A Song for Jenny: A Mother's Story of Love and Loss. Julie Nicholson

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A Song for Jenny: A Mother's Story of Love and Loss - Julie  Nicholson


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no sound, only inside my head.

      It’s shock, that’s all, reaction to the day. I keep trying to breathe normally and start rubbing my body hard with the towel, even though I’m long since dry. The vigorous action stems the shaking. Calmer, I apply moisture cream, deodorant, put on fresh underwear then massage cream into my face before stepping into waiting trousers and top laid out on the bed. Every move is measured, like some kind of strange ritual. With every item I put on, I feel I’m adding another layer of strength, courage somehow, armour for whatever lies ahead.

      Composure regained, I pick up the discarded towels, hang them over a towel rail to dry, and go in search of a hairdryer. It was a moment, I tell myself, a terrible moment, but now it’s past. Then as I’m drying my hair in the hallway, head upside down, blowing hot air into the roots, it happens again, an extraordinary, stop-you-in-your-tracks, wrenching sense of separation. This time I don’t stand shaking, I drop the hairdryer and go into the sitting room, blurting out to my mother and aunt, ‘I’ve just had a terrible feeling. I remember a dream I had.’

      They listen as I relate the experience. I need to speak about it, let it out, be reassured, but there’s nothing they can say except ‘Oh’ while their faces express shock and dismay.

      The television is turned off at last, relief from the awful static image of the bus and the constant round of headline text. ‘We thought we’d have a break from it,’ my aunt explains.

      I nod my head in assent, not really minding at this stage, and go back to the bathroom to apply some make-up – make-up or mask, I’m not sure which. Foundation, mascara, blusher and lipstick: normal daily ritual, but this is 4 a.m. and normal belongs to yesterday. Even so, I spray perfume before zipping up the toilet bag and squeezing it down the side of the case, which I fasten and carry out to the hallway, my denim jacket draped over the top.

      Vanda calls, asks how everyone is and what we’re doing.

      ‘Waiting, watching the clock; everyone’s calm but the strain and tiredness is beginning to show.’

      ‘What time is the taxi due?’

      ‘Five a.m., not long to wait, thank goodness, the final hour. I just want to get going.’

      It’s getting light; I’ve hardly noticed the darkness, everything’s an extension of yesterday. We’ve come full circle, the birds are singing, yet it doesn’t feel like a new day.

      ‘See you in a few hours. Keep your phone on.’

      ‘I will. Bye.’

      I don’t know who is keeping watch with whom; with me, with each other, with Jenny, for Jenny. Family and friends connected all across the country; our hearts, thoughts, actions and prayers, all for Jenny; our watching, waiting and hoping, all for Jenny.

      At 4.50 we’re alert for the sound of an engine. When it arrives there’s no drama, no tears, just gentle kisses and a fleeting embrace with a mountain of thoughts and feelings left unsaid.

      As the taxi pulls away, I turn and look out of the window, watching my mother and aunt standing by the gate, not waving, and retreating into the distance.

      The last thing I remember of Anglesey is the look on my mother’s face. It is a look of loneliness and forlorn acceptance. Through the day and through the night we have kept watch together, now I am leaving her behind and she must watch me go.

       CHAPTER 2 Prelude

       Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking at the happy autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.

      TENNYSON

      Bangor station is more or less deserted; there’s only a smattering of people, holidaymakers I guess from the chatter and clothing and luggage. One or two faces glance at me as I pass along the platform: another holidaymaker in her linen trousers, summer top and flip flops. People smile and nod good morning. I half smile back. There’s a family group with three young children, slightly old-fashioned looking, carrying buckets and spades and dressed in knitted cardigans over shorts and T-shirts. I listen to their sing-song chatter, parents, grandparents and children, light-hearted and joyous. The smallest child is wearing red wellington boots and jumping up and down in excitement as the train approaches. The granny takes her hand as the men pick up the luggage and my mobile phone bleeps in my pocket.

      A text from Vanda: ‘are you on the train yet?’

      I wait until I’m settled in a seat – plenty to choose from – before replying and also sending a text to Sharon letting her know I’m on my way. She sends one back almost immediately saying ‘see you soon’. People have stopped asking if there’s any news.

      As the train trundles out of Bangor station I notice the happy holiday family have settled themselves further down the carriage. I’m glad of the distance and the peace and quiet.

      It’s a fairly grotty train, old bucket-type seats, upholstery worn thin and shiny, windows darkened by dust and grime. Still, I can see out. The train picks up speed and soon we’re speeding along the North Wales coast. The sun is rising in the sky, bathing the mountains in early morning glow and causing the sea to shimmer – so beautiful, so tranquil, and so perfect. We pass through one seaside town after another, Conwy, Llandudno, Colwyn Bay, Rhyl, and I watch, hypnotized, as other passengers come and go. The train carries me along, eyes unwavering, fixed on the distance, staring out at the horizon, on and on through mile upon mile of early-morning glistening coastline.

      When the train stops at Llandudno Junction a young couple laden down with climbing gear pass by my window. Laughingly they heave rucksacks on to their backs and set off in a joyous mood, hand in hand.

      Leaving Anglesey behind exposes a trail of memories of other summers spent watching the happy, laughing faces of my children and nieces and nephews as they scrambled over rocks and enjoyed the freedom of the beach. Memories of wonderful, fun-filled times and of fallouts when family gathered together and inhabited the same small space; of my mother-in-law shouting at careless boat-handlers who leave trailers lying on the beach for little feet to trip over; of endless days spent waiting for the rain to cease and games of Trivial Pursuit with laughter-filled accusations of cheating and red-herring clues; impressive thunder and lightning storms over the bay; a star-filled midnight sky; quiet, tranquil out-of-season days; and noisy, crowded peak-season weekends with a bay full of motor boats and jet skis jamming the approach lane with four-wheel drives and trailers.

       I remember the moment I first felt Jenny’s life within me. Of course I didn’t know it was Jenny then; it could have been Isabel or Christopher or one of my favourite Shakespearean heroines Hermione.

       I am in the tiny bay of Traeth Bychan on the island of Anglesey where the Nicholson clan has gathered for the spring bank holiday weekend. Some of us are braving the still wintry temperature of the sea for the first swim of the season. Greg has plunged straight in, strong front crawl strokes taking him away from the shore without a backward glance until he is far out and then he turns, calling to the shore, ‘Come on’. My arms are raised in the brace position as the ice cold water laps over my feet, knees and up to my thighs. Counting one, two, three I plunge into the sea, teeth chattering, breathless with cold. After a few strokes I’m used to the water and shout encouragingly at someone still tentatively wading through the shallows, ‘It’s wonderful once you’re in’.

       Wonderful it may be, but too cold for more than a quick swim. Before long, I’m picking my way carefully back over the stones and pebbles that separate the sea from the low prom wall surrounding the bungalow and old smithy, two buildings which form the family holiday home. My mother-in-law, already changed from her swim into shorts and a top, is waiting with a mug of coffee as I step over the wall onto the prom. Wet springy curls frame her face as she settles


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