For as many years as I care to count, I had told my wife that when one of my parents passed away, I didn't expect the other to 'last six months.'
Dad died on May 18 and Mum, God bless her, followed him yesterday. Truth be told, she had 'seen' him every day, grieved him and never got over his passing. It was inevitable, given that they were married for 70 years and the truth of it all was that Mum simply didn't want to go on without him. But she proved me wrong and managed nearly seven months, the last month of it in hospital, after fracturing a hip in a fall.
She was a remarkable woman, yet left no lasting stamp on the world, other than having been a fantastic wife and mother. She didn't want anything, except for all of the family to be happy and to remember her birthday. She was nobody's fool, but she would happily talk to anyone and everyone. Many was the time when she told me to always speak to older people, 'because you never know if you are the only person they will speak to today.' Dad always used to say that if they were out and he couldn't find her, he would listen for someone laughing - it would be Mum or the person she was chatting with.
She was only 5'2 in her prime, slipping under five feet before her passing. She made it past the 90 mark, which we celebrated with a party to her surprise and great pleasure. But she missed Dad being there, as she did every single day from May onwards. The irony of one of their favourite tunes being September Song by Frank Sinatra isn't lost on me. 'Oh it's a long long while, from May to December' says the lyric, which was when each of them passed..
She loved to sing and she loved to dance, this despite the fact that Dad always said that you 'couldn't train that voice with a whip.' The fact that she started every song too high and only knew a couple of lines from most of them never stopped her. She had a great love and knowledge of musicals, the old Rodgers and Hammerstein ones being her favourites. But she always said that My Fair Lady and Oliver were the best and any reference to them in conversation would see her slip effortlessly into a greatest hits selection of songs, sometimes in a key that only dogs could hear, then likely not without pain..
My wife always loved her to bits, her scattiness and willingness to laugh at herself prized. Today she reminded me of the time when, out of nowhere, Mum put one foot up on a chair in the kitchen, pretended to pull on stockings and started singing Lili Marlene, in the style of Marlene Dietrich. Now, as then, Sylvia convulsed with laughter at the incongruity of it all.
She was proud of my success and read my books from cover to cover several times. Each time she said 'I don't understand it, but I loved every word.' Perhaps that is the greatest praise one could wish for. Clearing the house this week, my two books were part of the three at her bedside, alongside one by Tess Gerritsen. I'll settle for that company and would accept those sales.
She encouraged my love of sport and knitted my first cricket jumpers. She also knitted Derby County scarves and bobble hats for me, always interested to hear how they had got on, but only for the sake of Dad and I. She had a dinner on the table minutes after we got in from the football, or when I got home from school. Just as she made sure I never got up on cold winter mornings without a roaring fire to change in front of.
In those salad days, when I played cricket on a Saturday and Sunday, she always ensured my whites were spotlessly clean for both days. I still have no idea how she did it, but had there been a prize for the cleanest cricket gear on any pitch, I would have won the award in perpetuity.
I have visited every two or three weeks since Dad passed away and we spoke every day. On each visit she wanted me to play her favourite songs, all of them by Ken Dodd. She loved him as a singer, less so as a comedian, but she would close her eyes and sometimes shed a tear at those favourites.
Mum was the last of a large family from Derby. Her Mum was from County Cork and her Dad was second generation German. She was proud of her roots and always claimed she got a good deal at World Cups, when she could follow England, Ireland or Germany.
She did so much for us to the end of her days, but above everything she made us laugh and gave us all the love we could handle. She got to ninety and I never heard anyone say a bad thing about her. Talking to a couple of people in the street this week, they both said 'she was just a bloody lovely woman, your Mum. So, so nice.' That has to count for something.
Thanks Mum, for everything. Rest easy with the angels.
But maybe leave the singing to them. At least for a bit.
Postscript - please excuse the self-indulgence here, but writing it has been cathartic. Like Dad, Mum wanted a direct cremation - 'no fuss, like me' she said - and this is what I would have read at any celebration of her life.
