Читать книгу It’s Not What You Think - Chris Evans - Страница 12

10 Her name, Minnie. She was named after a horse but it suits her perfectly

9 Her obsession with death and anything or anyone dying

8 Her art for telling stories for hours on end and hardly ever repeating herself

7 Her magic hotpot from the war recipe, hardly any meat but oh so meaty*!

6 Her directness—second only to her vivid imagination

5 Her vivid imagination

4 Her rapier wit

3 Her wicked laugh

2 Her selflessness

1 Her love for my dad

My mum is a formidable piece of work, simple as.

When she had her cataracts done on her eyes, for example, she was well into her sixties and she requested only a local anaesthetic—this was so she could stay awake during the operation and see what was going on. Not an easy thing generally, but especially as this particular operation involves the popping out of the eyeball and the resting of it on one’s cheek, while the back is then duly sawn off ready for a new, artificially improved lens to be attached.

Upon hearing a patient had requested such a thing and for such reasons, the consultant surgeon was at first a little shocked before becoming aware of the prospect of a rare opportunity. He wondered if he could also make the most of the situation with a request of his own. He asked my mum if it would be alright for him to invite some students in to watch the procedure and, if she could bring herself to bear it, would it be permissible for them to ask her questions as it took place? Mum was over the moon, she couldn’t get enough—apparently she had the students in stitches the whole time she was being operated on.

Before we were born Mum was many things, but for most of my childhood, she was a state-registered nurse.

Mum was one of the original night nurses. She started off working in psychiatric care at a place called Winwick Hospital, notorious in the area for being the local nuthouse. Looming large off the A49, it was set back in glorious green parkland and looked exactly like a Victorian prison, though it never had been. This was a proper insane asylum, designed and built solely for that purpose. At one time my dad, my brother and my mum all worked there. As a consequence of this I had been through the infamous heavy black iron gates many times. I even had the pleasure of wheeling the odd harmless ‘patient’ down some of its eight miles of corridors.

After several years of diligent service with the loonies (she said it was exactly like One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, still her favourite film) Mum went on to work at Warrington General Hospital. She always worked nights so she could be with us, her children and her husband, to whom she always referred as Dad, in the day. Her hours were shiftwork, always 10—6, usually, three nights on, four nights off, alternating with four nights on, three nights off.

Now of course this was all well and good, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out this meant she would be getting very little sleep. Here’s one of Mum’s work days:

Finish at 6 a.m., picked up by Dad, home soon after, where she would grab a quick half-hour’s shut-eye ‘in the chair’. She would then make Dad his breckie, get my sister and I up and ready for school, feed us and then see us out of the house just before nine. Next she would start on the housework and go to bed just before lunchtime where she would languish until three o’clock before having to get up to prepare for the family’s return. After making our tea and washing up, she would have another quick half-hour’s shut-eye ‘in the chair’ before getting herself washed and dressed for work and ready for Dad to run her back to the hospital for her next night shift. By my reckoning that’s no more than three hours’ sleep a day!

During all the years she did this, I never heard her complain once. In fact she only ever laughed about the crazy episodes her and her colleagues came across while the rest of us were in the land of nod. Like the Christmas Eve that Mr Jolly died whilst on the loo: she thought this was hilarious and seeing as it was she and her pals who had to get his trousers back up around his bottom and hump him back to his bed, they felt a little laughter was the least they were allowed.

After Dad passed away Mum was forced to take on the one remaining role she’d been spared thus far.

Never the greatest at maths; my mum now had to handle the family accounts.

I remember distinctly her sitting us down and telling us the score. She told us she’d sold Dad’s car for eighty pounds and that was it.

‘That was what?’ we wondered.

‘That was it,’ she repeated, ‘that’s what we, as a family, are now worth.’

Our house was rented from the council and we didn’t own anything else. Mum had resisting selling Dad’s car before he died as a mark of respect and so the neighbours wouldn’t talk, but now he was gone, so was the Vauxhall.

‘OK, fine,’ we thought nonchalantly. We didn’t really understand what a big deal it was to have so little money and as far as we were concerned things had always been alright anyway. Until Dad became bedridden we’d always had days out and a week away in the summer and nice Christmas presents and sweets at the weekend.

My mum went back to work immediately, although probably as a magician rather than a nurse, as a few years later we had a family bank account with some proper ‘rainy day’ money in it, added to which somehow she’d managed to buy our house! Alright, it was only a couple of thousand pounds, but nevertheless.

Maybe there was something Dad hadn’t been telling us. Mum was a fox with the finances.

*I asked my mum for this recipe on countless occasions for the book. She kept fobbing me off for weeks until I informed her the deadline was imminent and it was now or never, at which point she merely replied: ‘Time and patience!’