Muriel Ashby Thanks for the memories

My first memories are of going
through London pea soupers
to mum’s family home in Cricklewood
and the smuts from the engine in the train home.

At home in St Albans she helped out the Tory party
and as Townswomen’s guild Drama secretary
produced flyers on a flat bed copier that came in a tin.
Elocution lessons smoothed out the cockney
into proper English.

The daughter of a tailor she made all my clothes;
dresses for school
plays – obviously.

There were always word games
– Lexicon cards before Scrabble arrived
and books from the weekly visit to the library van.
Films too, at the local cinema,
always the Odeon, never the ABC;
war films in the fifties, usually naval battles then musicals.
TV only came later and then only BBC, never ITV
(until she discovered The Bill).
And an annual trip to the theatre:
pantos at Golders Green first then shows in the West End
– My Fair Lady, Sound of Music, Oliver
and a local Gilbert and Sullivan.
And she went specially to get me (and cousin Susan) tickets
for Barbra Streisand in Funny Girl.

Mum had a lifelong love of Gardens
– introducing me to flowers and borders, nasturtiums and coleus;
With visits to country house and national trust gardens
Bodnant and Woburn;
Then Arley and Dunham Massey in recent years.
And was it those elephant rides at Whipsnade
that gave me my longing for Africa.

There was always time for holidays.
In the fifties in the UK,
Mum packing the trunk for British Road Services
to take ahead into the depths of Wales.
And however dry the summer,
dad always found some mud for mum to slip in.
Her memories of Crinkle Crags still fresh
just a few weeks ago.

In the more adventurous sixties
mum and dad began to explore:
France, Switzerland and Austria,
mum writing in her schoolgirl French or German
to guest houses for rooms to stay in.

Moving to Devon she found a new life;
New places to explore and new groups to join:
Quilters and embroiderers
needlework and goldwork.

And then as a widow, freedom at last.
Sherry and cake with Mae and Josie.

And the accent slipped,
once she knew it was me:
“Ello pete ow are yah”

More tolerant than others,
when the vicar strayed
and the hypocritical parish wanted him out,
she hoped they would get a
“black disabled lesbian”.

This prim and proper lady
never a word out of place,
came into her own.
After her stroke
When I asked how she was
There could be only one reply,
“F-<&ing awful”

And for the past few years
finding a new home and new friends
at the Old Rectory.
Receiving for herself the care
she had once given to others,

Delighting in news of grand (and greatgrand) children
And relishing their visits.
With a mind still active,
winning the quiz, winning at Mah Jong,
enjoying visits from family and friends.

And leaving to all a wealth of memories.

© Peter G Ashby 2009
Photos at http://www.flickr.com/photos/pegash/