Mother has always been a force of nature. As a child I can never remember her having a day in bed, or even a lie-in, with 4 children and a large house to look after, not to mention a frosty mother-in-law at the other end of an intercom system.

Having stayed at home while we were all at school, Mum returned to work in her 50’s and spent 10 years working full time until her life virtually collapsed with the firm she worked for going into liquidation, and her 25 year marriage ending with my father having an affair.

Throughout all this, she never succumbed to spending days under the duvet and so it is not surprising that now, in her late 80’s she actually relishes whole days in pyjamas with no sense of guilt whatsoever.

There are few things which get Mum up and dressed today, one of them is hand-pulled ale, and the other is hospital appointments. Mum, like many octogenarians, has constipation. The 6cm malignant tumour discovered on a recent MRI scan would appear to be the culprit, and she has accepted the fact that surgery to remove a large part of her bowel is imminent.  Fortunately, we had already planned for her to come down to Suffolk, so I’ve rallied the troops and she will be joined by all 3 of my boys along with her sister, Auntie Mo.  Whilst the boys arrival will be a surprise, I’ve checked in advance as to whether or not Mum would like to see Auntie Mo, as their relationship has not been an easy one. All memories of terrible wine-fuelled explosions seem to have been forgotten and Mum says that yes, she would very much like to see Auntie Mo.

Auntie Mo books a flight up from Newquay, the boys book their respective rail tickets from Canterbury and Northampton, Oli books the day off work, I schedule my time off and the trip is on. We’re due to stay in the Big House (the property I house manage) as there is no-one booked in. I’m happy that the Big House is big enough for us all to co-exist for a weekend without any tension.

I’m less happy, on the Wednesday before the Friday arrival, when I get bumped off the Big House with a late booking from bona-fide full fee-paying guests. After a panicky ring round, I find a lovely property called The Old Manor in a neighbouring village with 5 bedrooms, meaning that a few invited guests have to be swiftly uninvited, but they all understand.

Friday is frantic, I’m working, I have to pack. I have to tidy my flat, I have to unpack my car from all the things it has accumulated in order to be able to pack my stuff in it. I have to go buy essentials as the Sainsbury’s shop isn’t coming until 9am Saturday, I have to get into the property at 4pm and then pick up Mum from the train station at 4.45pm.

Everything is going according to plan until I’m at the property at 4.10pm following the instructions to open the key safe, but clearly they are wrong. I can’t get it to open. I phone the agents and they say they are going to send the maintenance guy over.

I have to unpack the car and leave everything on the doorstep, as I won’t have room for Mum’s enormous case (Mum simply can’t travel light) with all my stuff in it. I drive away hoping it doesn’t rain, the laundry I grabbed from the dryer before I left work wouldn’t fit in my case and it’s dumped on top, open to the elements.

I’m at the station when Mum arrives and help her off the train with said enormous case, and soon we’re in the local with a pint of “whatever you’ve got which is nearest to Hobgoblin”. Fortunately, it’s only about 50 yards from The Old Manor, which is handy as I have to pop back to get the key when the maintenance guy arrives at about 7pm.

Mum’s journey this morning started at 10.30am with a taxi to Bradford train station, and in view of the delicate balance she’s trying to achieve with laxatives and toilet facilities, she hasn’t eaten all day. I order a steak and ale pie with mash for us to share.  It’s agreed that she will eat the mash and some gravy and I’ll have a go at the meat and pastry.

Whilst the order is in the kitchen, I pop back to the property to get the key. I find the maintenance man coming out with dozens of empty wine bottles spilling out of a cardboard box, and two pairs of dirty shoes and socks at the bottom of the stairs. Not a great start, but I’m so relieved to actually be in the property that I take the key, lock up and return to the pub. I’ve not been sat down long when I start to worry that I didn’t check the bedrooms, and what if we get in at 10.30pm only to find the beds haven’t been made etc. So I delay the pie again by dashing back to check the bedrooms. Happily they have all been made up, but the property definitely hasn’t been spruced in the last couple of days and there are dead flies and insects all over the place.

Finally I get back to the pub and the food arrives. Mum has switched beers to Gospel Oak, and is by now enjoying it VERY MUCH. As it’s a small bar and the locals who were in for happy hour have now left, there are just a few of us and Mum’s voice ensures everyone is in on the conversation. Readers may remembers that after our trip on the Uke Express last year, I designed a handy guide for publicans to follow when serving Mum. I have shared it with Tom, our landlord, and advise him when we are approaching pint no. 4.

Fortunately for Tom, Mum likes the food and so her opinion is favourable in the extreme.  She is also of the opinion that pubs in Yorkshire don’t serve food, so is to be heard remarking repeatedly “If only pubs near me did food”. I explain that there are certainly pubs in Bradford which do food, Wetherspoons for example. This results in a half hour tirade about Wetherspoons, which she used to frequent (3 years ago I bought her a Wetherspoons gift card for Mother’s Day) because they just bought a pub in Otley, and are now competing against all the independent landlords, which she doesn’t think is fair.

