A Song for Jenny: A Mother's Story of Love and Loss. Julie Nicholson
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Anglesey. After a few moments I yawn and stretch, returning to the present. One thing at least remains constant: the warmth and close affinity with this household.
Martyn and Sharon; Julie and Vanda: two sets of siblings; four cousins with a close bond from childhood which has not diminished over age or distance and which has extended to our children and partners. In theory our children are a mixture of nieces, nephews, first cousins and second cousins. In practice they are all simply cousins and their parents a collective of aunts and uncles.
It gets better. Two cousins then married two brothers. My cousin Sharon met Mike, whose family had a holiday home on the island. Later, I was introduced to Mike’s elder brother Greg at a party and the rest as they say is history. Sharon and I are first cousins who became sisters-in-law through marriage. Our respective children are our cousins but also our nieces and nephews. To each other the children are second or third cousins through their mothers and first cousins through their fathers.
It is impossible not to smile at memories of when Sharon and I have referred to each other interchangeably as cousin and sister-in-law. The children have always been close cousins whether they are one, two or three times removed and Sharon and I have always been ‘auntie’ more than cousins to each other’s offspring.
To people who meet us en masse, as it were, this can appear a complicated set of family relationships. I prefer to see us a wonderfully diverse group of individuals who look, sound and act differently but who all come together as something akin to a pseudo Greek chorus. This doesn’t mean to say we are always in perfect harmony. Quite the contrary. Over the years there have been fallouts, hurts and disagreements as I imagine there are in most families. Somehow we all muddle through and keep reforming in solidarity and unity.
Fully awake now, I make no effort to leap out of bed, reaching instead for my book. I spot a pencil and write down the earlier thought in the inside cover. My uncle pops his head around the door. ‘More tea?’
‘Yes please,’ I answer, draining the cup of now cold tea before handing it over for a refill. I hear my mother and aunt discussing the merits of showering first or last. Decision made, my aunt comes into my room and asks how I slept, tells me my mother is currently taking a shower. We talk briefly about the change in weather and the fact that the washing machine is about to go on if I need anything washed. I nip out of bed and hand over a small pile of light washing before retreating back under the covers, book in hand, turning resolutely away from the room to immerse myself in a tale of subterfuge and deceit.
After a second cup of tea and short but satisfying read, the bustle of household activity finally coaxes me out of bed; that, and my mother pointedly informing me that the bathroom is now free!
Showered, dressed for a day at the beach, bed made and curtains pulled back, I join the kitchen throng and offer to help with breakfast, handing my used cup and saucer to my uncle washing up at the sink after the early morning round of teas. I glance at the kitchen clock: the time is just coming up to 8.45 a.m. My aunt is preparing a pan to cook bacon for the men and taking orders for breakfast as she places plates in the oven to warm. A partly cut loaf of bread and bread knife are laid out on the bread board. Toast in waiting. I decide to leave the bread-slicing task to my mother. Instead I open a cutlery drawer, count out five sets of breakfast cutlery, and gather side plates, jar of marmalade and other breakfast paraphernalia and head for the dining room. As I walk down the hallway I pass my father coming out of the bathroom, clutching his toilet bag and upbeat about the sunny start to the day. His hair is standing up in little white tufts, not yet brushed. ‘Not dressed yet dad?’ I joke. ‘No,’ he quips back indignantly. ‘I’ve been waiting to get in the bathroom. You lot have taken so long!’
I go about the ritual of setting the table for breakfast, placing my armful of cutlery and crockery temporarily on the sideboard while I pull out the gate-leg table and position the chairs. Sunlight filtering through trees casts patterns across the carpet, like little scatterings of popcorn. Drawn by the sunlight I go over to the window and look out at the garden; my eyes are attracted by greenfinches feeding greedily from tubes of nuts and seeds suspended from the bird table, hanging on by clawed feet, their heads bobbing up and down as they peck busily. Every now and then one lifts its stout head, seeming to look around, proudly displaying distinctive flecks of lime green on its breast and wings. I watch, unobserved, before looking beyond the bird table to the hedge of shrubs by the stone wall that borders the property: dark green leaves mingling with bright red drooping fuchsia heads. My eyes skip over the road to trees standing tall and partly obscuring the sun, then on to an empty car park adjacent to the local pub, fields rolling away into the distance, grazing sheep dotted about the landscape, the edge of a golf course; beyond it all, towering vast and magnificent in the distance, the Snowdonia mountain range. Hands cupped around my chin, elbows resting on the window sill, I lean for a while and gaze out at the glorious picture, embraced in the stillness. A movement to my right draws my attention as my uncle moves into the frame and scatters crumbs on to the bird table; part of his morning ritual. I straighten up and turn back into the room.
I move contentedly from table to cupboard, counting out place mats and arranging them around the open table, completely engaged in my task. My aunt comes in with some glasses and orange juice, saying she and my mother would just have toast so wouldn’t need forks. She’s freshly showered, hair still damp. My mother comes in and the three of us continue a conversation started the previous evening as to how we should spend the day. We talk about driving to a cove further around the island, or going across the Menai Straits and driving down to Criccieth where we can have a walk along the coast and buy some home-made ice cream. I mention going to visit my husband’s aunt in a local nursing home later in the day.
My mother and aunt are alike and easily recognisable as sisters although they are slightly different shapes. My mother is the taller and more slender younger sister and my aunt is shorter and slightly more rounded. Both now have grey hair, my mother’s slightly more steel grey than my aunt’s, but both with modern short cuts which, without any shadow of doubt, will soon be transformed from their current slightly springy post-shower state into stylish coiffures.
Alone again I get on with setting the table. A ray of sun streams in through the window illuminating particles of dust floating in the air. Pictures of children and grandchildren mounted on the wall are caught in the line of sunlight. Distracted, I lift my face for a moment and gaze at the pictures, each telling their own story of time passing. How lazy I feel. The ray passes and the room is cast in shadow as the sun is hidden momentarily behind some clouds. The sound of a toaster popping up reminds me to get a move on as the irresistible aroma of bacon cooking wafts along the hallway from the kitchen. A voice calling out from the kitchen instructs everyone to sit down, breakfast is almost ready. I speed up my task, leaning across the table to set the last few bits and pieces and just as I retrieve two surplus forks the telephone rings on the sideboard behind me.
Transferring the cutlery into one hand I lift the receiver to my ear, expecting to pass it over to my aunt Karina. It’s my younger daughter Lizzie. I can hardly take in what she’s saying; she sounds urgent and is speaking too fast to make sense. Words leap out: explosions … underground … mobile … not able to reach Jenny. The words are confused but the fear in her voice is clear.
‘It’s all over the news,’ she says firmly and with absolute clarity. ‘Haven’t you heard?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Calm down, tell me again.’
Lizzie speaks slower this time but with no less urgency. ‘I think something’s happened to Jenny, Mum.’ She sounds upset.
‘Calm down,’ I repeat. ‘Don’t panic. There’s no reason to think anything has happened to her.’
A small crowd gathers in the doorway as my parents, uncle and aunt make their way in for breakfast, the latter laden with plates.
‘Who is it?’
‘What’s the matter?’
Voices overlapping; I try to shush them, waving my cutlery-laden hand, indicating for someone to turn the television on and speaking over the mouthpiece: ‘It’s Lizzie; there’s been some kind of explosion on the London Underground.’