Open Writing

Pat lives in a one-room council flat in my village. She has been there since her husband died a few years back, surrounded by mementos, knick-knacks, photographs, and the huge collection of toys and paraphernalia that her visiting grandchildren might want to play with if and when they visit. This has become a rare, erratic event as a result of marriage break-ups, divorce, redundancy, and removal to other parts of the country. The piles of magazines and teddy bears lie undisturbed, offering comfy places for the two cats to sleep. It is a warm, chaotic, cosy room in which Pat is often very lonely. She is almost seventy, but she still works for an agency, cleaning the rooms of other, much older ladies.

One morning last week, for reasons as yet undisclosed, someone rang the local Post Office sorting room to tell them that Pat was dead. Her daughter used to work there until a few months ago, and she still had friends there.

“Please tell Annmarie I’m so sorry to hear that her mum has died,” said a voice.

“I didn’t know she was ill. Do tell her how sorry I am.”

And that was it.

In the wilds of Norfolk Annmarie was about to collect her daughter from school when the phone rang.

“I’m so sorry to hear your mum has died,” said her friend Jane in the sorting office. “Everybody sends their love, she was a lovely lady.”

Annmarie rang to tell her two other sisters and her brother Michael. He was half way to Cornwall with a load of tiles on his HGV. He turned the monster round at the next roundabout and returned to his mother’s village at a far greater speed than he should have done, tears streaming down his face and with a pounding heart.

By some twist of fate, Pat was walking back from the local bus stop, just as Michael and his truck reached the village.

“Mum !” he shouted, right across the county.

He punched the brakes and the truck stopped on a sixpence.

“You’re supposed to be dead. What are you doing here?”

I saw Pat later in the day, standing on her doorstep, her eyes red from crying, her face a mask of distress for all her children, especially for Michael. His distress and his relief at finding his mother was not dead but still alive was indescribable.

He had brought her home in his truck, no more than a few hundred yards, and they had clung to each other and cried with happiness. There was time enough to stop the three daughters and the grandchildren from rushing to the village, and they all agreed that Pat should have a mobile phone as soon as possible. That way, they could be really sure she was still alive.

The ripples from the incident continue to spread: friends gasp in disbelief, the woman in the paper shop said.
“ … but I thought …”, and didn’t finish her sentence, and the grandchildren have not been told anything.

The best thing for Pat was that her son told her how much he loved her. Somehow, it’s a rare gift when your son tells you that he loves you; different from a daughter. A few minutes with Michael, holding hands and crying together after he brought her home, made up for all the hours and days of loneliness when nobody comes to see her.

It will be a powerful, poignant memory.

There is an unanswered question, of course.

Who was it that really died that day?