She is therefore boycotting all Wetherspoons (note to readers, cash in your shares now before shares plummet) and this backs up her argument that there is nowhere she can go in Bradford to get some food with her real ale.

I give up, and agree with her that it would be lovely if some pubs in Yorkshire took up this new idea, seemingly created by our landlord, to serve meals with beer.

We move on to another subject.  Lots of conversations with Mum involve a game of word charades.  She’ll start a conversation with “I was watching the television the other day, one of my favourite programmes, it’s that one with the chap in that we met in that place you took me to the last time I came up”.  It’s better than sudoku for keeping your brain active. I have to piece together all the clues, and come up with Dickinsons Real Deal. This conversation begins with “And I’ll tell you something else which you can’t find anywhere these days, and it used to be everywhere, and it’s so good at keeping you warm, and they don’t even do it in Marks and Spencer’s..” (Reader, how are you doing?) I’m flummoxed.

Turns out, she’s referring to wool. Wool. Not top of my protected species list, sheep. The last time I looked, wool jerseys could be found in virtually every department store and you’d be hard pushed to turn around in a charity shop (where Mum does the majority of her shopping) without brushing up against a shetland V neck. But Mum is convinced that no-one is bothering about wool anymore and cites the time in M & S that she made the lady read out the label for a cashmillion ™ jersey and it turned out to be 100% manmade fibres. Which is a bit like saying you can’t get steak anymore, then picking up a cod fillet and pronouncing it evidence.

It’s a shame you can’t find wool anymore says Mum, as she likes to sleep in a 100% wool cardigan. I’m aghast, until she clarifies that she means over the top of her pyjamas. She is rustling about her waistband, until her fingers land on what she’s seeking, and she pulls out the elastic top of her pyjama bottoms, the layer beneath her old lady elasticated waist trousers. Yes, ever the inventive, Mum has decided that there is little point in taking off your pyjamas when you’re only going to put them back on again, and has cut out about 5 minutes from her 2 hour getting ready routine by keeping them on.  I laugh so loudly the other people in the pub stop eating and look at me.

I’ve only just composed myself and dried my eyes and we’re on to pint number 5. I could probably have forced her out of the pub and into the comfort of the rental, but I knew I was picking up A & T from the station at 10pm, so I sort of had to keep her in the pub until then.

The landlord is 6ft 8 and seems confident that he can handle cantankerous with no problem, even though I have my doubts.  It’s touch and go for a while, but whenever it gets a bit iffy I remind her of how good the food was, and as soon as I do she is telling anyone and everyone how her life would be transformed if only pubs in Yorkshire did food.

It’s now approaching 9pm and we’re onto pint no. 6, which as I point out to the landlord, can be Obstreperous. We’ve had a fair few “Get Knotted”s but fortunately there has really been no-one in the pub for her to take issue with.  I make my excuses around 9.45pm, and go to the station to collect A & T.  I’m gone no longer than 25 minutes, but she has seized the opportunity to finish no. 6 and is at the bar ordering no. 7 when I return.

It takes her a few moments to actually realise that the two tall handsome young 20 yr olds that I’ve walked in with are actually her grandchildren, and it takes me a few moments later to realise that she’s actually forgotten their names.

They laugh and joke with her, the gorgeous boys that they are. She is blown away that they have appeared and is on a mission to remember their names without us reminding her. A few minutes later, in the outside loo, she continues to try and remember. This is great, except that I’m absolutely freezing and just want to get back in the pub. I can’t leave her to come inside on her own, she’s a tad unstable and the flagstones outside look decidedly unforgiving. Finally, just as I’m about to lose the feeling my toes, she remembers one name, then another, then all 3 and we’re back in the pub finishing our drinks.

Now all that remains is to get Mum into the car, and into the rental down the hill and then up the stairs and into bed. It sounds easy enough, but experience tells me it won’t be.

With the landlord finally taking Mum’s unfinished 7th pint off her, we make our way down the road. The boys walk, as my tiny little car won’t fit us all in (with luggage) and soon we’re in the lovely kitchen with Mum suggesting that she’ll be happy just to sleep here on the floor. We all look at the floor. It’s lovely, we agree, but perhaps a little cold and uncomfortable? Plus, I add,  I seem to recall actually having booked a property with enough bedrooms (5) for everyone, so I suggest that she’d be more comfortable upstairs.

Even in the bedroom upstairs, she keeps insisting that she doesn’t need a bed, pointing to the floor alongside the big double bed and saying “I’ll just sleep here”.  The boys are chuckling quietly, and T suggests to Grandma Joyce that she’ll be lovely and snug if she gets in to her cosy jimjams and gets into bed. Of course Mum can’t resist showing him that she’s already got her jimjams on. I fear she may be approaching The Lady In The Van territory.

Finally we coax her into bed. I show her where her ensuite bathroom is and pray that she remembers it in the middle of the night. She’s had 7 pints and only been to the loo twice. Her bladder must have been built in the Glasgow shipyards. The boys tuck her in and she’s soon asleep. We find our rooms and are not long behind her.

 

 

 

 

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