him confirm that to be the case, and as he took the phone from her. “Wait, you are in uniform, right?” I asked him.

“Yes” he said.

“How does she not know you’re a policeman?” I asked him.

“I’ve no idea” he said. “I’m wearing a full high-vis policeman’s uniform, and I brought her here in my liveried high-vis police patrol car” he continued. He had a good sense of humour and we enjoyed the absurdity of it for a moment  when the earlier phrase “gained entry” swam back into view.  I asked whether the door was secure. Yes, said the officer, it’s already been sorted. The contractor was just finishing up.  I didn’t ask for details, but instead offered to pay for it. No need, said the Officer, he said it was clearly a case of fear of loss of life or serious injury, so the Police would cover this one. I was hugely relieved. We said our farewells and I went to bed.

The following morning, I left it until about 11am to call Mum, assuming she might not want to face the day too early. She answered on the first ring. Crikey, I said, are you sitting by the phone waiting for it to ring?  Yes, she said, I thought you were the locksmith.

“Why do you need a locksmith?” I asked, vaguely uneasy.

“Because I’m locked in” she said. “I can’t get the door open”.

Mum lives in a back to back house and so only has one door. It’s not like she can just use the other one if her door doesn’t open.  I knew that she’d only just had a new lock fitted to her door, as the old one was a bit dodgy and kept sticking. I knew it had cost £180, which had sounded a bit steep until she explained her door was aUPVC one where the lock seemingly travels up the entire door. So I didn’t immediately connect this problem to the events of the previous evening, but laid the blame firmly with the locksmith.

I asked for the locksmith’s number and called him. Yes, he remembered my Mum, and was as concerned as I was that she was having problems with the door as the new lock had worked perfectly when he fitted it.  Yes, he would go round as soon as he had finished the job he was currently doing.  I phoned Mum back and asked her to let me know what happened.

Jez’s plan to visit first thing in the morning had obviously been shelved when she was discovered in the Upper George, but he had just phoned and she’d told him of her current incarceration. He was going to visit in his lunch hour. Mum seemed to think that it needed pushing from outside to release it. Maybe Jez could do it and we wouldn’t need the locksmith after all. I wasn’t convinced, and didn’t stand the locksmith down.

The next phone call was from Mum.  Was the locksmith still coming? Yes, I said, he should be there soon. Good, she said, as she went on to explain what had just happened. Turned out that when Jez arrived, he could indeed get the door open from the outside, and they were briefly free. Until he shut the door again, at which point they were both locked in the house. And that’s where they were. Jez and Mum, both locked in her house, Mum wanted to see the funny side, Jez less so.

Fortunately the locksmith arrived fairly sharpish and freed them.  Jez left. The next phone call was from the locksmith, perplexed.  He was convinced that the lock had jammed because of what thad been done to the door the night before. Of course he’d say that, I thought, shoddy workmanship. At this point, I didn’t even know what had happened to the door the night before, other than the police had managed to get the door open, then secure it again.

The locksmith was adamant the lock had been compromised and that it wasn’t his fault. Had I seen the door? No, I replied. So he took a photo and sent me it.

 

I could barely breathe. I don’t know what I’d expected, but I really didn’t see that one coming. Feeling a bit stupid, I apologised, told him to send me the bill for fixing it and as long as he could guarantee it was all working fine, his work here was done.

He was a true gentleman, and said there was no charge – he was more concerned that something serious had obviously occurred and Mum was okay.  We didn’t elaborate on the previous night’s events and he left.

Which just left me with the problem of Mum needing a new door. Rapid Secure had also left an invoice the previous night which Mum was concerned about, but I assured her that the police were taking care of it. It turned out that younger brother Mark played golf  with someone who had a UPVC door business, so very soon Mum had a new door and we all learnt a lesson.

Mum learnt to play her answerphone and return messages as soon as she heard them.

Jez learnt that if you ever release someone trapped on one side of a door, you’re only one bad move away from being trapped yourself.

I learnt that it doesn’t matter how much you worry about someone, you can’t stop them living their life the way they want to. And if you try to, it will end up costing you £220 for a new door panel.

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Update

The little update to this, is that about 6 weeks after these events, Mum got a final demand from Rapid Secure. She called me concerned. Mum seemingly hates owing money to people, whereas I’m quite good at it. Not wanting her to worry, I said I would deal with it and double check with the police. I called West Yorkshire Police and after going round the houses a bit, finally managed to get through to someone who confirmed that yes, the police were covering the bill, and in fact it had already been paid. The admin clerk confirmed that she would get hold of Rapid Secure and let them know. It must be an error, she said. My cynical mind had another word for it. Nice little earner that, invoicing twice.