Marianne Talbot When I was eight I ran away. I was wearing my blue chiffon party dress, mohair bolero and white shoes and socks. Worn only once I wasn’t about to leave them. I did leave a note blaming Richard (my brother) and saying no-one should look for me.
After twenty minutes I found myself dying to go to the loo. Going behind a bush didn’t appeal. So I knocked on a door and asked the nice lady if I could please use her lavatory.
Before I knew it I was in a police car going home. The policeman sternly told me he should be looking for burglars, not little girls. I was mortified.
It’s in the genes. Dad regularly ran away from his nursing home. He once broke the window with the little fire hammer. Notwithstanding his dementia, and two busy roads, he would walk the three miles home.
Mum got used to looking up from whatever she was doing to see daddy grinning through the window.
Dad’s running away didn’t help us get used to his being in a home. But it did tip him into the next funding classification. Every bit helps!
Some carers virtually become prison warders so assiduously must they lock doors to keep their piglets* from wandering. But mum has only wandered three times.
The first episode seemed to me an entirely rational response to her treatment during that dreadful week of respite care. The second time she managed to get downstairs and into the front garden on a frosty night in January. Thankfully neighbours saw her before she froze.
Then a couple of months ago, on a lovely sunny day, we were in the garden. I was sunbathing. Mum was complaining that she wanted to go home. I responded soothingly several dozen times, then snapped: ‘well, you know where the door is!’
I didn’t actually think she did know where the door was. When she demonstrated that she did, I threw a pair of jeans over my swimming costume and followed her.
Clutching a red and white blanket over her blue sundress, a wide-brimmed white hat crammed on her head, she was walking determinedly down the road. She reminded me of Paddington Bear. I decided that rather than stop her I’d simply follow to make sure she didn’t come to harm.
At the corner she hesitated, then turned right. At the next corner she hesitated again. Deciding enough was enough, I overtook her, greeted her with delight and asked if she was coming to see me. ‘Yes’ she said, unconvincingly. So I took her home and made a nice cup of tea.
I hope she’s not going to be like dad.