It Always Rains on Sundays Page A

end, stiff as a poker, covered by a thin cotton sheet, the final clincher was the damp flannel over her face – I saw it move. I sighed.
    At least she was still alive.
    Typical I thought. Next thing I did I swept back the heavy pullons, exploding the whole room with golden sunlight. Mother turned away, shielding her eyes. ‘Nay, nay’ she protested. I waited. ‘Mother …?’ I said. ‘Nay, nay’ she repeated in a pained voice as if struggling out of a deep troubled sleep (over-acting more like) ‘Is that you Sonny-Jim?’ she whispered wheezily speaking through the flannel. I looked down at the small quiet form. Her Salvation Army uniform lay neatly over the chair, smallblack polished shoes next to the hearth, tights in a ball where they’d landed.
    More for something to say, I said ‘On your own mother?’
    I waited. Her accent broadened, ‘Aven’t seen nowt nor nubdy, not sin cock-crow.’ I nodded, she was using that needy voice she puts on, the one she always uses when she’s feeling a bit sorry for herself.
    I looked at the empty plate. ‘Have you had anything to eat?’
    â€˜Eh?’ there was another long pause, it came out slowly, a voice crying out for sympathy. ‘I managed a cracker or two first thing’ she croaked. Her even breathing lifted the facecloth in small puffs. She started a pretend cough, that turned into a real one.
    I fetched her a glass of water. ‘Mother…?’
    She pulled herself up, blinking against the light, she took a sip. ‘I’ve put the kettle on’ I said. She nodded, then sank back into her pillow. ‘This is the trouble’ she moaned ‘it’s keeping it down, that’s my problem.’ She replaced the damp cloth over her face, ‘I think I might be festering for summat’ she whispered weakly with what might’ve been her last dying breath.
    I shook my head. I looked down at her, still as death, trying to look small – yes mother I thought, you might well fester I thought. She put me in mind of old Joseph in Wuthering Heights, only just about female. I’d just thought of something, ‘Where’s Auntie Agnes, isn’t she about?’ I asked her. No answer. She only lives a couple of doors off, it’d be a rare day if she didn’t call in at least.
    Everything started to make sense, I’d just remembered she’d gone off for the day on a bus trip over to the Yorkshire Dales, chances are mother had been invited too. However, mother being mother, she likes to be cajoled a bit and made a fuss of – only this time it hadn’t quite come off.
    Typical I thought. All this ‘theeing’ and ‘thouing’ too. What’s all that about, she only talks like that when it suited her. One thing for sure, there isn’t much trace of a broad Yorkshire dialect when she’s on the phone, speaking to Mrs. St, John Goldthorpe, her bridge partner who lives in the ‘true’ bungalow with the bay-windows opposite the church. You’d think she was reading out the BBC six o’clock news.
    My eyes rested on the bulging black bin-liner I’d brought with me – I’d been rather hoping she’d’ve chased an iron over a few selected shirts. All the way walking over the moor I’d visions of home-made chocolate cake, it’d be just like old times. Just the two of us, cosily ensconced in the back place – putting all the world to rights over a mug of tea.
    I thought she might’ve had a stew on at least.
    Her voice startled me. ‘Where’s her ladyship – she’s not with you then?’ she enquired pointedly. I shook my head (her mind must be going too). Cynthia’s social visits to Stoney Bank Street were sparse and few these days to say the least. Christmas Day afternoon, a flying visit – an hour at most.
    What’s happened to her broad accent I wondered?
    Humouring her,