Eighty eight years ago today my mother was born.
She never was one to make much fuss over this special day.
As children we would be taken to The Royal Opera House in Covent Garden to see a play, opera or ballet to mark the occassion. There would be a Fuller’s cake for tea, a rich creation of coffee flavoured sweetness slathered with icing and laced with walnuts, not dissimilar to the Italian Wedding cake I make at Easter. My brother and I can’t talk about it today without craving a piece although I suspect it is best to leave the memory right where it is, safe and delicious.
May 8th has always been such a pleasing date. I described how perfect I thought the combination of month and date was to my friend years ago and she couldn’t quite get it. She didn’t have to!
My birthday, December 30th, is disastrously close to Christmas and almost falling over New Year. My mother’s birthday was far enough from Christmas for no-one to be tempted to combine presents, close enough to Spring to be decked with blossom, bluebells, goslings and bursting horse chestnuts, and on the verge of summer with its promise of warm, dry days and picnics… a promise only!
Ever since I can remember I’ve wanted to move my birthday to May 8th, a three letter month, a lovely rounded number, pretty on my lips, easy to write, spring at last! I never did.
Today Margaret Howard invited us for tea.
We took the train and bus then walked through familiar roads buzzing with memories of walking the dog, playing in the park, coming home from work, going swimming on Saturdays, racing my brother home from the shops; ghosts of fearsome council flats, groups of teenagers lying in wait, empty slums at the far end of the road, overgrown gardens, broken windows.
Margaret was our celebrity, next door neighbour, who made living in Balham suddenly “all right,” when she moved in next door.
Her house was small and cosy, she welcomed us at the door with praise about how clever we were to take the bus and walk. We sat amongst shelves overflowing with books and Cd’s a suitable room for Radio 4’s retired host of ‘Pick of the Week’. We ate sandwiches, rock cakes and drank tea with Archie the Jack Russell.
I took over some gladioli bulbs to mark the occasion of my mother’s special day. I thought Margaret could plant them in one of her wild English flower beds and remember my parents when they emerged in July. The sword for St. Michael, my father’s saint, and the flower of enduring fragrance for St. Agnes, my mother’s.
May 8th, 1924, 88 years ago my mother was born. Happy Birthday Mummy, I miss our conversations.
Well hello there! My name is Vivienne McNeny.
I am an empty nester exploring life as a Boomer…you could say I'm happily Boomering along!
As a homeschooling Mum I have finally quit the job of role model and mentor to my four children. I do what I want to do, eat when I feel like it, enjoy life with my blue eyed cowboy and clean my house once a month or so whether it needs it or not!
In true English form I write about the emergence of my true identity now that I can no longer hide behind my children as their Mum.
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