My Mum’s ‘Tales’

My late mum had ‘quirks’, one of which involved telling a story which should have taken only a moment but would inevitably develop into a ‘tale’, one usually involving the same subject.

The tale often started with a question. Did I remember Christine Smith for example? I wouldn’t have heard of Christine Smith, but mum would insist I had because I went to primary school with her. This could be 40 years after I’d left school! However, I’d likely be informed, I did know Christine as she and I played rounders together. I’d know at this point where we were heading so to speed things up, I’d lie and claim I did now that she’d mentioned rounders. Lying didn’t always cut it because mum could go on and ask a follow up question such as what was Christine’s brother called? How the h… would I know? However, mum would often remember the answer to her own questions. “Oh, Richard”, she might say, “or Roger”, and then go on to tell me where they lived, what Christine’s dad did for a living and where. By now 10 minutes might have passed and I still wouldn’t be certain what the point of this was, although I could guess.

Next, she might ask if I recalled the lovely pink velvet curtains Christine’s mum had? I couldn’t remember Christine, let alone her house or the damn curtains. I would ask, politely, if I were in a good mood, less politely if not, if she might get to the point. Her answer, if I’d been less than polite, would involve a great deal of ‘tutting’. This was a mistake I often made not least because the ‘tuts’ took up more time and prolonged the agony. “Well, tut, there’s no point, tut, talking to you if you’re going to be short with me. Tut”. Additional time would be taken whilst I apologised. Apology accepted; she would continue. Christine’s aunty Margaret married Bill Chadwick. I would remember their daughter Julie because we both got nits at the same time. I might have the remembered the nits but not Julie, so at this stage I’d just nod, or perhaps grunt and nod. They got divorced. Who did? Before I might ask, she’d tell me, Julie and her husband. My God she’s at school with nits and she got married AND divorced!

A further ten minutes might pass and STILL I wouldn’t be certain where this was going. Occasionally my mind would wander until I’d realise mum had returned to Christine who, in the meantime, had become a GP. Mum was surprised because when Christine was nine her brother (Richard or Roger) fell and cut his leg open, and Christine fainted at the sight of the blood. At certain junctures an ‘mmm’ or an ‘aah’ came in useful and this would have been a good example of such a juncture. Mum would be encouraged, particularly by an ‘aah’ and I’d hope we would be getting somewhere but usually not. (I was used to the disappointment). Another couple of minutes would pass which might include a potted version of Christine’s mother’s ancestry: her maiden name; the maiden name of her mother who was related through marriage to Edith Arrowsmith who mum worked with in 1962. Mum would now be in full flow and THE point was coming like a wave breaking over a beach. I was right! It was THE subject. “Such a shame!” she would exclaim. “It was in the paper on Tuesday. She’s died”.

You are probably wondering who the h… died? I only wish I could say without having to ask. Quite honestly, awful though it might sound, I wouldn’t care. Left to my own devices I’d likely just say how terrible it was and ask vague questions such as ‘how old was she’ so as not to make clear I hadn’t the foggiest. But, in this instance, for your sake, I would ask, and the answer might well be something along the lines of “Don’t be so silly, tut, ‘you know perfectly well, tut, I’ve just told you. Tut”! Before I’d leave there’d be a hug and a kiss, and she’d wave me off. “Such a pity about Edith”, mum might have said as I reached the gate. “Mind she was 93”.

Thank you for reading – if mum had read this she’d tut (a lot).